Bartenders!tf141 and their lil’ waitress. They’re retired five years now and decided to go in on a bar together so they could still work and exist in each others’ space. Price maintains the books and the establishment, Gaz takes care of the menu and mixing drinks, Soap is the front-end bartender, and Ghost is security and bartends on occasion. It fits them.
But they need a waitress. Someone to make the rounds throughout the night and keep things light and lively for the patrons and drunks alike. Someone to keep the light in their eyes when flashbacks and mental toll start to darken their moods and their gazes.
And maybe you dance on the bar and start line dancing on Thursdays and maybe those hurricane shots keep the money flowing for the five of you. Maybe you have the four guys watching each time you fulfill a shot, breaths catching and hearts skipping and pants tightening because how can that be so hot?
Maybe, just maybe.
Let me know what you guys think! I’m at work and lost in my thoughts 💭
Ghost loves when you send him photos through out your day while he’s at work.
A meeting is about to start when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s around 12pm. So it must be a picture of what you’re eating for lunch.
maybe a sandwich with crisps? or maybe an açaí bowl from that new place you were talking about this morning.
He opened the notification.
Ghost slammed his phone face down on the table. Price and Soap looked at eachother confused, as did others in the room. The silence was awkward.
Maybe you had sent him in angry text ??
In reality you had sent Simon a suggestive photo. More than just suggestive actually.
You were sat infront of a mirror. Legs spread wide open. No panties. All you had on was Simon’s go-to sleeping shirt, the hem was pulled up to expose your breast. Your face hidden behind your phone.
He only looked at the photo for a second. But through out the whole meeting all he could think about were your slick folds glistening in the picture.
He knew exactly what had to be done as soon as he got home.
imagine in hard of hearing Simon if reader lost their voice temporarily
hard of hearing!simon riley who comes home and immediately notices the silence. No loud greeting, no mid-rant about your day, no off-key singing. Just you waving at him with a little note that says “lost my voice 🥲”. His stomach drops. Your voice is the one sound he actually wants to hear.
hard of hearing!simon riley who becomes extra protective and attentive. He sits you on the couch and pulls you into his lap, resting his good ear against your chest just to feel the faint vibrations when you try to speak. Even the weak, raspy whispers you manage feel like a gift.
hard of hearing!simon riley who starts carrying around a notepad and your phone everywhere so you can type or write what you want to say. But he still prefers when you try to talk, no matter how scratchy and quiet it is. He’ll lean in close, eyes half-lidded, chasing every little sound you can give him.
hard of hearing!simon riley who gets oddly frustrated by the silence. Not at you — never at you — but at how much he didn’t realize he depended on your constant yapping to feel grounded. The flat feels too much like it did before you.
yapper!girlfriend (temporarily mute) who keeps trying to talk anyway, only for nothing but pathetic little rasps and squeaks to come out. Simon finds it unfairly adorable and infuriating at the same time.
hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you extra slow that night, face buried in your neck, desperately chasing the faint broken whimpers you can still make. Every tiny raspy moan you manage goes straight to his cock.
hard of hearing!simon riley who growls against your throat, “C’mon, love… give me something. Need to feel you.” He thrusts deep and holds there, grinding against that spot until your voice cracks and you let out the loudest hoarse moan you can manage. It’s enough to make his hips stutter.
hard of hearing!simon riley who puts you on your back, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and eats you out like he’s trying to draw your voice back out. Every time you try to moan his name and it comes out as a wrecked whisper, he sucks harder on your clit, determined to force louder sounds from your damaged throat.
hard of hearing!simon riley who flips you onto all fours and presses his chest flush to your back, mouth right against your good ear so you can hear his low growls clearly. He rails you hard, one hand gripping your jaw, murmuring, “Louder. Try for me.” Your hoarse, broken cries are weaker than usual, but the vibrations against his palm and the way your body shakes make up for it. He cums harder than he has in weeks.
hard of hearing!simon riley who wakes up in the middle of the night to you trying to clear your throat and whisper something. He immediately pulls you on top of him, guides his cock back inside your soaked pussy, and makes you ride him slow while he holds your face to his better ear. Every weak, raspy little “Simon…” and broken whimper sends electricity down his spine until he’s gripping your hips and thrusting up hard, chasing those precious, limited sounds.
summary: An established "situationship" with your lieutenant begins to blur the lines of "just hook-ups" and something more.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader
wc: around 4700
cw: SMUT!! MDNI. A little bit of plot, somewhat confessions, Reader is a Task Force 141 Operator, reader's call sign is "Wolf" because Author could not think of anything else, 'unprotected' p in v, oral (fem! receiving), fingering, multiple O's, cream-pie, a little bit of aftercare, Ghost has feelings, SoftDom!Ghost, Switch!Ghost, Switch!Reader, kind of SoftDom!Reader, maybe exhibitionism?, ghost is pussy WHIPPED bro, no use of Y/N
cross posted on ao3 @ zieds
“I am not having this conversation with you, MacTavish.”
“C’mon, Lass. Y’know you won’t scare any of us off,” Soap chuckles slightly. “It’s part of the game. You gotta give us his—or her, I don’t judge— name.”
You roll your eyes.
“I could report you. For sexual harassment at the workplace,” you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. You would never, of course, actually report him. Hell. You’ve had worse conversations with the man than just sharing the name of the last person you had sex with.
The only thing stopping you now, is that person– who’s eyeing you as he swirls his whisky around in the bottom of his glass. And that the hook-up was only… 23 hours prior, when you and Ghost arrived on base for the mission briefing.
“Alright, fine,” Soap grumbles. “At least tell us something, c’mon. If you won’t give us a name, how ‘bout… a rating? One to ten, how good was the person.”
