Simon just wanted to say something, he didn't want to fuck this up — not when you look so interested, not when you were so goddamn pretty.
“I have a massive gun with me.”
You smirked, glancing all the way down to his crotch, the way his thick thighs were spread over the small tool of this bar.
Ofcourse it was massive. “mmm,” you hummed, batting your lashes.
“D' ya wanna...wanna see it ?” Simon asked nervously, swaying his whiskey glass and swallowing dry at the sight of you leaning so obscenely with one elbow on the counter, eyes intoxicated and mouth stained.
So Simon led you through crowded heavy bodies which swayed along side teen spirit and pints, “What will you let me do with your massive gun ?” you whispered shouted in his ear, taking hold of his shoulder and relishing at Simon's blush reaching his eyes.
“Touch it...” he flustered, you tutted, then grinned some more. “Give me some slack big man, what else ?”
“Ya' can do whatever you like, anything.”
“Anything.” your mouth watered, and anticipated with giddiness walked out where the dusk chill pressed into your skin.
“Ya' know how to deal with it ?” although it was still a question, Simon sounded so very impressed at your knowing smile.
Usually you weren't so blunt but you couldn't look away from him, and alcohol was making any decency straight up unholy thoughts.
“I will touch it, hold it, swallow it whole in my mouth.”
Simon paused, opening the door as you hopped inside cheekily.
“Is it...a kink ?” Simon asked very accented, his face tilted in such innocence that you craved that dick, hell you wanna kiss him so hard. Never were you so kneen to suck a man's dick but Simon just ...you just couldn't wait now.
“It might become one here.”
Simon smiled, and leaned in a way you thought he might kiss you.
You sucked in breath, heart stopping just so in his close proximity, his scent lingering over you until he reached under the seat — is he gonna eat you out ??! Because fuck —but then he sat upright with a proud grin which transformed his face further over the spectrum of handsomeness in that weird, crooked, rugged up way.
You stared at his hand because from under the seat he had pulled out a massive rifle.
“My mcx spear...call em' ghost” his eyes glittered up, then holding out for you to hold it in your sweaty palms.
You lagged, flabbergasted, slack jaw — blushing.
“C'mon dun be shy.” Simon cooed very softly, and you nodded, taking it in your hands and the prev white smirk next pale open mouthed embarrassment melted into genuine fondness next jolting realisation.
You still wanted to suck his dick.
You still wanted to kiss him hard.
“Hi ghost.” you chirped, stroking along the barrel and sharing the fascination with his mirrored eyes.
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader x John 'Soap' MacTavish
Crossposted on AO3
Word Count: 3.4k
Summary: Johnny eats you out in front of an audience.
18+
CW: smut (cunnilingus, masturbation, some sexual fantasizing, brief dubcon turning into enthusiastic consent), a bit kinky (voyeurism, exhibitionism) fluffy? sort of, pwp. Soap/Reader established relationship + Simon joining the party I guess
Masterlist 🦊
Your toes are cold. So cold that you think your body might never recover, that maybe you’re bound to be a corpse for the rest of your life.
Dramatic, you’re aware.
And Johnny is so delightfully there, isn’t he? On his side of the bed, in a deep slumber. He’s a heavy sleeper too, so you’re sure you could start sighing and coughing in subtle discomfort and he wouldn’t budge.
You know his senses are perked when he’s on duty, and you’re glad to know he feels safe enough in the four walls of your home that he turns those alarm bells off.
But goddamnit, now would be a fantastic time to cuddle up. Wonderful to have those thick arms wrapped around your shoulders, his chest to your back. Pressed tight, until the coarse hairs on his abdomen would start to tickle and then scratch a little.
Clicked in place like two puzzle pieces, you’d be, with his knees tucked in the folds of yours, and your ass snug perfectly into his crotch.
And then you’d start rolling your hips slightly. You’d crane your neck back to meet his face, and you know he’d nuzzle your nape for all it’s worth. Sniffing the shampoo in your hair, burying his face until his nose would meet your skin.
His kisses would be unhurried but open, slow but voracious. They’d make goosebumps sprout from your neck to your thighs, and you’d drench your knickers in the blink of an eye.
By then, his cock would have grown hard against the swell of your ass.
He’d hook his thumbs at the waistband of your pants. Slide his cock through your folds, already wet but now they’d be even more soaked with his prec—
Great.
Now you’re horny. Horny and freezing and frustrated.
Unable to sleep because you’re cold and Johnny forgot to call the plumber for the heating—leaky radiators, a boiler that's been fussing for the past couple of days. Not even taking a shower is safe anymore, for fuck's sake.
Unable to sleep because you’re dreaming about your boyfriend fucking you into the mattress. Fucking the ice cold seeping into your bones right out of your body, melting it into delicious sweat.
Alas, unable to fuck, because his mate is sleeping on the sofa, and the walls of this stupid flat are thin.
"He’s got mold in his flat", Johnny had told you. "Give it a few days and he’ll go back."
