Sweetheart!Simon finding out you never squirted before-!
cw: porn link, mdni, fingering, squirting, sweet simon
When you casually mention that you can't squirt, Simon immedietaly pulls over from the road and looks at you confused.
And when you further explain it's because non of your past partners could do it when they tried, you whine about how you're totally convinced that there's something wrong with you and he decides to prove you wrong.
He immediately rolls up his tinted windows and lay you down in the backseat, spreading your legs open slowly and lowering your pants, eventually taking them off and tossing them somewhere followed by your panties short after, making you feel bare and embarrassed.
"Nothin's wrong with you, luv. Blokes these days just don't know how to treat a woman right, hm?"
He kisses your knee and spreads your legs wider when you try to close them because you started feeling exposed, suddenly shy under his gaze, but don't worry he'll take good care of you.
"Just relax for me sweetheart, yeahh just like that" he drags the syllable, eyes hooded with need and lip bitten between his teeth.
He starts by making you relax, kissing your hand, knee, calf; wherever his lips can reach, while rubbing slow deliberate circles on your aching clit.
After getting you all needy, relaxed and soft for him he'll press a finger in your waiting cunt, the length stretching you and making you squeeze him only to get a tut and a "need you to relax for me, luv"
And when you finally relax again he'll start moving his finger, the squelching sounds of your dripping cunt filling the small space only for him to add another when you least expect it, but the pain is nowhere to be found, replaced by pleasure and lust.
Simon thrusts his fingers in and out of you and just when you start to feel the coil in your stomach, indicating your approaching orgasm, he'll press his palm over the surface of your lower abdomen- right on top of your uterus- making you squeal and squirm a bit, receiving a light tap on the soft flesh;
"need you to stay still for me, sweetheart."
His voice is gruff and his breath starts quickening along with his fingers, his palm on your abdomen applying the perfect pressure, and just when you're about to cum, he'll curl his fingers just right to hit the spongy spot you can't reach by yourself making you arch your back and press harder on his palm;
"W-wait, Simon! F-feel like peeing-"
"That's the point, sweetheart. Let go for me" he pants above you, barely holding himself together.
And just like that, your jaw goes slack and your juices squirt all over his palm, his pace not slowing one bit. Simon would finger you through your orgasm, and when you get down from your high, he'll take out his fingers and slap your pussy making you moan.
Simon brings his hands to his mouth and licks his fingers clean, maintaining eye contact while doing so. And in a moment of embarrassment you avert your gaze only for it to land on his crotch, an evident dark patch coating his bulge
"See what you do to me, luv? Without any touch." he chuckles sweetly and kisses your forehead
"If you ever want to squirt, just come to me. I'll take good care of you, o'right?"
simon always says you fit well in his arms. fit well when he's inside you, begging you to just stay still, so he can finally cum. you fit well in his arms when he holds you when watching a scary movie, you're terrified when watching saw. fit well in his arms when you hug him tight, soothing him after a bad dream.
fit perfectly well in his arms when he holds your lifeless body, in the hospital bed, a wailing baby in a crib - his wailing baby.
your wailing baby. if you had anything left to own. when your cooling body lays in his arms, like a pile of limbs, arms and legs never to move on their own again. fit well in his arms as he's dragged away, never to fit in his arms again.
Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.
He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.
"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"
Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.
"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because heās returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.
Right now, youāre feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.
His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing youāre doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."
That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didnāt stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didnāt stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didnāt stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.
Until you. Until he met you.
You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.
"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like heās got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."
Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"
"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."
He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like youāre effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.
"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he canāt tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like youāre shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."
Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.
He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.
"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm ā" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."
thinking about simon riley getting jealous of the things you put in your mouth...
Simon should really look away.Ā
But he canāt. Because the way your lips close around that grenade pin, teeth gripping the metal as you jerk your head back and pull it free? Well, it has him thinking dangerous things.
He canāt tear his eyes away from you as you throw it right into the enemyās pile of ammo and it explodes with a deafening boom. And when you turn to him, framed in fire, a triumphant smile on that pretty mouth?Ā
Heās done for.Ā
Back on base, itās pure coincidence that he walks past the gym and sees you inside, giving the punching bag hell. His boots falter as you whip around, focused and mean, and strike the bag with your glove hard. The impact rattles the chain and stirs hot, wicked embers deep in his gut.Ā
Suddenly, you turn, eyes snapping to his through the window. But Simon canāt bring himself to move. Slowly, you raise your hand and rip the velcro strap of your glove back with your teeth, pulling it tighter around your wrist.