You roll your eyes, again. “This is highly inappropriate.”
“Hey, now! You’re the one who went all in on the details last time! That… Luke guy… y’know the one you said didn’t give good hea-“
“Ugh! Do not bring him up. You know how that situationship ended, Soap. Plus, I told you that in confidence!” you swat his arm. “But, fine! If it will get you off my ass…”
You trail, eyes meeting Ghost’s from across the table. His head tilts.
“An 8,” you hum. One point for every inch, but Soap doesn’t need to know that. “However, there is still room for improvement. He knows I like it a little… rougher than what he gave me.”
“Wow, jeez. What the hell did I miss?” Gaz asks as he returns to the table, sliding a fresh cocktail in front of you.
You see Ghost’s eyes narrow just a bit before returning to their normal, relaxed state.
Soap gives you a rough pat on the back while laughing. “Aye, lass, that alcohol finally starting to settle in?”
You laugh slightly and peel your eyes away from Ghost’s. The conversation continues, with Soap sharing his most-recent threesome story while he was back home, and Gaz teasing him saying “sounds like the girls did all the work, mate, you sure you’re not the pillow princess?”
“What about you, L.T.? Who’s your most recent?” Soap prods.
Ghost never feeds into these conversations. Just brushes it off with a gruff “that’s none of your business”. The group of you thought, for a while, that he was celibate… or maybe just wasn’t into sex. You, of course, know that’s not true. Yesterday’s hook-up wasn’t the first between you. Not even the second. In fact, it became… a sort of ritual. Before every mission, you’d have sex. After you got back, if neither of you were sent to the med bay, you’d have some… mind-boggling blow-off-some-steam sex.
The last three weeks of leave you both had, he spent a majority of it at your apartment, gathering up all sorts of noise complaints from neighbors.
So his usual response of “leave me out of this, MacTavish” won’t be surprising.
“Wolf.”
What. The. Fuck.
Gaz sets his pint down with a thud, and stares at Ghost for a moment before looking at you with a confused expression. You stare at the masked man, trying to keep your expression neutral, but you can’t seem to wipe the bewildered expression from your face.
Next to you, Soap nearly chokes on his beer before letting out one of the loudest laughs you heard from him in a while. Gaz joins in. Then you do too.
“Wolf? You mean, our Wolfie? This Wolf, here?” Soap fights out through his laughter, pointing between Ghost and you as he does. “You’re outta your mind, L.T.!”
Ghost just stares at you, then shrugs. He lifts his mask just enough to down the rest of his whiskey, then sets the glass down as he slides out of the booth.
Soap finally manages to calm down his laughter to bid the man a goodnight.
You drown out the conversation between Soap and Gaz as they continue to talk about women, and the other shenanigans they got up to while on the brief leave. A buzz in your back pocket pulls you to reality. You carefully check the text message, making sure to angle the phone away from Soap and Gaz when you see the name pop-up on your screen.
Simon: My room. Ten minutes.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
You quickly shoot back the rest of your cocktail and nudge Soap to let you out of the booth.
“I’m calling it a night, boys,” you stretch your back as you stand. “Oh, and, blondie behind the bar has been eyeing you all night, Soapy.”
The blonde bartender averts her gaze as you motion towards her and Soap follows your point. He smirks slightly, and Gaz rolls his eyes.
“Goodnight, don’t stay up too late with our Ghost,” Soap teases with another laugh. You scoff then walk away.
You don’t think you have a choice.
Outside of Ghost’s door, you’ve barely raised a fist to knock before you’re pulled inside the room and pushed back against the door. A small bedside lamp illuminates the room, and gives you a clear look at Ghost’s blown pupils.
“An 8, hmm?” His hands push underneath the skin tight tank top you elected to wear out that night, pushing up the fabric to expose your bare breasts. “That’s not what it sounded like last night.”
You suck in a breath. “You’re lucky they thought you were joking, Simon.”
“Ah. No. No ‘Simon’ tonight, sweetheart.”
The fabric of his mask rubs against your neck as he leans down to whisper in your ear. His hands leave your torso and grab both of your wrists, bringing them above your head and pinning them against the door with just one of his hands.
“It’s Ghost. I want this whole fucking base to know who you belong to. Don’t forget, Johnny’s sleeping next door. When he gets back, I want him to hear that you know I’m much better than an 8. Got it?”
“Y’all have some sort of big dick contest going on?” You tease, pushing your hips forward to grind against him. “Might as well call him in here so he can watch.”
Ghost pulls back, his eyes narrowing at you. “You’d like that, huh? To show off for him? Show him how your pretty body reacts to me?”
You suck in a breath as his free hand curls around your neck, not tight, just enough to hold you in place.
“Too bad, I don’t like sharing. You’re mine. Mine to see, mine to fuck. Got it?”
His words send a chill down your spine, and a heat between your legs. He’s never said anything like this before.
“Careful,” you muse. “I might think you actually want a relationship with me.”
Ghost’s shoulders tense. You watch as his chest rises slowly, then falls with an audible exhale. His hands drop back to your waist and hoist you up. You wrap your legs around his waist and reach for the edge of his mask. Before you can grab it, he jerks his head away.
“Mask stays on, sweetheart,” he mumbles.
You give him a quizzical look, but don’t push it. Is the mask a turn on? Yes. But, he’s never actually worn it during sex. In fact, he’s very adamant about separating work-him, from the stuff he has with you. Behind closed doors, he’s not Ghost. Usually.
Ghost sits on the bed, pushed into the left corner of the room, with you in his lap. You lean forward, pressing a kiss into his cheek through his mask. You trail down, ghosting your lips over his neck. You feel him shudder underneath you.
“You gonna let me kiss you properly,” you pause, leaning in close to his ear. “Ghost?”