Not.
It’s been three weeks, and Johnny's lieutenant still hasn’t left. Actually, you think he might’ve moved in altogether,because you’re starting to have less and less space in your closet, and Johnny's socks are mixing up with Simon’s.
But you’d bend and break for your boyfriend, and by extension for whoever he cares about—including his fucking lieutenant. Spooky geezer. Walks quietly around the house and scares the living shite out of you when he materializes in the darkest corners of the room.
It’s not that you hate him. You tolerate him—or, okay, you like him. You would like him even more if it weren’t for the predicament he’s inadvertently stuck you in.
He is a fun addition to the household and has wonderful chemistry with Johnny. Stores a sharp wit and a repertoire of horrible jokes that somehow make you laugh. He’s clean, buys groceries, cooks meals when you and Johnny aren’t home—he’s a decent flatmate, after all.
But still.
You want to fuck your boyfriend.
“Johnny,” you whisper, turning under the bedsheets to face his way.
Even in the darkness shrouding the room, you can spot his silhouette.
It takes a while for your eyes to adjust to the lack of light, but when you do, you can finally make out the lines of his face.
He’s sleeping soundly, like nothing can wake him even if it tried. His lips are slightly parted, a habit that comes hand in hand with the crook of his nose—a curve that makes it a bit harder for him to breathe.
You don’t want to be the one who interrupts what looks like a dreamless rest, but it is his fault if the flat feels like you’re sleeping on a slab of ice.
You scoot closer. The tips of your noses touch.
“Johnny,” you whisper again. “Baby, can you wake up?”
Nothing. He doesn’t even flinch.
You kiss him. A swift peck.
“Baaaaby,” you singsong to his lips, quiet yet cheeky.
It’s then that Johnny finally grumbles something. You quickly agitate a victorious fist under the covers.
“I need you to warm me up,” you tell him. “Because I’m too cold and I can’t sleep and it’s your fault.”
There. Evil. Digging your thumb into the guilt wound you’ve carved into his very soft heart.
Johnny’s eyes flutter open. It takes him a while to adjust. A smack of his lips to hydrate his tongue, the heel of his hand digging into one closed eye. When he comes to, and finally connects the dots, you hear him snort.
“Unbelievable,” he murmurs. “Could’ve grabbed 'nother blanket.”
You frown.
“But you’re warmer than a blanket,” you retort dramatically. “And to get one I’d have to leave the bed, go wander helplessly into the cold, look for it in the da—”
He groans and slaps his arms around you until your face is plastered to his chest.
You press the very cold tip of your nose into the warm skin on his sternum. He flinches.
You giggle. He shushes you as his chest rumbles with a quiet chuckle of his own.
He thinks it's over, then. Thinks he’s done with it now that you’re cuddled up in his arms, and closes his eyes.
But sneaky little you leaves kisses on his chest. The cheeky thing that you are, you press your thigh against his crotch, where he’s half-hard already—but that’s just because of men’s weird physiology, not because he’s horny.
He hums. “Not now, love.”
“Please,” you say, lips dancing about his chest until you reach his nipple.
You tentatively lick there. Johnny hisses and you triumph.
“Please, it’s been so long,” you plead. You purse your lips and suck so gently that Johnny’s hips thrust forward in a twitch, rutting against your thigh.
“He’ll hear us, hen.” He warns, but his voice cracks and you know that you’ve won.
Simon can handle a few moans just fine, you reckon. He’s old enough.
“Let him,” you mumble to Johnny’s skin. “I don’t care, I miss you.”
You feel his hand reach to the back of your head. Gently, his fingers thread through your hair, massaging softly at your scalp until you’re a puddle in his hold.
“Aye? Ye don’t care, eh?”
His eyes roam your face. Hooded, already heavy with lust, but a tad more balanced—managing to rein it in, unlike you.
“No.” You insist. “He can fucking watch for all I care.”
Your tongue darts forward, and you lick a stripe bisecting his lips.
Johnny fucking loses it.
His hand slides to your nape and holds firmly, enough so he can crash his lips to yours in a searing kiss. You sigh contently in it, no matter how hungry it is—to you this is the most awaited moment in weeks.
Your hands are as frantic as his own. You tug at his pants as he tugs at your shirt.
Johnny is very tactile, and you just know he wants to touch you thoroughly before he gives you the blessing of a fuck.
In fact, the first thing he does is flatten his palm on your sternum to guide you on your back. His mouth nips and tugs at your lips, then at your jaw. He finds that softer spot on your neck and sucks lovebites on it.
You moan like a slut, without a care in the world. Simon be damned. The neighbors be damned, too.
Johnny's lips finally wrap around your nipple, while his hand plays with your other breast.
You get louder, and it's a clear sign for that man on the other side of the wall to go and pop in some earbuds because you’re not shutting up tonight.
“You’ve never been this loud I swear to Christ,” Johnny says with a hint of a chuckle that gets lost in your skin. “S’like yer doin’ it on purpose.”