The tension finally comes to a head late one night at the range. Youāre there with your newly issued Glock, putting a few rounds through it before the op the next day when he silently chooses the lane next to yours, despite all the rest being empty.Ā
You donāt say anything, but your eyes flick to his under his mask as you bring a bullet to your lips. You tuck the blunt end between your canines, cock the chamber back, and then proceed to drop the bullet into the gun.
Simon watches you, his gaze catching on the purse of your lips, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you grab another and place it into the slot with your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to lick your bottom lip to taste the gunpowderā
Suddenly, heās moving, shoving his way into your lane and plucking the bullet from your lips with two gloved fingers.Ā
āWant somethināĀ in your mouth so bad?ā he grunts. āAll you haveāta do is ask.ā
āGod, Ghost,ā you groan, hands already fumbling with his belt. āFucking finallyāā
Oh but thereās just something about simon who has been MIA for a good few months, maybe even a couple of years until he finally appears on your doorstep again one random day
but heās not the simon you remembered. heās not the same man who used to put socks on your feet whilst you slept so your toes wouldnāt get cold. or the man who would cook a completely seperate meal to his own if you didnāt like what he was having.
his eyes are empty. his touch is rough. callous even. sometimes you wake up in the night and heās just sat in the corner of the room, staring at you through the darkness as you slept
your friends have stopped inviting you places out of fear that youāll bring him along. his cagey erratic behaviour is not fun for them. the way his eyes flick around the room, landing on any potential threat. fingers flexing at his side, ready to grab his boot knife if needed
he scares you, but he still fucks you so good and makes sure youāre fed and warm
YES AND you never used to fight but now sometimes you yell at/with each other over small things because he is always on edge and irritable. But it always ends with you riding him or your mouth around his cock and then it feels okay again for both of you so it goes on another week. Perhaps there is a huge blowup where one of you storms out and doesnāt come home that night, the other gets worried sick, and the next evening upon the return, you make love so sweet and gently with tears streaming down both your faces, because after everything he has been through and all the ways he has made you suffer for it since coming back, what would either of you be without the other? Whatās wrong with the toxicity when it always hurts so good?
driver!simon rescuing runaway bride!reader from the church where your wedding was supposed to take place. youād left it allāyour family, your phone, your responsibilities, your no-longer-husband-to-beābehind so you could sit in the back of simonās cab and tell him all the reasons you ditched.
āhe's justā¦ he's boring. he likes to eat dinner the same time as our 74-year-old neighbor! he didnāt wanna go anywhere or do anything. heād come home after all day at work, just to half-ignore me. doesn't believe in kissing for any longer than 0.7 seconds. and dear godāsimon, is it? right?āthe sexā¦ā
simon lets you unleash it all as he circles in the streets, adding in his two cents here and there when you take a second to breathe.
āso a fuckinā knob then, huh? too bad you got all pretty forāa bloke like thatā¦ yāsure he wasnāt the 74-year-old?ā
that last one pulls a laugh from you that makes simon think about that pub on the other side of town.
half an hour later, there you are, in the pub. still in your gown and veil. simonās arm wrapped tight around your side as the two of you squish against the wood of the bar.
surrounding you is a clamoring of happy drunks, who toast loudly to the assumed āmarriageā between simon and yourself. for some reason, you donāt correct them. nor does simon, who instead holds you tight and shoves his tongue into your mouth after the tenth chant of kiss! from the rest of the pub.
you kiss him back, groaning at the touch that reaches to grip your chin. when you pull away, simon holds his breath at the tipsy grin on your face, a warm feeling running through his cock when you turn back to your glass and chug until the top of your lip is covered in foam from the second beer he bought you.
āalright?ā
you bob a nod at simonās question as he thumbs away the mess at your lip with dark eyes.
fourteen minutes laterā¦
the pub bathroom is already small enough. feels even smaller with simon hanging over your shoulder and yanking you back by the hips. the fastening of your dress has been ripped well past your ass, buttons scattered under the sink you're holding onto for dear life. squeezing the sides of the porcelain every time simon pumps into you.
āf-fuckā¦ā you whine, and simon digs himself deeper. āah!-there-thereā¦ā
his cock is hitting deep. heavy. wet and stretching you out in a way the man youād abandoned earlier. (what was his name again?) he even uses the veil still tucked in your hair to keep the view of your face nice and clear for him to stare at you in the mirror. the sight of you, groaning with running mascara, makes it easy for simon to imagine another world where you're his new, pretty wife.
mrs. riley. his missus.