A noise reverberates in his chest. One second you’re sitting in his lap, the next, you’re flat on your back with him kneeling on the floor between your legs. His eyes are on you as he places both of your legs on either side of his head, so the bend of your knees rest on his shoulders.
“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge, Wolf,” he says in a low tone. A warning. You’d never thought the stupid call sign that you’ve carried with you since your days in the Navy could sound so hot. But in this moment, it sends a wave through you, and makes your thighs tense.
His hands wrap around the tops of your thighs and pull until your ass is dangling off of the bed, and your—still clothed—cunt is mere centimeters away from his face. You wiggle slightly. Testing. His grip tightens, his blunt nails digging into the exposed skin of your legs.
Ghost’s eyes flick down between your legs. You know he can see the red lace of your panties peeking out from beneath your too-short denim shorts. Maybe he can even see the small wet patch you can guess is forming from the way you feel it drip out of you. You sit up enough to pull your tank top fully off, throwing it to the floor somewhere— you’ll have to search for it later.
You arch your back slightly, your hands finding Ghost’s head and trying to push him closer. One of his hands engulfs both of your wrists, pulling them off of him.
“Ghost,” you plea softly. The ache between your legs is growing. Your wrists twist where he holds them pressed against your stomach.
“Keep them there,” he presses your wrists gently down. “Or I stop.”
You huff, but nod.
Slowly, his hand leaves your wrists. You do as you’re told. Both of his hands hook under the waist band of your shorts.
“Wait they’re kind of tight, you’ll have to unbutt-“
The sound following his tug makes you gasp. A jagged, tearing, as the shorts rip at the seams, turning into nothing but a wad of fabric on the floor.
“Those were my favorite shorts,” you say. You can’t deny the action made your pussy twitch, however.
“Shorts,” you can hear the slight grin in his voice. “I wouldn’t have called them that, baby.”
You almost jump as his masked lips press into the center of your panties. He exhales slowly through his nose at the contact. God you want to rip off that stupid balaclava. Your fingers twitch slightly, and you mimic his breath.
“Can feel how wet you are through all of this,” Ghost murmurs. The slight friction from his lips, making you squirm slightly.
“Ghost,” you breathe out, pressing your pussy harder against him. The tip of his nose brushes your clit. “Please.”
“Hmm,” his head pulls away. In place of his face, his thumb presses your clit softly. Not moving. Just a tiny amount of pressure. “‘Fraid that begging won’t work.”
His thumb circles once. Just barely brushing against your sensitive nerves. Even still, it’s enough to make you take in a sharp breath and clench your toes slightly. You lift your head to watch, and meet his eyes. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely catch the light color of his irises. He presses his thumb a bit harsher, making your mouth fall open softly.
“There she is,” he sweet-talks. “My pretty girl.”
You bite your bottom lip, bringing your elbows to rest beside you so you can hold yourself up and watch him. Your right knee wraps around his head, pulling him closer again.
“C’mon, Ghost,” you hum. “I know you want a taste.”
His eyes roll back and flutter just slightly.
“Fuck,” the swear comes out sharp. His free hand fumbles a bit to lift the bottom edge of his mask up until it rests on his nose, exposing those perfect lips you’ve seen wrapped around your clit multiple times before. His tongue swipes across his lips to wet them before he leans in, kissing at the fabric. You pull your leg tighter, and he grunts.
Ghost is putty in your hands at this point. He likes to put on this tough-guy “you listen to me” act. But you know how to break that down pretty quickly. His tongue presses against the wet spot pooling in your lace. The warmth of it in contrast to the cool air of his room makes your toes curl.
Ghost circles his thumb faster as he sucks at the fabric, the addicting bitter taste of your pussy coats his tongue. He groans again, his arms tensing around your thighs, trying to pull you impossibly closer to his mouth. His eyes flicker up at you, and you can see the center of his brows quirk upwards as your eyes meet.
“That’s it, baby,” you whisper. He huffs against you, hooking a finger under the crotch of your panties and pulling until they too resemble nothing but a strand of ribbon.
“Those were my favorite,” Ghost nips at the inside of your thigh. “I’ll buy you new ones.”
You giggle and wiggle your hips, taunting him. He takes the bait and leans back in. His tongue presses against your perineum, gathering the wetness that dripped down. He flattens it, then slowly drags upward to your clit. He hums as he wraps his lips around the bud, sucking softly and using his tongue to rub circles against it.
Your head lulls back and you pant out a swear. He repeats his last motion for a while; sucking your clit and rubbing his tongue against it. You pant out, grinding your hips slowly on his face. He breaks away with a gasp for air, then kisses your hole that flutters from the loss of contact. His tongue prods at it, gathering more of you. His finger replaces his tongue as he returns to your clit.
No matter how many times you fuck him, you will never get over how he feels. He watches your face as he slowly slides his middle finger into you, curling it gently upwards at his second knuckle, hitting that one spot inside of you he knows will make you a mess. You moan at the feeling, arching your back just slightly.
Ghost breathes heavily against you. “Fuck, you taste so good. You like that? My mouth on you feels good, huh, baby?”
“Yes, fuck, yes,” your breath catches.
He pushes a second finger in, continuing the curling motion and stretching you out. His tongue doesn’t stop its assault on your clit, either. You bite your lip. The hand that’s still gripping the top of your thigh, squeezes at the flesh, then lifts and gives it a gentle slap.
“Don’t hold back those moans,” he licks his lips. “Want them to hear, remember?”
“Okay,” you nod with a gulp. “Okay, okay. Just please, Ghost, keep going.”
You might consider it embarrassing that he can make you come too quickly with just his mouth and fingers, if you were in a less hazy, less horny, state of mind. But in all honesty, he is just that good.