He pinches your belly. “Are you?”
You look down at him. Eyes narrowed. Smirk barely hidden. “No?”
But he can see right through you like you’re made of glass.
“You like it, eh?” He says with a hint of surprise, like he’s discovered a goddamn goldmine. “Oh, you fuckin’ like it.”
And what if you do? What if there's a thrill in knowing the man in the other room might hear you getting railed the way you deserve? Are you deranged for it?
Probably.
But fuck it.
Johnny’s mouth travels lower, from your breasts to the hollow between your ribs, until he’s fully hidden under the covers.
Instinctively, your fingers thread through his hair. Tight.
Oh, he’s gonna eat you out.
It’s much easier to quiet down when you’re having sex, because Johnny’s a kisser and he always keeps your mouth busy. But he knows you’re not exactly prim and proper when he makes you cum on his tongue.
He knows what he’s doing, and it’s then that a lightbulb flickers on in your head.
Bright, excited.
Johnny likes it too.
And you love that he does.
So, since he’s as into this as you are, you settle on giving him the show of a lifetime.
It takes Johnny very little to get to the gist of it. He’d usually nose at your clit through the cotton of your panties, bite at the flesh of your thighs to tease you and get you wet. There’s no need for it this time—your knickers are already past the point of salvation.
He pulls them down and off, not sparing an inch of your skin from the hungry onslaught of lips. Legs draped comfortably over his shoulder, the soft fat of your thighs cushioning his ears.
Johnny dives in.
Your groan scratches your throat when the flat of his tongue lands on your clit. Tingles ripple from your sex to your head—some electric shockwave that makes your toes curl and your throat tight.
You collapse onto the pillow, and you let go.
Johnny licks fat stripes or twirls his tongue around your clit, sucking it in at times. You moan and whimper like cameras are pointing your way, like you want the man who’s stolen your couch, your privacy and your sex life to know how good Johnny’s making you feel.
Your eyes are closed but your mouth is open, fingers curled in a fistful of his hair.
It’s then that you start riding Johnny’s face. He stays perfectly still, tongue out and conveniently flattened against your sex for you to grind against it.
It’s been so long since you felt him pant against your cunt, so long since you’ve had him tucked between your thighs until your hamstrings ache.
So long that you think you might cum already, and you’re not even five minutes in.
And you feel it in your stomach first, taut and clenching. You feel your orgasm grow as Johnny allows you to take it from him, handing you the reins of your own pleasure.
“M’gonna cum,” you breathe.
The only way you know that he’s heard you from beneath the duvet is because a muted groan echoes from somewhere below you, and his fingers tighten around your hips.
“Gonna fuck her after this, Johnny?”
Your orgasm withers, but not as much as your heart.
You jolt away from your boyfriend even though you're suddenly petrified, scrambling in an attempt to pull away from his tongue.
But he doesn’t let you go—no.
Johnny, the bastard, holds you with a resolve you’ve never witnessed before, and uses one hand to quickly shove the duvet off both your bodies.
Cold air slaps your bare skin. Gooseflesh rises at the first icy touch, nipples perked and hard. Your eyes automatically follow the voice in the dark, until they land on a shadow lingering at the door—broad shoulders filling the entryway of your bedroom.
As soon as your vision adjusts, you focus better on it. A pale face stands out on top of a body clad in charcoal black. A hand, you see, palms at the crotch of his sweatpants.
“Johnny—” You say, or try, in between pants.
His eyes finally poke from between your legs. Swiftly, his fingers take the place of his tongue, rolling more languid circles on the knot of clit—throbbing as your orgasm is rudely snatched away.
You whine at both the loss of his mouth and the discomfort of being watched.
And yet why aren’t you trying to cover yourself? Why are you still there, naked, back arched to press further into Johnny’s hand, with your fingers uselessly grasping the sheets at your sides?
“Let him watch, bonnie. You said it yerself, aye?” Johnny coos softly.
He can fucking watch for all I care.
Fuck. You. And your big mouth.
He presses kisses along the stretch marks of your thighs. “Bet he’s not seen a beauty like ye since Christ was born.”
“Cut it out, MacTavish,” Simon barks from the dark corner he's carved for himself.
In response, Johnny’s breathy chuckle hits your skin.
And while your vision might be compromised, your hearing isn’t. You can clearly hear the soft thud of socks against the hardwood floor. You can definitely feel him looming next to the bed.
You have to blink furiously when Simon turns on the nightlamp, bathing your body in yellow light.
His eyes, darker than Johnny’s, take you in as you writhe under your boyfriend’s skilled fingers.
You sigh helplessly. “Fuck.”
Perhaps this is too much. Perhaps you’re not ready. And yet—
Simon’s hand grabs a handful of his cock through his sweatpants. You can see the outline of it, fat and straining against the grip of his fingers. A sight so delicious it makes your mouth water.