āyāknowā¦ iāll eat supper whenever yāwant. kiss ya right. donāt quite like ignoring pretty things either,ā he grunts in your ear, balls smacking loudly in between the slurred sentences. the wet peck he gives you under the side of your ear precedes a tragic pause of his thrusts. while you take the break to catch simonās gaze in the glass before you, he pants with deep huffs.
god, you look a right mess. make up ruined. lips swollen. veil scrunched and the top of your dress tugged low enough for your nipples to show. simon looks over it all at the same time before peeling his front from your back so he can watching something else.
thereās a ring of cream at the base of his cock thatās still stuck halfway inside your pussy. your lips are spread wide, properly stuffed, and pulsate with a gentle rhythm.
āā¦you memorize your vows?ā
you blink at the low question, trying not to squirm anymore than you already are. āuh. y-yeah? i think. why?ā"
āgo on, then,ā simon directs, one of his arms wrapping around your front. with a tight tug, he stuffs himself the rest of the way, clenching his teeth at the way your voice cracks in the middle of a loud moan. scrunching his nose, he sniffs. then resumes fucking you.
slower.
harder.
like a proper husband should.
it takes you a while to sputter the first few words. simon is patient enough because the pay off is better than he imagined.
the recited promises are broken, but there. real-sounding enough just over the wet plaps that simon can flutter his eyes shut and pretend heās the one you wrote them about. that youāll always give yourself to him, to laugh everyday with him, to love him through it all.
the man proves himself easily, that much is obvious by how you end up squirting on his cock and down his dress; the way you sob his name and accidentally blubber out delirious i love youās; how the three words you chant out like a prayer cause him to spill deep inside you as he makes sounds heās never made for anyone else.
simon loves you back. feels like it, at least, when he comes with shaking legs and canāt think of anything worse than a future without you. he ends up sure of the fact when the first thing you utter, in a tired, hoarse voice, after finally finding your breath isā
āi meant to ask earlierā¦ do you have a smoke?ā
simon grins a bit, almost laughing. red stains on his teeth from how hard you made him bite his lip.
note: is this bad? pls don't let this be bad. anyways, runaway brides must be the new thing and i think @tojisteddy n i share the same brain :3
18+ MDNI can't get enough of you :: simon riley x fem!reader
simon can't get his hands off you. no matter where you are, at home or in public. and once you're in his grasp, there's no escape. not that you ever want to escape.
whenever you're in his vicinity, his eyes are fixed on you, paying no attention to whatever the hell is happening on the telly or the constant yapping of your friends, no matter how much they yell for him to listen.
his eyes follow your every move, drinking in your otherworldly beauty, with only one thing on his mind; how to get you alone and all to himself.
you're at home, wearing only his shirt and a pair of cute panties, greeting him in the morning with your bed head and puffy face still laced with sleep. you'd think nothing of it but he's done for.
"goddamit, woman. wha' are ya tryin' to do?" he says as a feral need takes over him. he pulls you in his lap, strong arms wrapping tightly around you. no chance to escape. "simon!" you squeak, giggling in your hands.
his lips crash onto yours, stealing your breath in an instant, large hands roaming your body under the shirt, breathing "god, you're so fuckin' hot, love." while squeezing every piece of flesh he can find, guiding you to lay back on the couch, getting in between your legs and humping his growing bulge onto your core. "gotta have you, love. please." simon begs desperately as you try to catch your breath.
and with only a nod, he's taken his hard drooling cock out of his pants and pulled your panties to the side, before impatiently plunging himself inside your tight hole, letting out a sigh of relief into your neck.
he holds you so tight while setting a rapid pace, giving you no time to adjust as you whine and writhe beneath him. he's thrusting with such force and determination you'd think your body is on fire, thick mean cock stretching you so wide and repeatedly punching your cervix you lose your mind entirely.
his hulking body pressing you further into the cushions, hot breath fanning into your neck as he lets out breathy groans beside your ear, using your body to relieve himself.
on nights out with friends at the pub, simon holds you flush against him, hand pressed onto your waist as thoughts of how to ruin you take over his mind.
he can't take it anymore, the bulge in his pants growing by the second, painful and desperate. he needs to have you, feel your body against him. he needs to see your pretty pussy dripping for him as he stretches you out on his fat cock, feel your soft warm walls wrapped around him in a vise.
he breaks the conversation abruptly without a care for the confused looks he's getting.
he pulls you into the bathroom and bends you over the sink, bunching up your dress around your waist before yanking away your skimpy panties, making you gasp and complain about how expensive it was. "shut up. i'll buy you another one."
and with no warning, he shoves his cock into your needy cunt, gripping your hips tightly and slamming into you mercilessly, sending you into a state of feverish ecstasy as you chant his name, loud moans punctuated by each vigorous thrust leaking out the door and reaching the ears of every passerby.
ghost stuck on an urban mission finding some poor desperate thing in the darkness outside his crappy rented flat, does what he does best and makes a poor judgement call to get his dick wet before the end of the mission.
its nothing, meaningless sex that isn't meant to be anything but fun while he's in town. he plugs his number into your phone so he can keep you on retainer while he's around and doesn't think about you after he's gone.
except you keep texting him, keep him updated on your life. you use the privilege of his phone number to send him pictures of the stay cats around your flat ("simon" your favorite, named before you knew him, you called it fate and he didnt correct you).
you tell him you miss him, and ask when he'll be back.
and fuck if he can turn down an invitation like that, grabbing a plane ticket alongside his leave request so he can surprise the pretty desperate thing that won't stop sending him things you shouldnt.