Ghost obliges your plea, groaning into your pussy as you begin to twitch around him. His fingers pick up their pace a little, now curling into that spot with precision. It makes you see stars.
“Holy– fuck, Ghost!” You nearly scream.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Tell them who makes you feel this good. Come on my face for me. C’mon, you can do it,” Ghost laps at your clit like a starved man.
“M’close,” you whimper, your leg still wrapped around the back of his head, tenses harder and forces him to stay focused on your clit.
“So, so, close,” he teases.
You feel the coil in your belly buzz. It’s teetering over the edge. Sweat beads on your brow as you squeeze your abs, letting the white hot euphoria take over your body.
“There you go,” Ghost coos as you fall over the cliff. Your body convulses as you come around his fingers. The leg around his head falls away, and your arms collapse, sending you falling onto your back, as you pant out his call sign in broken moans.
“That’s it, keep going, baby,” he continues talking you through it. “You feel so fucking good twitching on my fingers like that. Jus’ like that.”
He lets out a soft, pleased, hum at the sight of you coating his fingers. It’s practically dripping onto the floor. Carefully, he repositions you so you're laying fully on the bed. He stands, then kneels on the bed with his knees on either side of your hips.
You watch as he leans over, sticking his middle finger coated with your cum into his mouth and sucking it clean.
“Want a taste?” He offers his ring finger to you. You giggle and open your mouth, letting your tongue fall out. He mimics you while rubbing his finger across your tongue and towards the back of your throat. You wrap your lips around it, gently bobbing your head and swirling your tongue to clean it.
“So fuckin’ filthy,” he groans as he pulls his hand away. You swallow thickly, and can’t fight against the heat that rises in your cheeks and at your core.
Ghost leans back, expertly undoing his belt and pulling it out of its loops with one hand. He stands, and motions for you to put your wrists out in front of you. Really, all it is now is a curl of his fingers, since you’ve done it so many times now. Tying your hands up is one of his favorite things to do. There was probably one other time when he didn’t, and it was your first hook-up, before you had discussed what you were into with him. You hold your hands in front of you, with your wrists touching. Ghost seems to hesitate for a moment. Then gently grabs your hands, kisses your knuckles, and tosses the belt to the floor. Something flutters in your heart at that. But before you can ask about it, his lips are pressed against yours.
You lace your fingers around the back of his neck. The hand not holding himself up above you works to unbutton and remove his jeans. You hear a soft shuffle as he kicks them away.
Outside of his room, there is a slight jingle of keys, and a hushed “g’night, Gaz” from a familiar Scot. You break away from Ghost and he pauses, turning his head slightly towards the door. A shadow passes under the door. More jingling of keys. A door opening. A door shutting. Then a thud as Soap flops onto his bed on the other side of the wall.
“Sounds like Johnny’s home,” Ghost hums, gently brushing your hair from your sweat slicked forehead. You take a moment to admire his biceps, which are squeezed in the sleeves of his t-shirt. You push the shirt up, running your hands along his muscles.
Ghost reconnects his lips with yours. You part your lips to bite gently on his bottom lip. Using one hand to hike your left leg up to rest on his hip, he nudges his way between your hips. Between your legs, pressing into your cunt, you can feel his stiff cock, and you can feel a small patch of precum as it leaks through them. You whine into his mouth as his tongue runs against yours.
“Shhh,” Ghost hushes as he pulls away. “I know, I know. You need me so bad, hm?”
“Yes, please,” you whisper.
“I can’t hear you,” he snickers. “Please, what?”
You whine, rolling your hips up to grind against his cock. “Please, Ghost. Need your cock.”
Just as easily as you can make him give up control, he can get it back.
“One more time, whose cock do you need?”
“Yours! Ghost, pleasepleaseplease, fuck me,” it comes out a little too loud for your own liking. Soap will be teasing you for months after this. If he can even bring himself to believe it.
“Look at you, you needy little thing. Begging for it. You’ll get it, baby,” he brushes a hand down the side of your face before leaning up and swiftly taking off his shirt. You watch as he slowly pushes his boxers down. His cock springs free, slapping him on his stomach. You nearly drool at the sight of it. The tip is flushed pink, and leaking precum, which threatens to drip down his shaft.
If he doesn’t slide it in to you in the next two seconds, you might lose the rest of your composure. Thank god, Ghost seems to be able to read minds tonight, because he quickly spits into his hand, pumps himself a few times, and lines himself up. His free hand lifts your leg until your ankle rests against his shoulder. With the same hand, still holding your leg close to him by the crook of the elbow, he pulls the mask over his chin. You pout slightly.
“Don’t give me that look,” he pushes into your cunt slowly. “You know you like it.”
A sharp moan leaves your throat as he fills you completely. He groans, his head lulling back for a moment as he sets an agonizingly slow pace with his hips. You use the wall behind your head as leverage, with one hand planted firmly against it, you roll your hips in time with him.
“You feel so good,” Ghost moans, his hand squeezing your ankle tightly as he pressed a masked kiss to the inside of it. “Takin’ my dick so well. Like it was made for you–fuck, keep squeezing me like that–like you were made for me.”
You clench around him as he pulls his hips back. He leans forward, using his left arm to brace himself against the wall as he starts to pick up his pace. You reach up, running your nails down his tattoos. He groans, rutting his hips forward harshly. You keen at the pressure against your cervix.
“Feels t’good,” you whine, arching your back. “Feels s’good, Ghost.”
“Fuck, yes, sweetheart.”
Both of his hands are against the wall now, his hips setting a near brutal pace. Sharp noises are forced out of your lungs and ascend in a staccato in time with his thrusts.