Your boyfriend catches on the exchange of looks. The way your eyes drop to his lieutenant’s cock. His fingers slow down—and as enraptured as you are, you don’t notice the smile that blooms on his cheeks.
“What d’you want him to do, hen?” Johnny pitches in, finally diluting the soupy mess of your thoughts to reveal what this truly is.
A spotlight on you.
Both men are starving to see, touch, taste. This is heaven, even for an introvert such as yourself.
Small bug on the wall, observing—for once, observed.
Suddenly, you want that. You want to see them both kneel for you and study your body to learn how to keep it warm, sated, happy.
“Touch yourself,” you whisper before you can think.
Warmth licks at your neck when your own voice reaches your ears.
You swivel your eyes to Johnny again, who’s looking at you with a dangerous glint in his eye—enjoying every bump on your body that rises from the cold, every shiver his fingers cause to wreck your spine.
“You heard her LT,” Johnny says at length.
And before you can utter a word, his mouth returns on you.
Your voice breaks into a moan, eyes rolled back. There’s an insistent fizz in your ears, like there are suds stuck in there.
Simon’s “Yes ma’am” barely makes it through.
Slow blinking yourself back to reality, you manage to focus on Simon’s hand which is now stroking his bare cock. Tip a furious red, glossy with precum he smears down his length.
Fuck, you’d pay good fucking money to have it on your tongue, but you’re not in the right headspace yet. You find yourself content with the idea that he’s that hard and that leaking just because you look that hot to his eyes.
Perhaps this is a first step. And it's okay.
It’s invigorating. You love it to bits. So much so that, once again, you hear yourself say “Touch me.”
Johnny’s chuckle vibrates against your clit, but he doesn’t stop. He palms at your lower stomach as he eats you out, keeping you still and comfortable, until you feel your thighs tremble.
The mattress dips under Simon’s weight when he comes to kneel right beside you. The anticipation might kill you, and you’re so focused on him that you don’t realize how impending your orgasm is.
A big hand comes to touch your lips. Simon fits two fingers into your inviting mouth, and you don’t fight it when he touches the back of your throat.
Instead, you moan at his praise of “Good girl” slipping hoarsely past his lips.
He pulls them out and uses your own spit to lubricate the head of his cock. His cheeks glow red, mouth parted to catch his breath—you never thought a man as apparently indifferent as him could look so delightfully affected.
All because you took his fingers in your mouth like a champ.
You almost cum there and then.
His other hand comes to thumb your nipple. He pinches it, toys with it. He cups your breast in his big hand and squeezes softly just to feel the softness of it.
He rises upwards, then. Curls those same fingers at the base of your throat in a grip that progressively tightens, until he can hear your breath get stuck in your throat.
It’s then that you cum.
With the sound of Johnny’s mouth sucking at your clit. With the wet noises of Simon’s cock being tugged in rapid strokes, as if he’s forcing himself to cum earlier than intended.
Your orgasm is so strong that your mind blanks for a moment, not registering the way your voice breaks as you catch your breath again.
Not registering when sudden wetness paints your tits and puddles at your stomach, followed by a groan so loud that it breaks through the fog in your brain.
When you come to, you blink at the ceiling.
Your heart pounds viciously, so much that you can feel it on your tongue. It’s wonderful and it would be embarrassing, your current position, if it weren’t for Johnny’s face coming into view.
His lips land fondly on the tip of your nose. “Yer gorgeous when you cum.”
And you smile.
It broadens when another voice joins in, lower and panting, “Affirm. Fuckin’ lovely.”
As you reach down between your and Johnny's bodies with a trembling hand, if only to return the favor, he gently swats it away. However, your fingers make it just in time to feel his softening cock, how wet it is at the tip.
You bet there's a twinning stain on the sheets, too.
“Wee bit at a time, aye?” He offers, kissing your cheek.
You don’t dare to rebut, as spent as you are. Instead, you allow yourself to be taken care of.
Your eyes blink closed.
"Did you cum?" You ask dumbly.
"'Course I did." Johnny nibbles at your lip. "Ye taste like fuckin' heaven."
You giggle, obviously flattered, though it sounds quite weak, sleep already taking over your brain.
"You could've fucked me," you tease.
"Nah," Johnny replies, leaving a fat kiss on your mouth. "Woulda killed Simon to see ye—"
"That'll do, Johnny," Simon cuts in.
He doesn't sound angry—more exasperated than anything. He's still panting, though.
You crack one eye open and find him unabashedly staring at his cum dripping down the valley of your breasts.
His hand lands on your forehead, then, brushing back the hair that has stuck to it. It's awkward, like he's not sure what to do but still wants to check in on your well-being.
Through the fog of pure ecstasy, you think he wants to feel somewhat included. Which is why you reach out, your fingers searching blindly for somewhere to land. You find his thigh, the soft fabric of his sweats, and squeeze.
He tenses beneath your palm, but the muscles relax soon afterwards. Welcoming the touch—perhaps welcoming you altogether.