[i woke up with this in my head so i just had to write it]
Ghost has one weakness. It is a big, round, perfect weakness, and itās currently arched in the air directly in front of him.
You are on your hands and knees on the bed, face pressed deep into the pillows, your back curved in a gorgeous, deep arch that presents your ass to him like an offering. The soft glow from the bedside lamp catches the slick sheen of your skin. It is a view that short-circuits his brain every single time.
He stands behind you, one knee resting on the mattress, his other foot braced firmly on the floor for leverage. His black balaclava is pulled up just enough to expose his mouth and jaw, creating the perfect canvas for the guttural sounds he can no longer hold back. In his hand, his phone is held steady, the red recording light a tiny, glowing eye capturing every angle.
The camera is angled flawlessly, framing the obscene sight of his heavy, flushed cock sliding across the slick valley of your ass. He isn't even inside you yet; he is merely dragging the thick, weeping head up and down, coating himself in the combined mess of your arousal and his own precum. The sight of his dick nestled against your flesh makes his balls throb with a need so acute it borders on painful.
"Fuckin' hell," he rasps, his voice a low, staticky growl through the fabric of the mask. "Look at that. Perfect fuckin' view."
He shifts his hips, pressing his cock more firmly between your cheeks, the sudden pressure forcing a whimpering gasp into the pillow. He records it all, watching the way your flesh yields to his touch and the way your body trembles in desperate anticipation. This is for his personal collection, a private stash of sin reserved for the long, lonely nights spent in dusty deployment tents and freezing barracks. When he is overseas, surrounded by the grim, violent reality of his job, he will pull up these videos to remind himself exactly what he is fighting to come home to.
Finally, the teasing becomes too much to bear. Reaching down with his free hand, he grips the base of his shaft, lining the blunt head up with your dripping entrance. The camera zooms in slightly, capturing the exact moment he presses against your tight hole.
"Simon, please," you whine, pushing backward against him, desperate for the stretch.
He grants your wish, sinking into you in one long, powerful thrust. The groan that tears from his throat is animalistic. You are so fucking tight, so burning hot, gripping him like a vise. The camera shakes for a split second as he loses himself in the sheer sensation, before his training kicks in and he steadies his grip.
The view on the screen is purely pornographic. His thick length disappears into you inch by inch, your slick lips stretched wide around him. Directly above it is the masterpiece, which is his taut, heavily tattooed stomach. The dark ink seems to shift and twist with the roll of his muscles as he begins to move. The skeletal face and the roaring skull dance in the low light as his abs contract with each deep, punishing thrust.
He establishes a relentless rhythm, snapping his hips forward until the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes obscenely in the bedroom. Each thrust drives you forward, a choked moan forced from your lungs with every impact. He fucks you deep, deliberately bottoming out against the exact spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants, his eyes glued entirely to the screen of his phone, watching his own cock piston into you. He cannot get enough of the visual contrast between your soft, giving body pinned beneath his hard, demanding frame, and the way your ass ripples with every heavy slam of his hips. "Takin' my cock so well, sweetheart. Such a good girl."
Leaning forward to change the angle, the new position presses the hard ridge of his lower abs flush against the swell of your backside. The camera catches it perfectly, recording the friction of his skin against yours, the slide of his cock, and the way his muscles flex and shift beneath the ink. It is a work of art, and he is the twisted artist who gets to create it over and over again.
Looking at him out in the field, no one would ever guess it. He is the stoic, silent lieutenant with eyes like chips of ice and a presence cold enough to silence a room. Simon Riley is a man of few words, a fortress of absolute control and iron discipline. But in the dark, behind locked doors, that fortress crumbles entirely, and the man who emerges is a filthy, vocal, desperate animal.
The phone is eventually forgotten, discarded onto the mattress beside you, though the red light continues to blink, recording the raw audio of your shared undoing. Simonās hand is no longer holding the device. Instead, it is wrapped securely around your throat, a firm, possessive weight that makes your head swim. His thumb presses gently under your jawline, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, the deep, gravelly rumble vibrating through his chest and directly into your spine. He bends over you, his sweat-slicked chest pressing hard against your back, the fabric of his shirt bunched up under his arms to expose the full expanse of his inked torso. You feel every single word as a physical vibration. "Gonna fuckin' fill you up."