Thunk. Thunk. Thu–
If Soap didn’t hear your moans, he definitely hears the bed knocking into the wall. Ghost’s arms flex as he pushes the bed further from the wall to make it quit. You look up at him through your lashes, meeting his ecstasy filled gaze through his mask. You can feel the coil in your stomach start building again, and lower a hand to rub circles into your clit.
“Good girl,” Ghost breathes out. “Come on my cock, f’me.”
You nod quickly. At this point, your mouth is hanging open and you can’t even try to cut back your moans that fill the room, and probably bleed out into the hallway. Ghost grabs your hand at your clit, and replaces your fingers with his own.
“But, you come with me, when I say, got it?” He punctuates the sentence with a grunt.
You whine loudly, your hand grasping onto his wrist between your legs. You’re so fucking close.
“Can’t–can’t hold back, Ghost.”
“You can, and you will, sweetheart. You want my cum in you, yeah? Want me to fill you up?”
You babble out a string of pleas and begs, interlaced with his call sign. He’s never come in you before. Always preferring to make a mess of your face, ass, or tummy. But, god, does the thought of it flip something in your brain.
“Please, please, come in me,” you beg, arching your back and trying so hard to hold back your orgasm. You swear you start seeing stars when his moans pitch up. He’s close too.
“Look at that fuckin’ body,” he bears his weight on his knees again as his hand pressed against the wall drops to your right breast, giving it a gentle knead while pinching your nipple. Goosebumps erupt on your skin in the wake of his fingers as they dance across your stomach. His palm flattens on your lower tummy, pressing lightly so he can feel his cock prodding you through the flesh.
Heat pools under his hand, and you have to bite your lip to distract yourself from coming. You squirm slightly, gasping for air.
“Let me come,” you beg. “Please, Ghost, let me come. Come with me. Come in me–fuck!”
The pressure in you is slowly becoming unbearable, you don’t know how much longer you can hold back. Ghost whines, his hand on your ankle falling to cup your knee and pull you closer.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts. “Okay, baby, come on my cock. C’mon, come with me.”
At his word, the coil in your belly snaps impossibly hard. You arch your back, mouth falling open in a silent wail as stars form in your eyes and your whole lower body nearly goes numb. The pressure in your lower tummy releases as Ghost’s hips stutter against yours.
“Fuck, yeah,” he groans, pushing himself fully inside of you. “Just like that, love. No one’s ever made you feel like this, hmm?”
A loud whine tears through your throat. “No one makes me feel this good, Ghost.”
Ghost chuckles looking down at you. “And no one else will, hmm? Are you mine?”
“Fuckin’, yes. I’m yours, all yours,” you babble, still reeling from your orgasm.
His hand on your tummy rubs small circles. He slowly pulls his hips back, watching as his softening cock pulls out, and your pussy flutters around nothing. His thick, white, cum threatens to drip out, but he catches it with a single finger and pushes it back into you.
“Don’t spill any of that, I want you to feel it drip out of you as we head out in the morning.”
You whine as he fucks his cum deeper into you with two fingers, already overstimulated. His lower stomach, groin, and sheets are soaked with your cum. Ghost gently sets your left leg onto the bed and steps back. You pant, trying to catch your breath, as he looks for a towel.
He comes back after wetting a rag in the small bathroom connected to his room. He runs it along your inner thighs, and across your stomach where you, well, splashed on yourself. Then uses the same rag to wipe himself down.
You manage to push yourself up, scooting to the edge of the bed to try and stand.
“Stay here tonight,” Ghost takes off his mask as he speaks, laying it on his bedside table.
You look over at him. “Really?”
You’re a little shocked. Most of the time, apart from when he stayed at your apartment for a few days, it was sex, then sleep in your own beds.
“Yes,” Simon says almost matter of factly, like he can’t believe you’re questioning it. He extends a hand holding his shirt from earlier.
“But, they're going to see me leave your room in the morning,” you protest, taking the shirt from him and slipping it over your head.
“Yeah,” he smirks. “I think they already know that.”
You scoff and roll your eyes. “Okay. I’ll stay, but I get the dry side of the bed.”
“Bed’s too small, you’ll end up sleeping on me anyway,” Simon sits on the bed as you scoot over. He flicks off the lamp before going under the sheet, folding an arm under his head and placing the other on his chest. You scoot closer, trying to make room between you and the wall so the rough plaster isn’t digging into your back. You place your head on his left pec, wrapping your arm around his torso underneath his arm. He lets out a long exhale.
“Simon?” you whisper.
He hums, already half asleep.
“I think we need to talk about this when we get back from this mission,” you trace small circles on his stomach, watching as he flexes slightly under your touch.
“Yeah,” he pauses. “We’ll sort it out.”
thanks for reading! comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated! - lovertate
You’re curled up against Simon beneath the heavy comforter, your cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his toned chest. One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. The other hand moves lazily along your back, fingertips tracing slow, absentminded patterns through the thin fabric of your shirt. Every touch is gentle, warm enough to melt the last bit of tension from your muscles.
The apartment is wrapped in that late-night stillness that only settles in after midnight. Somewhere in the distance, rain taps softly against the window, and the muted glow from the bedside lamp paints everything in soft gold. His thumb drags lightly across your shoulder before his voice finally breaks the silence, low and rough with exhaustion.
“Wanna hear a joke?”
You already know he’s going to tell it no matter what answer you give. That alone makes the corner of your mouth twitch.
You let out a sleepy hum, somewhere between a groan and permission.
Simon shifts slightly beneath you, like he’s preparing to deliver the greatest punchline of the century.
“Why did the scarecrow get promoted?”
A soft sigh escapes you as you bury your face further into his chest, already bracing for impact. “Why?”
“Because he was outstanding in his field.”