"Tired, aye?" Simon whispers, sounding uncharacteristically tender.
"Yeah," you reply wearily, though his was more of a rhetorical question.
You're too fucked out to realize it. Or to care about realizing it at all.
The comfortable silence that has settled in the room is broken by the shuffle of sheets. The creek of the mattress.
Simon disappears beyond the threshold of the room, only to return moments later with a warm towel in hand.
You get cleaned and pampered, dressed back into your comfy pjs. Sandwiched, at some point, by four arms instead of two, six legs intertwined instead of four.
Your toes are still cold, but the rest of you isn’t.
And you think it can't get any better than this, as you fall back asleep.
Written for February writing challenge, to fill the prompt "Ghoap x Reader body heat trope"
Raspberry Girl
Part One + masterlist + AO3
Simon Riley/female reader
CW: 18+ mdni, sexual content, dacryphilia, daddy kink. Reader is neurodivergent.
Simon Riley is a simple man.
Now.
Cobwebs cleared, shattered shards of glass painstakingly swept away, lacerations stitched and glued back together. He's climbed the mountain of his mind and descended down the other side. Hurdles jumped, skeletons dragged into the light and then cut down.
Guess that's what happens when you finally decide you want to live, instead of exist.
At least he figured it out before he died.
He's old now, older, signature sore back and creaky knees worse then they were ten years ago, sciatica pain when it rains, headaches whenever he's spent too long looking at paperwork (should be wearing his glasses, but can only bring himself to do it at home.) He's even soft around the middle a bit.
Still, there are some things that never change, some things that are amplified by time. Skill, focus, dedication. Thirst.
The thirst is what keeps everyone in line, keeps everyone's head down after a salute, eyes shifty and hands clenched. He still strikes fear. He doesn't mind.
It's how he got here. How he ended up standing in front of a team, his team, tackling a debrief. It's only given him more of what he know nows he craves, the aspect of control that was so long missing from his life, taken from him by others, by their actions, their decisions. Now he has it in spades. He learned to indulge it, practice it, hone it, and when it reared its head in other aspects of his life, he didn't shy away. He embraced it, experimented with it, figured out what he liked, what he didn't, what he truly needed. Chewed on it, for a while.
A casual fuck here and there, fine, but not enough, not nearly.
He's built a house after all.
It's all spilled over though. Run away from him and out of the base, infiltrated his home, crawled across town-
and set it's sights on something it can sink it's teeth into. Something it won't let go of.
Daddy's girl.
"C-captain Riley." Your hands press to your stomach, anxiously wiping away smatterings of batter and flour, and he tries to screw his mouth into a flat line to hide his smile at the hitch in your breath.
"Hi sweetheart."
"What can I... what can I get for you?" He sweeps over the case, eyeing the piled high pastries and bagels, muffins and quiches still warm.
"Just a coffee today." You nod, lip tugged between your teeth, hand practically shaking as you reach for the stack of cups. When he was a younger man, he wouldn't have patience for this, or you. Wouldn't see the bright side to this, these moments he shares with his girl at the bakery, his nervous little fawn he's finally coaxed to look him in the eye for more than ten seconds at a time. Being in your forties will do that to you, he guesses.
Time heals more than he ever thought possible.
"Black?"
"That's right." He indulges himself as you turn around, tracing your curves, the swell of your ass in your leggings. You wear an apron at your waist religiously, cinching it tight, hips and thighs and everything else perfectly framed. He loves those leggings, and hates them every time he catches an overzealous prick leering at you over the counter.
"Do you um, do you want room for cream?" The answer is always the same, but you still ask, and he doesn't mind.
"No, I'll just take it as is." He eyes the pan of raspberry sweet rolls sitting on the counter, cream cheese icing slowly melting across the top. They're his favorite, but he's putting on too much weight, and with the next mission around the corner, he can't afford to be too soft. You look up at him shyly, gesturing to the giant buns.
"I made your favorite." Fuck. He can't. He shouldn't... but he can't stomach the idea of dimming your glow, killing you excitement, the eager look on your face as you wait for his approval.
"Y'know what... the boys are always complaining I never bring them anything. I'll take the whole pan." Your eyes turn to saucers.
"The wh-whole pan? Really?" You brighten into a sun, glowing with pride, and he rewards you with a smile.
"Is that okay?"
"Of course!" You blurt, half panicked, "of course I just... okay. Let me-" You go to put the coffee cup down in front of him, but the bottom nicks the edge of the counter and like everything has turned to slow motion, he watches as steaming hot liquid comes flying from the top, half splashing, half spilling all over his uniform. He catches it before it rolls off the end, but the damage has been done, and tears line your lashes.
The woman waiting in line a few feet behind him snorts. His vision turns red and he whirls on her with a glare, satisfied when the color drains from her face and she runs off.
“I’m sorry, I’m so s-so-sorry,” you’ve come around the corner with paper towels, trembling like a leaf as you stare at the stain on his jacket, wide eyed and frantic.