His hips remain a relentless piston, the steady slap of his skin against yours drowning out every other sound. He isn't quiet, not even close. Every breath is a ragged grunt, and every thrust is punctuated by a low, guttural moan that speaks of a pleasure so intense it borders on agony. It is the sexiest thing you have ever heard, especially that deep, dark voice, usually so fiercely controlled, now spilling a continuous stream of dirty praise and desperate demands.
"Want it all?" he pants, his grip on your neck tightening just a fraction. "Want my cum deep inside you, huh?"
"Yes! Fuck, Simon, yesā¦ " you beg, your voice breaking into a wail. You are right on the edge, the pressure coiling so tightly in your gut that it threatens to snap. The feeling of his thick cock dragging against your inner walls, the possessive hold on your neck, and the raw, filthy words pouring from his mouth are entirely too much.
His rhythm suddenly falters, becoming erratic and frantic. He drives into you with short, sharp, bruising jabs, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. "Fuck, I'm close. Gonna cum. Gonna fuckin' breed this sweet little cunt."
The word, delivered so raw and primal, sends you hurtling over the precipice. Your vision whites out completely as your orgasm crashes through you, your walls clamping down on his length in a series of powerful, violent, rhythmic pulses. You scream his name, a raw, soundless cry as your body convulses underneath his weight.
With a roar, Simon buries himself inside you. You feel the hot flood of his release as he pumps his cum deep into your core, pulse after burning pulse. His entire frame shudders against you, his hand on your neck the only thing keeping you both grounded as he rides out the most intense climax of his life.
He stays buried deep, his cock still twitching inside you, as if completely reluctant to leave the warmth of your body. His hand finally releases your neck, moving to brace his weight on the mattress beside you, but he does not pull out.
You can feel his cum, a warm, heavy slickness, beginning to leak from your heat, trickling slowly down the inside of your thigh. The filthy sensation causes you to instinctively clench around him again.
Simon lets out a low, breathless chuckle, the sound dark and thoroughly satisfied. "My greedy little girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Made a fuckin' mess of you."
He finally shifts, slowly withdrawing his softening length. The sudden loss makes you whimper, but then he is using two fingers to push the thick, white fluid back inside you, his touch shockingly gentle compared to the rough driving from moments before.
"Don't waste it, baby" he commands softly, his tone brooking no argument. "I want you feeling me for days."
You can only moan in response, thoroughly claimed. You look back at him, at the man with the ice-cold eyes who has just given you the most earth-shattering, vocal, and dirty experience of your life. He reads the question in your gaze, the sheer disbelief and awe.
He simply smirks, the slow, wicked curve of his lips visible just beneath the edge of his mask.
"What?" he rasps, his voice still thick and heavy with sex. "You look at me like I'm some kind of fuckin' saint out there. This is what saints pray for."
And as he leans down to kiss you, slow and deep, you realize you are the luckiest sinner alive.
Prompt: You are a doctor on base and become the 141's work wife.
The double doors fluttered shut behind you, nearly thrown off their hinges in your flurry to escape the cacophony of the ER. Your heels clicked a staccato rhythm on the tile, echoing your irritation.
Your morning wake-up call was a code blue for an unlucky private that choked on his own vomit after attempting to drink his entire liquor supply before inspections, and that immediately spiraled into two cadets that nearly blew off their fingers messing with fireworks.
Sometimes it feels like you are a pediatrician and not a military physician. All things considered, you are now in desperate need for a cup of coffee and a little peace and quiet in your office.
"Morning glory," Soap, one of your 'work husbands' as you've taken to calling them, was sat in your chair with his boots up on your desk.
"Johnny, I told you to stop calling me that."
"Why not? It's morning and it's a glory to see you." He winked, standing up and gesturing for you to take a seat. Your aching feet thanked him as you dropped down into the warm leather chair.
"Don't you have things you need to do?"
"Something more important came up." Soap answered, cheeky. His hands found your shoulders when you sat down, calloused thumbs massaging into your nape.
"Mm, that's nice," you hummed, eyes closing.
A quick knock on your door woke you back up. Gaz, another 'work husband', stood there with your favorite mug in hand. "Hope I'm not interrupting," he said, inviting himself inside.
You moaned at the smell of coffee. "You're a life saver, Kyle."
Gaz set the mug down on your desk, flashing one of those smiles that made your nurses giggle whenever he stopped by. "My pleasure, love."