The terrible joke is followed by his own quiet snicker, you can feel the vibration of it beneath your cheek.
You groan softly, nudging him with your knee. “Go to sleep, Simon.”
He tried once- some lean bird with sharp hips and delicate wrist bones that looked like they’d snap if he squeezed too hard. She was pretty in the way fragile things are: all long lines and hollow shadows. When he gripped her waist, his thick fingers overlapped easily, too easily, and the thought hit him like ice water: he could crush her if he forgot himself for even a second. When he buried himself deep, she gasped sharp and tight, her whole body tensing like it hurt more than it pleased, fighting to take the stretch of him. Every thrust felt like walking a razor’s edge, one wrong move from snapping her in half.
It left him cold. Detached. Fucking her was like handling fragile ordnance- too much awareness, too much restraint. Her flesh bruised too easily, blooming purple under his grip like overripe fruit splitting open in the summer heat if you squeezed just right. Her thighs shook from strain instead of pleasure, barely able to wrap around his waist without trembling.
There was no soft give when he pressed his full weight down, no warm overflow of flesh to sink into. Just sharp bone digging back at him, quiet winces she tried to hide behind bitten lips, and moans that sounded more like endurance than ecstasy. She didn’t beg for harder. She just took it, eyes squeezed shut, surviving him.
And Simon Riley had spent too many years surviving on endurance already. He didn't want a body that reminded him of fragility every time he fucked it, one that made him feel like a brute, something dangerous that needed to be leashed. (Something that made him feel like his father.)
The first time he sank his fingers into your soft, overflowing hips, something deep in his chest unclenched like a rusted lock finally giving way. No brittle bones under his palms. No fear that one rough thrust would bruise or break you. Just warm, yielding flesh that took every brutal snap of his hips Cushion. Give. A body that could handle his full weight.
He loved the way your belly pressed soft and warm against him when he folded you in half, how your thick thighs tembled and squeezed around his waist. He liked burying his face between them, smothered in heat and softness while they shook and soaked his face.
You could take him, cock pounding so deep it punched the breath from your lungs and still look up at him with heavy lidded eyes and moan "Harder, Simon, please."
He’d never say it out loud. Never explain the way your body made the constant roar in his head go quiet. But the truth was brutally simple:
Delicate things broke under his hands.
Soft, heavy, generous bodies didn't.
And Simon Riley was a man who needed something- someone- that could survive him.
reader who inhales some experimental aphrodisiac while on the latest mission.
the transport home is awkward to say the least. you’re whimper, humping your seat lamely while you’ve practically soaked through your panties, cargos, and down onto the seat itself.
“eyes forward, men.” says price from the drivers seat. his calm demeanor gives nothing away if it weren’t for his sweating palms that have a death grip on the drivers wheel.
you whine- a fucking delicious and needy whine. “please…please captain…please can someone help me? please? pleasepleasepleaseplease?”
“oh lord,” mutters soap from beside you. his eyes are oddly focused on the pattern of the roof. “lord please give me the strength right now.” his fingers twitch with ache and his leg is anxiously bouncing up and down. he continues to mumble prayers- which is odd since soap isn’t known to be a religious man.
“please- please it’s so hot. need to take these off. please,” you beg, hands fumbling with the button and zipper of your cargos.
“stop it, kid. Kyle, soap, hold ‘er down.”
gaz and soap look at each other, face full of emotion- uncomfortableness, concern, arousal?
“S-sir…don’t think it’s a good idea for me to touch the lass right now.” Soap admits, taking a slow and deep breath as his eyes unwillingly stare you up and down.
Gaz steps up. Not because he’s eager to touch you, not because he needs an excuse to get his hands on you- but because he genuinely believes that if anyone can have the restraint, it would be him. “I’ve got it, sir.”
he bunches your hands together by the wrist, bringing it away from your pants that are left unzipped but still fully on.
you let out a broken sob that just breaks his heart but stiffens his dick. “Nonononono, just a little touch please? please? Hurts s’bad. Need to…just once, please?”
gaz gulps, and for a second his grip loosens on your wrist. “Garrick!”
gaz jerks, meeting the stare of his lieutenant who’s sweating at the base of his mask. “we’re almost there. keep it together.”
you squirm, crossing and uncrossing your legs in any attempt for a piece of friction that is just never enough.
the rest of the ride is painfully silent, each man thinking the same thing but none of them willing it out loud. It feels like ages when the transport is finally parked at the base and three heads turn to their captain for his decision.
Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
The PT session had been brutal. Soap knew this because he was still on the floor forty minutes after it had ended.
He'd made it back to his quarters. He'd even made it through the door. And then his body had filed a formal complaint and had reached a compromise: the floor.
The floor was fine. The floor was right there. The floor, as it turned out, was also wonderfully, blessedly cold against the back of his legs and neck, and Soap had decided he lived here now.
His door was ajar and he didn't have the energy to close it and he didn't quite care
He was staring at the ceiling when a shadow fell across the doorframe.
"Tav?"
Gaz. Soap could tell by the voice without looking. He also didn't look because looking required moving his head.
"Aye."
"You alive?"
"Debatable."
He paused, Gaz presumably assessed the situation: one John MacTavish, spread-eagled on the floor of his own quarters, not too unlike I flopped squirrel or cat.
"Floor's good, yeah?"
"Floor's brilliant," Soap said.
He heard Gaz's boots come off, then felt the thud of him settling down on the floor beside him. There was a moment of quiet, and then a long exhale.
"Mm," Gaz said softly. "Yeah."
They lay there. Doing nothing. It was perfect.
Ghost appeared in the doorway a few minutes later.
Soap didn't see his expression so much as feel it, that particular silence of the Lieutenant.
"Don't say anything, LT." Gaz said.