“It’s okay, it was an accident.”
“N-no, your uniform,” you croak horrified, “I ruined it, I’m so sorry.” You hiccup a little, trying to suck in some air while you succumb to panic, and he takes your hands in his, squeezing gently, trying to ground you.
“It’s alright baby, it’s okay,” you don’t even notice when he calls you baby, too preoccupied by your rapidly dissipating oxygen. “Hey, look at me,” he soothes, ducking into your line of sight, grabbing your attention. “Good girl, you’re alright.”
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shrinking in on yourself, curling your shoulders forward. More tears, and the sight of them sends blood rushing through his body, uncomfortable pressure starting to build in his cock.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” The shop is mostly empty, the woman behind him gone, and he takes the opportunity to usher you past the counter and into the kitchen where there’s a stool waiting just inside the door. He guides you up and holds steady. “Everything’s okay, I promise.” The paper towels come free from your tension filled grip, and instead of using them on the stain, he presses them to your wet cheeks, blotting away your tears. You lean into the touch, so trusting, so easily his, and he wonders what else you’d let him do. He’s hard against the teeth of his zipper as he thinks about hoisting you onto the table, spreading your legs to find what you’ve been keeping safe for him there.
He doesn’t have many things to care for these days, outside the team, his ultimate responsibility. Keeping a special ops unit alive, planning and executing, cutting through political bullshit is more than enough, but it’s all rough and heavy handed.
He needs something to nurture.
You blink at him as he finishes and tips your chin back, ignoring the way your lips part in awe. “That’s better.”
“Thank you.” The two of you breathe in tandem, silenced and walking a tightrope until you cough. “I should uh… I should go, get those rolls packaged?” He nods, and you manage a very small smile before dipping your gaze to the ground and running off to the front.
“When did you know?” He rolls the cigar smoke around in his mouth and John cocks his head.
“When did I know what?”
“That you were ready,” he gestures to the house, where John’s wife Grace sleeps soundly, “for this? For her?” There’s a glint in his Captain’s blue eyes, a knowing smirk on his face.
“I just did. At some point, life becomes more than the job, but the mission stays the same. Lead, decide, control. Keep them safe, complete your objective, give what’s needed, get it for yourself. It’s no different.” The idea is tar, sticking to every surface in his mind, gumming up his synapses and creating hallucinations so intoxicating they’re hard to believe.
You, curled up in bed asleep with nothing but a pair of panties, or cradled between his knees in the bath as he works a chunk of batter free from your hair. You with your legs spread, knees pushed towards your ears, pussy ripe and waiting for him, only him, for the rest of his life. Hands and ankles tied together like a pretty little present. You, sitting on the couch with your thighs slung over his lap, nose creased with a little wrinkle as you thumb through a book.
John chuckles. “Found one then?”
Simon only nods.
He slips through the door just before closing, little bell at the top announcing his arrival to an almost empty space. There’s someone at the register, counting cash, and she smiles at him with all her teeth.
“We’re about to close but there are a few things left, or I could make you a tea?” The case is pretty barren, a few bear claws and croissants, a muffin or two. Stragglers.
Next to it, a bouquet sits in a vase. They’re fresh, healthy, and the hair on the back of his neck stands.
If someone is buying you flowers, he’ll kill them. Dump their corpse in a pit and piss on it.
The girl clears her throat, and he shakes his head. “No, but thanks. ‘M here to see…” you push through the kitchen doors with two metal sheet trays in your hands, and freeze.
He knew you’d be surprised, caught off guard. It’s like catching a feral cat. Trying to earn a street dog’s trust. Like he’s crouched on the sidewalk, hand extended, food waiting in his fingertips.
A fisherman, with bait on the line, patiently waiting to hook his prize.
The incident last week has thoroughly spooked you, pushed you back inside your shell, eroded a lot of the groundwork he painstakingly laid, the foundation he’s been building, and the only time he’s been in since then, you ran into the kitchen as soon as he crossed the threshold.
The clock has turned back to the time when you were so gun shy, you’d turn to stone at the first sight of him, hands clasped together so tight he knew they hurt.
It’s no matter. He’s a patient man now, a far cry from who he used to be, and he’s willing to wait for the things worth it, willing to put in the work to fix it.
His body disagrees. A river of need runs consistently runs through him, wild and turbulent current thrashing in his blood, white water rapids trying to flood his lungs. His cock is heavy at night as he imagines you bent over the butcher’s block, leggings ripped open, gooseflesh cascading from the small of your back down, empty little hole clenching on nothing, begging for a fullness only he can give. He dreams about your tears, salty sweet drops soaking your cheeks as the crown of his cock bulges in your throat, as he takes your air and gives it back, over and over again.
Ruin you, rearrange you, remold you until you only ever fit him.
He’ll give you what you need, he’ll take away what you don’t.
He’ll decide.
The girl at the counter looks at you, then him, small smile pulling on her lips. “I’m going to get this deposit ready,” she announces to no one since you’re not paying her any attention, barely registering she’s disappeared as you stare at him.
