pairing: simon 'ghost' riley x reader.
cw: MDNI, strong language, sexual themes.
No teeth, no tongue. At least, not in the beginning.
He kisses you like you're something made of paper. If he presses too hard, too fast, you'll crumble in his hands. It's not at all what you expected from someone like him. But you don't crumble, you melt against his lips. His mouth is warm, tastes like an oddly delicious mix of mints and beer. You don't know if the addiction hatching in your stomach is from the alcohol on his lips, or the way his hands rest on your hips: soft, barely there, with the pressure of a feather.
In the back of your head, Ginny is smirking, saying that's how they get you. Specifically you. Because you're naive, so nice one would mistake you for a doormat. You think there's kindness there when it's really a bear trap.
But Simon kisses you like he wants it so bad. His hand tangles in your hair, angles your head so he can deepen the kiss. Oh, he's good. Too good. Better than your ex, and that can only mean he's worse. Not just a heartbreak, but a remake of the heart entirely.
He moves and you follow, like a magnet.
The bathroom door creaks open against his back, and he leads you inside, lifts you up to sit on the sink, his hands under your ass, fingers gripping the soft flesh. He keeps kissing you through all this.
"Your hands," you whisper. "Don't hurt-"
"Don't worry," he murmurs back, lips brushing against yours with every word.
"It's going to hurt," you say. His hands are literally pressed between the edge of the sink and your ass.
"Nothing hurts," he says, and you don't know what exactly he means by that. Maybe he's too drunk. On alcohol. On your lips. He kisses you like you're pouring an aphrodisiac straight into his mouth.
You wrap your legs around his waist. Your skit hikes up your thighs, and you don't care enough to attempt to pull it. You're too busy pulling him to you, and that's when you feel it. His cock, hard, throbbing, grinding against your clothed pussy. You moan at the feel, the rigidness of it, the split second image of it going inside you.
Simon shudders and pulls back, breathing hard, pupils dilated; eyes dreamy, hazy. You open your mouth to say something, but he just goes in for another round, his tongue sliding into your mouth. You really can't deny it anymore. He tastes so good, feels so good, kisses you so good, like he wants it so bad, but there's something different. Something wrong. There's a tremor in his hands, you can feel it even though they're trapped under you. It makes you wonder if he put them there for your comfort, or because he doesn't know what to do with them.
He keeps pulling back to breathe, cheeks flushed. His lungs are not used to the burn that comes with the lack of oxygen. Unpracticed, or not trained to. He takes another pause and you study him. The front of his pants are wet already, just from a bit of kissing and tongues touching, and you've never really seen a man blush. Men like him don't blush.
But you brush all of this aside. Manipulation tactics. You won't ever be fooled again. An itch to scratch, you remind yourself and grip the front of his shirt, pulling him back in for another kiss. This time, you shove your tongue in his mouth, your other hand going under his shirt, touching the rigid muscles of his stomach.
When he moans in your mouth like the pathetic man he is, you know you won, and you keep kissing him until he starts breathing hard, panting against your aggressive mouth.
The bathroom door squeaks open. Simon wretches himself away from you.
Mohawk guy stands at the doorway, blinking.
Simon moves in front of you, shielding you from view. "Your skirt, luv," he murmurs, glancing at you over his shoulder.
Warmth bubbles up to your cheeks. You hop down the sink and tug your skirt down, hiding behind Simon's massive frame. His friend says something, but you're too busy worrying about the state of your hair in the mirror to catch it.
"I'm busy," Simon says, his voice adopting that deep timber again.
"I can see that," his friend says. You can hear the grin in his voice, and that makes you feel even more embarrassed. The only thing worse than boosting these assholes' ego is to have their friends witness them pulling women. In a dingy bar, of all places. He'd surely brag about how you approached him, desperate. Insisted he'd kiss you just because.
His friend says something else, but you're too deep in your internal turmoil to hear a word.