Behind you, Soap scoffed. "What am I? Chopped liver?"
Another pair of boots entered your small office. Price sighed at the sight that greeted him. "There you idiots are. We got debrief in 15." His gaze turned warm when he looked your way, "Morning, beautiful."
"Good morning, Captain." You took a slow sip of your coffee, letting your eyes run over him. "Busy today?"
"Let's just say you're a sight for sore eyes." Price spared you the details, but the lines in his face told you the big picture.
"Where's your shadow?" You asked, looking for the Ghost.
"Over here."
You jumped out of your skin, nearly splashing coffee on your scrubs. The men in the room didn't react at all, turning a leisure gaze over to the corner where Ghost's looming figure stood silently.
"Were you there the entire time?" You questioned, hand over your heart.
"Yes," Ghost and Soap both answered.
Mildly terrifying experience aside, you didn't have time to dwell on it before your work buzzer went off. You cursed, quickly gulping down the rest of the hot coffee.
"Duty calls?" Ghost asked, amused.
You wiped away a bit of the coffee that clung to your lips, gasping. "Unfortunately."
When you stood up, you wobbled a bit on your heels, getting whiplash from the shot of caffeine and their undivided attention.
At once, all four of them reached out to steady you. You waved it away though, fully capable of walking on your own two feet.
"Thanks for the visit, boys." You said, tapping Gaz's cheek affectionately when you passed by. "And the coffee, handsome."
You didn't stay long enough to hear the boys dissolve into chaos. They were always shocked whenever you flirted back.
Blunt!Simon, who has never once been good at keeping his mouth shut. He says this exactly as he sees them. Simon, who has the exact same mindset when he sees you enter the bases gym, clad in leggings and a standard issue sports bra.
'Can see yer nipples cuttin' through yer top, luv' he said gruffly, when you came over to say hi. You stopped dead in your tracks, blood rushing to your face, who even says that?!
You try your best to get on with your workout, opting to do some cardio to warm up...
After a few hours, you head over to the water fountain to hydrate, where Simon had been standing, filling up his bottle. 'Been enjoyin' the outline 'f yer cunt, luvie' he says, looking down at you as you cough on your water in shock.
He bends down to get close to you 'dyin' for a taste... give yer LT a han', aye?'
Blunt!Simon who has you throbbing with his crude words.
CW: Knife kink, blood, bruising, dry humping, mentions of death, mans is secretly in love I fear
AWOL/MIA reader who is in some deep shit with the wrong people, and takes the opportunity during a mission to disappear, planning to fake their death and stay in hiding until everything blows over.
However, Laswell asks the 141 to investigate the rubble where you were last seen a week ago before a building collapse; she suspects you're still alive, no body or tags were found. You don't want that. You need some help, and you know just who to ask for it.
Enter Simon "Ghost" Riley, the man who died, the haunting of a soul that once was, now a masked weapon of destruction. He's sleeping on his left side fully dressed with his boots still on. You carefully shimmy the knife through the crack and unlock the window, slowly and quietly sliding it open. The empty desk below his window creaks as you step one foot down, shifting your weight into the room.
From dead sleep, he hears the groan of the wood and bolts up. You're faster though, pouncing from the desk onto the bed, tackling him and holding your knife tight against his throat. The blade digs into his mask, tearing a horizontal hole into it, and starts digging into his skin, a drop of blood curving down his adam's apple and soaking into the fabric of the balaclava.
He freezes, half sitting up, with you straddling his lap and one hand pushing him back down. You lean to his ear, keeping your voice down, "ah-ah, youre not going to say or do anything until I speak, understood?"
His throat bobs as he swallows at the recognition of your voice, and subtly nods once. You can feel his muscles loosen their tension just the slightest bit. He's still on edge, unsure about the situation, but a part of him feels the pieces falling into place in the back of his mind.
"I need your help, Ghost."
You shift slightly so you're more directly looking in his eyes, but your hips grind ever so gently on his, and though he doesn't outwardly react, the knife against his throat is long forgotten as the blood rushes down his body. His mind flashes to a similar position but very different scenario. He almost misses what you say next.
"I need to die. And you're going to kill me."
He's staring up into your eyes, and for a second neither of you move or speak, the tension so thick not even your knife could cut it.
You're still as a stone but you feel his buldge under your core start to harden and press into you. if you're quite honest with yourself, you were wet the second you landed on top of him, looking down into his brown eyes with his blood dripping onto your knife.
"wha' do you need me to do, luv?"
"I need to disappear like you did. I can't exist anymore. Take me off the map, off the radar. I need the world to think I died in that collapse. Keep me hidden until it's safe." You release a bit of pressure from the knife, and his hands come up to grip you, one hand on your hips, the other on your waist. He lets out a deep breath he must have been holding and his hips twitch gently.