“Hi… u-um hi, Captain Riley.” You put the pans down onto the counter but miscalculate the distance, and they clatter with a resounding smack, one that makes you wince. Your chest expands with a long, deep breath, and you look away from him to the floor. “Can I get you something?”
“No, I’m jus’ here to see you.” You jerk, gaze snapping from the floor to his face.
“Is th-this about your uniform? Did you get it dry-cleaned? I can pay you back for-” You rush out, half panicked and cut off when his hand fits to the space between your shoulder blades with just enough pressure to move you forward. He leads, steering you to one of the little tables by the window, urging you down into the chair before taking his place on the other side.
“You’re not paying my bloody dry cleaning bill. I’m here to see you, sweetheart.” You’re vibrating, practically rattling in your skin and he wants so badly to soothe you, tuck you into his chest and push the outside world away, but it would be too much, too soon. You’re not ready.
“See me?” He nods.
“Why did you run from me the other day?”
“I didn’t I was just… I was busy.” He didn't expect the truth, not right away. You're always trying to hide your vulnerable spots.
“Try again. No lying this time.” There’s about one eighth of his usual authority in his voice, the captain’s edge he’s honed over the years, and your lips part with a sharp, small intake of breath.
“I thought maybe… I thought you might be upset or something and I didn’t want…” you trail off with a shrug, and he’s not surprised. He knows his reassurances from last week weren’t enough. His sweet girl is afraid of her own shadow, you need more than just a few words and your tears wiped.
“I’m not upset.” He leans back against the rickety wood. There are a million things he could say, do. A million different pieces he could pick apart right here, right now, peel your layers back and put you on your knees with your cheek on his thigh, his hand patting the top of your head.
“Daddy’s not mad, sweetheart.”
You’re watching him, waiting, looking for him to give more, heal this wound, but he’s cautious. A gas pedal to the floor will only get him the kind of chase he doesn’t want. Not yet. “You understand me?”
“Yes,” you whisper. You’re hesitating on something, holding back, but he doesn’t try to drag it out, choosing to wait, to give you the time you need, the space he knows the rest of the world doesn’t allow. “Did um… did they like them?” He cocks his head.
“The team?”
“Mhm,” your leg bounces under the table. You’re so fucking cute he could smother you.
“Yeah baby, they loved them.” You beam, blooming into a pretty, perfect flower, vibrant and colorful, rare as they come.
“That’s good, I’m so happy.” You wiggle a little bit in the chair, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Fucking hell. He wants you on his lap instead, wiggling around as he slowly sinks you down onto his cock, fingernails biting into his chest as he stretches your pussy, toes curling as you struggle to take him. “D-do you want to take some home?”
“You have some left over?” You shrug sheepishly.
“I’ve uh, been making them every day. I thought if you were mad at me, maybe they would… make it better.” Oh baby.
“No. You never have to appease me like that. You never have to appease anyone like that, sweetheart.”
“Right. Okay.” You look relieved, a little bit of heaviness lifted from your shoulders, and then you give him a small smile. “But do you want to maybe have one… now? W-with me?” His sweet little fawn, navigating the world on new trembling legs, taking chances when she feels brave.
He pulls your hand into his and strokes his thumb back and forth across your knuckles, setting up a slow, soothing rhythm. “Of course.”
the tragedy of tumblr is you will inevitably meet people who you should be having a sleepover with. you should be rolling around on their floor and rummaging through their fridge and watching shitty movies with. you should be shopping with should be going out to a cafe with should be wandering through the aquarium with. people who you should be experiencing quotidian joys with... and you cannot! because they live one million miles away
Summary: During a mission briefing Ghost does something a little out of character but you don’t seem to mind.
Cw: dubcon, public orgasm, unrealistic military scenarios
Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x reader
Word count: 1.2k
The briefing room was in total blackout save for the bright screen at the head of the room showing an intricate map and multiple mug shots. The large rounded table sat a few blacked out silhouettes you failed to make out as you hurried in to find an empty seat.
The soft click of the door shutting behind you made the captain turn his head at the noise clearing his throat. You stilled holding the chair back in your hand.
“So glad ya decided ta join us. You’ve just volunteered ta take all the briefin notes.” He said with his signature smile. You stifled a groan while Soap and Gaz, just ahead of you, let out mimicked snickers.
“Right you lot, Laswell got us some intel about a data file that Makarov has been tryin’ ta get his grubby mits on for months. What’s on that file? That’s what I want ta find out.” His gruff voice rang through the small space clear and sharp, with full attention. Except one.
You glanced up from your haste scribbling to find Ghost leaned back in his chair, not looking at his captain, but at you. The lieutenant who hardly spoke a word to anyone but his team was staring at you. Possibly mentally scolding you for being late to such an important meeting. It made heat rise to your cheeks in embarrassment.