Simon probably thinks you're depraved and a lunatic for yelling at him. The only upside to the situation is what Ginny said; you'll never see these people again. In fact, you'll make sure of it and never step foot in a pub.
"Get out," Simon says, peeved.
Mowhak leaves without a word, the door swinging shut behind him. Silence settles like thick fog.
"Sorry about that," Simon says, turning around to look at you.
You don't exactly know what he's apologising for. Perhaps his friend said something out of line, but you didn't really hear a word he said. All the better. You doubt he said anything flattering.
"It's okay. I gotta go anyway."
But you really don't want to. You want to stay here and kiss him some more, feel his hesitant tongue against your lips and shaky hands stutter at your hips. Maybe you did all of this wrong, because the itch is far from scratched.
Simon nods, stuffs his hands in his pockets. He may be socially awkward. Or pretending to be, to seem more charming, less of a threat. But he has no problem with eye contact. He holds it until you look away first.
"I gotta go," you say again, glancing at your phone. No missed calls. Not even a text to check if Simon turned out to be a psychopath. "My friends are wondering where I am."
Simon nods again. Good god, the social inaptness might not be an act. You walk past him, shoulder brushing against his bicep.
You pause, heart slamming against your chest like you hit the breaks a bit too hard. When you look back at him, he's facing you, fingers touching his lips. God, he's so handsome, so dreamy, you nearly forget Ginny's warnings, how men like him are good at this on purpose. It's a bit cruel that your heart melts just at the sight of him, all muscles and razor sharp jaw, but gentle hands and, supposedly, a gentler heart.
"One more kiss," he says.
You nod, but really, he started moving towards you before, like he knew you'd give in. His hand slots in your hair when he reaches you, angling your head up towards him, and his lips find yours, body pressing you up against the door. This time, his tongue is less hesitant, less shy. It parts your lips open and slides in, tasting you.
His cock swells against your stomach.
This kiss lasts longer, feels more desperate. His teeth catch your lower lip and roll it into his mouth to suck on, a pleased groan sounding from the back of his throat. The vibration travels from his body to yours, like a current. And that's when you feel it, the unmistakable dampness in your underwear, an arousal that used to take your ex hours to build easily brewing between your legs now. It's not so much so the aggressiveness of the kiss that does it for you, but rather the aggressive desperation in it.
Footsteps and laughter approaches the door you're currently pressed up against, and you pull away, chest heaving.
"Someone's coming," you say.
Simon swallows, his lips wet with your saliva. He looks so good like this, a massive man reduced into a stuttering, horny mess from kissing you alone. It would be a lie to say it doesn't boost your ego even a little bit. Perhaps this is what getting things out of your system feels like: unfinished, lacking. You surrendered to the fact that you'll want to kiss him for hours on end two kisses ago, so kissing him until you're satisfied is an unreasonable goal, a race with no finish line.
"I have to go," you add, smoothing down your clothes. "Um, nice to meet you, Simon."
He opens his mouth but you’re out before he could get a word in, head ducked down as you shoulder your way through a rowdy group of men all heading to the bathroom.
You don't look up until you're out of the bar. Outside, the air is crisp, cold. It nips at your bare legs and the tip of your nose, wind toying with the loose strands of your hair. Your friends are sitting at the curb, huddle up together to ward off the cold, their giggles filling the otherwise empty street.
"You guys ready to go home?"
They all turn to look at you.
"How did it go?" Ginny asks, smoke curling out of her lips, her grin like a cat.
You point towards the car, exhaustion catching up to you. "I'll tell you guys on the way."
"Boo, boring," Ginny shouts and the whole group collapses into a fit of giggles. Embarrassment burns through you, and you feel defensive, like your ego was stomped on, like you're the butt of the joke.
"It wasn't bad," you say, shifting from one leg to the other, arms crossed over your chest. If you squeeze hard enough, the words will come out easier. "He was so pathetic. Practically drooled all over me, begging me to kiss him more."
Ginny's grin widens, a twinkle of pride in her eyes. "Told you. An itch and it's scratched. Let's get you home, slut."