Something about seeing him start to unravel beneath you like this sends a wave of heat rippling down through you, and you decide to roll your hips against his, and the groan he lets out is almost painful, but so delicious to your ears. His hands grip you tighter, holding on to you like he'll bedragged down to hell if he lets go. He keeps his eyes on you to save his soul.
And you could get lost in those eyes- you did for a second, not realizing your faces drifted together, your foreheads resting together and the side of your nose touching his. Your lips are just a breath away from each other and it takes everything in you to pull back just enough when he tilts his head up to kiss you,
"Can you kill me, Ghost? Can you be the death of me?"
"I'll be anything you want."
Another roll of your hips has that savory pressure building inside you, and underneath you, the man you came to for help goes rigid. He's afraid if he moves, you might fall away from him, he might never get to feel the heat of you on his lap again, he might lose this. You. He thought he already did.
You feel the slightest pull in his hands, pressing you down onto him harder, and you take that sign to keeo going, picking up the pace and intensity. You're just as eager to see Ghost come undone under you as you are to fall apart on top of him.
The two breaths in the room become louder and deeper, the heat of the moment ramping up to burning and scorching. You unintentionally press the knife into his skin further, another drop of blood falling down his neck. The breathy moan he lets out vibrates through the knife and pulls you right up to the edge, just a few second from tipping over into your climax.
Your eyes close and your hips begin to grind sporadically and your muscles tense and clench around nothing, and guides your movements enough to bring you to your release.
As you twitch and lose control on his lap in ecstasy, your hand shifts slightly and the blade against his throat digs deeper and slices a tiniest bit, and Ghost believes he might have felt the heavens open up. His climax comes so abrubtly and so intensely he stopped breathing, the skin squeezed in his grasp surely dotted with bruises now.
With the two of you coming down from your high together, the room comes back into focus and the wind through the window sends a shiver down your spine. Your head rests right against his, and this time he doesn't go for the kiss, no matter how much he might want to. The breaths on his face and the damp clothes between you soaked with each others release is all he needs. For now.
I read @lilskippity ās conspiracy theorist fic earlier this year and honestly I canāt get it out of my head, but I wanted to do my own spin on it and really stretch it out. So here it finally is, in all its unpolished glory. Itās a mess imo. But I hope you enjoy. (thank you skippy for the inspiration)
I sort of combined plot points from the remakes of MWII and MWIII and reworked it to have my own characters and political conflicts and everything, so itās not super original but itās not exactly a retelling of those games either. And not related to real life events either.
Iām not sure if Iām going to put a romance plot in it (probably will, knowing me), but let me know if you want me to, and who specifically I should slut out. And Iām writing this as I go, I donāt have anything planned out, so if you have suggestions, please leave a comment or send them to me!
MDNI - Only CW for part 1 is general talk of terrorism and political conflicts, nothing detailed
āAnything to drink for you boys?ā The middle-aged waitress asks the four large men squeezed into the booth.
āJust a round of black coffee, thanks.ā John Price scratches his beard as he barely looks her way. She takes the hint that they are not here for conversation and leaves to grab some mugs and brew a fresh pot for them.
Sierra Vista, Arizona. About twenty miles from the southern border of the United States. A diner sits just on the edge of the small town, along Highway 90. Inside, Task Force 141 makes themselves comfortable as they prepare for the long day ahead of them. Itās half past six in the morning, the sun above the horizon shining directly into the dinerās front windows, heating up the stuffy, dry air. There are about five other people in the diner; an older man reading the newspaper in a corner booth, the waitress and the chef, a seemingly homeless man slouched over in the bar seating, and a young woman sitting next to him.
This young woman stares intently at the boxy television set on the counter a few feet to her left. A news channel is playing, detailing a recent terrorist attack in an airport in Mexico. The same attack the 141 was unable to stop just yesterday.
āYou know, with all the smuggling rings popping up in Central America, this has the cartel written all over it,ā the young woman perks up a little bit, slightly turning to the man on her left, who has his head laying on his arm, not paying one bit of attention to her. She seems to only be half speaking to him, mostly just talking out loud to anyone who will listen. The waitress making the coffee glances at her and hums as to not ignore her. She seems to be a regular here.