You quickly looked away to try and keep up with the quick pace of information being thrown around. A few hours go by, a plan is set, a team put together consisting of Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and you; an intelligence expert and the know how around computer systems. Any one else could call you a “hacker”. A date and time is placed along with a RV point where Nik will be waiting with an evac.
You’re writing as fast as you possibly can, trying to get as much as the information as possible when a slight nudge hits your boot. At first you think it’s an accident and pay it no mind, but it happens again, this time the other foot stays. You glance up and Ghost is looking at you once again.
You can’t read the emotions in his eyes, the plain black surgical mask covers the bottom half of his face concealing any other giveaways he might be able to make. You slowly raise an eyebrow as if to say:
‘Did you mean to do that?’
He slowly closed his eyes and the corners crinkled up as if he were giving a sly smile under his mask.
‘What if I did?’ He seemed to say.
His foot slowly pushed the two of yours apart, spreading your legs ever so slightly. Your heart was about to fly out of your chest. The lieutenant who never spoke, who was the lone wolf out of the pack, was flirting with you? 
More than flirting. The toe of his boot ran up the side on your spread legs, egging them to open more. All the while, above the table, he sat perfectly still. Arms crossed over his chest, looking absolutely bored. You however were flushed past your shirt collar, breath starting to become labored.
You had to adjust yourself you try and calm your racing heart. This was coming from nowhere. Sure you had always had feelings for the mysterious man sat across from you but you dropped it once he never returned the same thing. Respectfully. That is until now, where his boot was climbing dangerously close to your clothed cunt.
Instinctively, you spread your legs wider to give him better access which made him get a tiny glint in his eye. His boot hovered slightly over your cunt and you looked at him, silently asking what he was doing.
You definitely saw the devilish smirk paint itself across his face when he pressed slowly but firmly into you. You ground your hips softly up to meet him but stopped to not catch attention. Ghost didn’t seem to like that and pressed harder. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood when he start to rock his boot over your clit through your pants.
Briefing notes be damned. Price could write you up and make you clean bathrooms for a month and it would be worth it. You dropped your head into your hand but tried to make it look as natural as possible. Not as if you were riding your superiors boot underneath the table in a room full of your colleagues. Which turned you on more than it should have.
You looked back up at Ghost and his chest was rising and falling quickly. Eyes never leaving you as your hips slowly ground down in tiny circles. He didn’t move his foot but let you set the pace, eyes darting to Price every so often. Always so vigilant.
You tried to keep taking the notes but he turned you into a pile of mess in mere seconds. Brain turned to mush and unable to form a single coherent thought other than Ghost Ghost Ghost.
The unbridled need in your stomach was on fire and you looked at him with eyes that almost brimmed with tears. Pleading with him to help you. He understood immediately.
His foot began rocking in little waves in time with your small circled thrusts and it took a Herculean effort not to cry out. Your legs were shaking, your breath hitching, stomach clinching. His foot pressed into you firmly meeting with your thrusts sending you spiraling over the edge.
You held your breath, eyes rolling into the back of your head, fingers gripping onto your pen with such force it could’ve shattered it. Ghost coaxed you through your high softly and when you opened your eyes, his met yours and the hunger that stared back was overwhelming. He moved his foot away just as Price finished.
“We leave at 0400. Flight deck A. You four solid on what needs to be done?” Price glanced over at you, head still in your hands.
“Solid Cap’m.” Ghost’s heavy timbre rang in your ears.
Price hummed in acceptance and soon dismissed the group not before stopping you from making a speedy and quick exit.
“I want those notes on my desk by this afternoon.” You held the notepad to your chest and smiled softly.
“Yes sir. They’ll be typed up and in your folder no later than 1800 this evening.” He nodded and finally dismissed you.
As you made your way through the hallway to your barrack, a muscular arm caught yours and turned your back and pinned you to the closest wall. Ghost stood towering over you, arms caging you in on both sides. The silent shadow slunk his way to you and you never heard a thing. A small smile found its way to your lips.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that to you.” His dark eyes peered down at you with such heated lust you thought you’d burn alive.
“I can’t wait to see how these next few weeks play out then.” You run your hand down the front of his shirt and slowly graze over the buckle of his belt. Ducking under his arm you continued to walk the way you were heading.
Behind you, you could hear a deep groan followed by heavy footsteps trailing after you.
I’m so excited to finally be writing semi-regular again after almost 2 years… oops 😬. My requests are open so if you have any please shoot me an idea and I’ll happily try my best to make it happen!
Ps: I’m genuinely so obsessed with this man that if he broke me in half I’d probably thank him and ask for more… just 😩🤌🏻 military men. That is all.
Simon's sub definitely gets flustered when he makes her ask him to make her feel good, mumbling under her breath and hiding her face, fidgeting shyly in their seat and Simon just smirks, whispering, "what's that, sweetheart? I couldn't hear you, can you repeat it, lovie?"
titsay
2087
turnnoffyourmind
discoholicmusic
stormborns
ellievsbear
baratheonpilled