Her approval doesn't feel nearly as satisfying as you thought it would.
You force a smile and trail after the group to the car. They blast music and chat and giggle all the way, but all you can think about is Simon, the way he was gentle. It wasn't a trick, it was like he didn't know how to be anything but. Ginny can call you gullible all she wants, but you're sure the tremor in his hands and the raw hunger in his eyes wasn't something he practiced.
But Ginny might be right about one thing. Your ex is the last thing on your mind for the next couple of weeks. Even as the first day at your new job approaches, you find yourself thinking about Simon more, wondering what he's up to. You wonder if he's thinking about the kisses you shared in that bathroom, if he's thinking about you at all, or if you're just another girl in a long list of one night stands (sort of, since you didn't actually sleep with the guy).
On your first day at work, you arrive early at the military base and meet Laswell who you spoke with during the second round of the interview process. She shows you around, mostly the area where you'll be working and the mess hall. Then, through a long hallway, she guides you to what will become your room during 'deployment'. You knew the requirements of the job when they got in touch with you, but the idea of staying somewhere other than your own home twists your guts into tight, uncomfortable knots.
"Once you get settled, I'll introduce you to the team," Laswell says, but you're more focused on the two guys walking towards you from the opposite direction. Massive men, especially the one in the skull mask. The black compression shirt he's wearing chokes around his pecs and biceps, clean, precise lines of ink snaking down his thick forearms. They're too busy chatting. They don't notice you until you're close enough to make out some of the tattoos on his arms. Mors vincit omnia trails up his forearm in dark, cursive letters. Death conquers all.
"Ah, Ghost, Gaz," Laswell says, coming to a stop in front of them. You stand a few steps behind her. "Let me introduce you to my subordinate. She's going to be in your ear soon."
They glance at you, and their reactions are polar opposites. One of them smiles in a warm, friendly manner, while the other, the masked one, narrows his eyes, thick eyebrows peeking out from under his mask as his frown deepens.
"This is Gaz," Laswell says, pointing to the friendlier of the two. "But you can call him Kyle. We only really use code names during missions."
"Nice to meet you," Kyle says, extending a hand.
"Nice to meet you, too." You take his hand, give it a firm shake, your smile twitching under the other guy's heated gaze.
Laswell turns to him. "And this is Ghost, but you can call-"
"Ghost is fine," he interrupts her, voice deep, devoid of any friendliness Kyle greeted you with. If anything, it sounds almost hostile.
A tense silence follows his words. Kyle glances at Ghost, seeming confused by his hostility, which tells you it's not something he sees often from him.
"Nice to meet you," you say, forcing a smile.
He doesn't even look at you. "I got some reports to finish," he says and walks away.
You swallow, throat tight. You don't remember the last time someone has been this cold towards you. For no reason, no less. He just decided, after three seconds of meeting you, that he doesn't like you and he has no problem showing it.
"Sorry," Kyle says, smile apologetic. "He's not usually like this."
"You don't have to apologise on his behalf,” you say.
"Ghost is antisocial but never aggressive," Laswell explains. It kind of pisses you off how they're jumping to defend him when he was outright rude to you, but maybe they're right, maybe he's having a rough day. It doesn't excuse his behaviour, but at least it explains it. At least it's not personal.
The tour ends at your room. You suppose you can start calling it yours, since you'll be spending most of your time here. Laswell leaves you to settle, and you spend about half an hour unpacking. You didn't bring much, just a couple of hoodies and pants, and some other necessary items, but looking at the barren room, you wish you brought some things to make it more cozy, more like home.
But decorating is the least of your concerns right now. Laswell already went ahead and assigned you your first task of the week: make the 141 trust you. Easier said than done, since there is one person whose trust matters the most and guarantees the trust of the rest of the team.
____________________________________
a/n: you can read chapters 3, 4, 5 and 6 here! (you can also find my knight!Simon Riley story there!)