Ghost said nothing. His shadow didn't move from the door.
Soap lifted one hand off the floor and patted the tiles beside him. A deliberate little pat pat.
It was quiet for a moment. Then came the sound of Ghost lowering himself to the floor and he settled onto his back beside them.
The three of them stared at the ceiling. Doing nothing.
"Floor's cold," Ghost said.
"Aye," said Soap.
And so they lay there. Doing nothing.
The captain almost walked straight past.
He'd been heading to Kyle's bunk, needing something he'd lent the sergeant, when the massive forms below him in his peripheral vision made him stop and take a step back.
Three of his men. On the floor. Staring at the ceiling.
He stood in the doorway for a long moment.
My boys, something in his chest said, quiet and fond.
"...Alright?" he said.
"Mm," said Gaz.
"Mm," said Soap.
"Mm," said Ghost.
Price looked at them. He thought about the various things he was supposed to be doing.
"You lot need to drink water," he said.
"You're not wrong," Gaz agreed from the floor.
Price exhaled through his nose. He looked at the strip of floor beside Ghost.
"The floor's good for your spine," Gaz said to the ceiling. "Decompress the vertebrae. I read it somewhere."
"Did you?"
"Mhm."
Another moment passed.
Price crouched down and lowered himself to the floor slowly.
The cold tile settled against his back through his shirt.
He stared at the ceiling.
His boys were quiet around him. Ghost's breathing slow and even. Soap looked like he might actually be asleep. Gaz existing pleasantly in a drifty little space.
"Five minutes," Price said.
"Mm," said Gaz.
And then they stayed for considerably longer than five minutes.
Well, not actually stupid, obviously but.. He's not blind. He sees how whimsical you are. How nothing seems to be a big deal to you. How carefree you are even when dealing with stressful situations - granted you aren't on the field, you're part of the tech team.
Which makes it all the more worse that Ghost has a crush on you.
It's stupid. He's stupid. He's a grown man. He can't possibly have a crush on someone at this age.
But that's exactly what this is. A crush.
"Would you rather be a cat," You frown, squinting at the ceiling. You're holding one of his vests to the light, trying to see where the stitching went wrong. "Or a dog?"
He huffs, not even looking up from his reports.
"A dog. Least then I'll be useful."
He glances at you. You're laying on the couch in his office. As if you belong there. Sprawled out like a cat and.. Sewing his clothes.
Six foot somethin’, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.
Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.
Soap stared at it.
Then at Simon.
Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.
“…That yours, LT?”
Simon didn’t even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. “Obviously.”
Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.
“Christ alive.” he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. “It’s got a bow on it.”
Simon’s eyes lifted slowly.
Dangerously.
Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.
Pink ink. Curly handwriting.
Don’t forget to actually eat today. I mean it!— ♡
There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. “SHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.”
Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.
Because it was.
“You keep those?” Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.
“Aye.”
The boys exchanged glances.
Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.
Ever.
Didn’t hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he “always stole yours anyway.” Didn’t complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didn’t care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because you’d smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.
Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.
Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.
One on the drink—
Hydrate or I’ll become evil.
One on the fruit—
You’re handsome. That’s unrelated, I just thought you should know.
And one folded beneath the sandwich.
Simon opened it quietly.
Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.
His eyes softened instantly.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.
“Awwww—”
Simon shoved him back without heat.
“Piss off.”
But there was no bite to it.
Soap grinned. “Ye love that shite.”
Simon took another bite of his sandwich.
“Aye.” he answered simply.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just certainty.
Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.
And Simon loved you.
Which meant he loved those things too.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
A/N: I love a man who isn’t embarrassed by the things you love.
husband!simon riley when you've gotten comfortable
before you got married, you always demonstrated the more polished side of yourself. dolling yourself up for dates, wearing the prettiest outfits, and doing your hair in your favorite styles. you kept lipgloss on you at all times, the plumping kind so you'd always figure out when simon got to curious and tried it for himself (he always had to pocket it for you).
simon loved that side of you. the soft, feminine and put together side of you. the one that simon wanted to protect because more often than not, he looked more like a guard dog rather than your boyfriend.
but things changed when you married and moved in, and you weren't put together all the time. you wore baggy clothes you'd stolen from simon, your figure lost in the fabric that fell to just above your knees. your hair tied lazily, or most of the time just a straight mess. your skin void of any makeup, and you just lounged around the house because simon paid all the bills.
and simon fucking loved it. seeing you in a natural state that you trust him with turns him on more than he can admit. he's the type of guy to pause as he passes the couch, shake his head with an accusatory finger jab, mumbling "you tempt me," and walks off like nothing happened.
more often than not, he's taking you to bed. splitting you apart on his cock while you wear his shirt, hair getting even more mussed against the bedding. all while grunting and groaning about how you tempt him every time he enters the house, resisting the urge to bend you over every available—like he doesn't already.
Thinking about bear hybrid!price feeling far too paternal because of secretary!readers bear-like tendencies....
Namely, your tendency to eat half your body weight in food before promptly passing out on the recroom couch. Being a human, you're small enough that all price sees is a cub practicing for the winter and it makes his instincts scream about protecting you.
Which is how you end up in his office after lunch, passed out in your usual food coma where he can monitor you. Price may trust soldiers on the field, but he knows better than to assume no mal-intent on base for someone foolish enough to nap in public.
You get your own blanket and pillow, and you always set an alarm so you can get back to work in time. It's been weeks and you still don't notice that price disables the alarms so you don't have a headache from a ruined nap.
If any of his men give him knowing looks, or if the word "cub" gets thrown around over comms...that's none of your concern.
No thoughts just shark hybrid!ghost who gets so stressed when he finds out secretary!reader is menstruating...
He smells it on you when you first step onto base, distinct and yours without a doubt. Ghost stops mid-conversation with price just to hunt you down.
You don't even make it to your office before a rough hand is grabbing you by the shoulder, wrenching you back to face ghost with a scowl. "You're hurt. Why aren't you in medical."
You frown at ghost, try not to snap because he's your kinda your boss, "what? No I'm not? Are you okay, sir?"
"You reek of blood, kid," ghost grunts, spinning you around to look for any obvious injury "much more than a papercut."
....no way. You look at ghost, coming to the mortifying realization he's serious. With a grimace, you say "ghost...I'm....I'm on my period."
For a second you think he might actually gasp, eye's wide and hands flying off of you into a sign of surrender. His face is so red it practically glows. "Christ– sorry kid. I'll uh. Leave you to it."
He retreats swiftly and you think that's the end of it. A bit of embarrassment but whatever.
That is, until you come back to your office after a bathroom break to find a five pound bag of chocolate on your desk. It's sat right on the edge, as if ghost deliberated with himself whether or not to leave it. Alongside the...honestly nice chocolate, is a bottle ibuprofen and some water.
You wouldn't know it, but ghosts been pacing the base all day, unable to settle down. He can usually ignore the scent of blood, surrounded as he is with people training and the whole medical wing but...it's different with people he cares about. His instincts keep screaming about the pup being hurt.
Yes, ghost spent his lunch frantically searching how to help with periods, then drove to the nearest shop just to grab you stuff. Yes, he felt weird and awkward dealing that stuff but he wants to help. Ghost can handle brutal executions and torture...a period shouldn't be hard.
You start to think its a bit overkill when two more five pound bags show up in your office. How much does he think you'll need in a day?!
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but there’s verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words]
based off of this request!, read on ao3
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
Doesn’t understand why you’re perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your boot’s sole.
Not that he cares; it’s only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever he’s busy tracking a target down his scope.
Better not miss, Lt.
Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.
Don’t tell me you’re getting rusty, Lt?
A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when you’re both on base– when the verbal pettiness turns physical.
You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.
“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.
But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.
In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.
“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.
“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”
You’re not even wearing any earbuds.
He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.
It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you.
Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them, you had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.
But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.
Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.
Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.
You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.
He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.
Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.
It’s infuriating.
But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences.
No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.
No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.
Why?
Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.
It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.
It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.
Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.
Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.
The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.
Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.
He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.
Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.
Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.
He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.
When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,
—getting you in his bed.
Your lieutenant's acting strange.
Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.
It's suspicious as fuck.
You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)
So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.
Exhibit A.
Standing up for you.
The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?
These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.
"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"
The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.
You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.
"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.
"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"
Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.
"Let's see how good you are then."
The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.
Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.
Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?
Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.
(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)
Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.
Exhibit B.
Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?
"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."
An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.
"My bloodline? Not happening."
He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.
There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.
"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"
"Got plenty," he says.
The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.
"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.
A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.
It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.
If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.
"You volunteerin'?"
Your brain short-circuits.
What?
Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.
Shit hits the fan faster than you can gather your thoughts.
Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.
"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"
You don't need to be told twice.
There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.
And then, Exhibit C.
This is how it culminates.
Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.
You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.
“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.
“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.
The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing!
It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.
Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.
A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.
You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.
Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.
Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.
You did it.
Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.
It occurs to you then the position you're in.
Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.
He's so warm.
An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.
Big mistake.
Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.
You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.
A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.
There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.
Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.
"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.
"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."
You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.
Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.
How did you end up here?
Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?
Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?
You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.
It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?
(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)
Knock knock.
The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.
Ghost stands there, towering over you.
"Alright, Sergeant?"
His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."
The silence that falls between you is unsettling.
“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.
“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.
You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”
He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”
Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”
“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”
Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.
“Yes or no, Sergeant?”
His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.
“…N-no, I—”
“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”
He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.
Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.
He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.
But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.
You chase him when he pulls back.
“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.
"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"
He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.
"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."
You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"
Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.
"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.
Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.
"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."
You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.
Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!
"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."
He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.
Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.
The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.
Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?
It’s unbearable how turned on you are.
Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.
Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.
Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.
Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.
When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.
"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."
You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"
He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.
If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.
Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.
"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.
But then he stills.
Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.
"W-why'd you stop—,"
"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.
"Huh?"
"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."
Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“
You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.
"Answer the question, Sergeant."
Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.
"Mmhh—"
The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.
"Please, Lt.—"
"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."
And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?
You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.
Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.
"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."
The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.
"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.
It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.
The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.
Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.
“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.
He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.
“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.
“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”
He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.
"Jerk— hngh!"
Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.
You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.
(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?
It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)
His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.
It's all too much for you to take.
When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.
"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.
He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.
With the crash comes some of your rationality.
"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.
"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."
You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"
He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.
"Don't you?"
Don't you?
Your breath catches in your chest.
And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?
His name? His face?
Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?
Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.
You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.
"You with me, pet?"
Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.
"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."
You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.
“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"
The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.
"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."
Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.
"—off," you manage to say between breaths.
Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.
His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.
"Scared?" He teases.
You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.
"I've had bigger," you lie.
He tilts his head. "S'that right?"
Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.
Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.
He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.
"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"
You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."
"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.
"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.
"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."
Fucking. Asshole!
Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."
You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.
Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.
"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.
His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.
“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”
"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.
"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.
"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.
It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.
Simon doesn't stop teasing you.
"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.
"Cock's got your tongue?"
"F-fu-ungh—"
Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.
He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.
"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."
"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.
It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.
He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.
You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.
His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.
"Come f'me, pet."
And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.
Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.
When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.
Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.
“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.
But there’s no real venom in your voice.
Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.
“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”
You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.
Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.
"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"
You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.
His quiet chuckle rumbles deep in your ear.
Fucking prick.
a/n: first smut how'd i do
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