The girl continues as the news anchor discusses border patrol, āAnd itās not just drugs that theyāre bringing up through here, its weapons too. Like the guns and bombs those terrorists were using. I heard thereās this Russian guy, Ivanov, who has been doing deals with the cartel to smuggle things overseas into the Americas. The CIA has been hot on his trail lately, I think theyāre sniffing him out. I mean, this has gotta be him, right?ā
Sheās speaking louder now, more passionate. John makes eye contact with Ghost across the table from him. She might be talking to nobody in particular, but she certainly has their attention. The nonsense sheās blabbing about is not nonsense at all, but the exact thing they have been investigating and attempting to intervene for the last few weeks. They received intel that Sergei Ivanov has been making arms deals with the cartel, smuggling weapons north through the Americas in anticipation of a terrorist attack rumored to target a large airport in the United States in the coming months. The very reason the 141 is here in this little town is to sabotage a smuggling route they believe the cartel will be moving those weapons through.
The waitress drops off their coffee at the table and walks away when they decline to order food.
āI bet you this was the practice round! That airport is just about the same size as some of ours in the bigger cities, theyāre gonna do the same thing here, oh I just know it, and with Ivanov in hiding over in Indonesia and the government all busy with those rumors of war over in the middle east, itās gonna slip right past them.ā
That got Johnās attention. Indonesia? They didnāt know anything about that. The whole team now sits quietly, just looking at each other, hoping to hear her ramble on more. What else does she know? Is this even true?
āA damn shame, really, I mean I couldāve seen this coming from a mile away, people are getting shot in airports and the CIA is doing what, exactly? Dancing around with those UN fuckers over the Venezuelan uprising? I mean, god, its so obvious that one governor guy was in cahoots with the president in shady business dealings and was practically caught red-handed after that scandal they tried to cover up, itās almost like the CIA or the military or whatever, theyāre in on it or something. They keep saying it was a protester that killed that guy but that video they got shows there wasnāt anyone else near him except his security personnel, it was clearly someone on the inside. Jesus Christ, itās, like, all just for show, man! A big joke!ā She raised her voice a bit, but still nobody paid her any attention except these four strange men from out of town.
John sucks in a deep breath. The video in question is not available to the public. Never got leaked, only a few dozen people on the planet have seen it. The governor's scandal barely even made local news, so with the chokehold the CIA has on media in Venezuela, nobody should have heard of it.
So, how the hell does this girl, in a shabby little diner in the middle of nowhere, know all of this?
John slowly put his coffee down, turning his head to this girl. She canāt be older than 25 or so. Sheās dressed in normal clothes, eating a breakfast sandwich she practically dissected into a messy pile on her plate.
The news moves on to that Senatorās court case everyone is talking about, and the young woman tunes in closely, leaning further over the counter to hear the quiet audio better.
He stands up, motioning with one finger for his lieutenant to follow him. He wades over to this girl, who is faced away from him, quiet now. His arm lands on the edge of the counter and he leans to box in her left side as Ghost stands tall directly behind her. He clears his throat and the girl spins around in her stool, looking wildly between the two men towering over her.
She says nothing, but John can tell she takes note of their clothing and large stature. Her eyes narrow.
āHello, love, how about we have a little chat outside, yeah?ā He keeps his voice down a little, though the only person close enough to hear him is the unconscious, tattered man snoring a few feet away.
She gives pause for a few seconds, and then squeaks out, āNo thanks,ā and turns back to her food, as if she was busy eating it instead of just picking at little bites. He stands there for a few seconds, thinking.
John did not think it was a good idea to make scene, and heās sure that this young girl is quite suspicious of them. The way she was talking, he thinks sheās got some fire in her, might put up a good fight, or stir some trouble with them at the very least.
So, he returns to the booth with his lieutenant and finishes the coffee. He hopes she leaves on her own soon, and he can have that talk with her more privately. Heās not sure whether to speak to Laswell about this. They need to head out soon, and if he canāt get this girl sorted before then, he might have to call this in. Confidential intelligence information being spouted by a civilian in public might lead to all kinds of trouble for everyone.
A man, about forty years old, enters the diner and sits down as the waitress approaches him. The little conspiracy theorist sees him, and throws cash on the counter in haste, and grabs her bag, dashing out of the store. John takes that as his cue. The other three men follow his lead, grabbing their gear and bags, heading outside.
The sun shines down on the asphalt of the parking lot, not a single cloud in the pale blue sky. The girl is heading towards a bike dumped on the ground in the corner of the lot. Itās missing the seat and is rusted in multiple places, but the tires look brand new. The four men catch up to her quickly, grabbing her and pulling her to the side of the building, out of view.
She yelps, but oddly does not scream. She twists out of Johnās grasp and starts to make a run for it, but sees that her way back out to the lot is blocked by two other men accompanying the ones that approached her before. She has this look in her eyes, not fully afraid, but very hesitant and suspicious, as she looks back and forth between all of them.
How to take it apart and put it back together. How to turn it inside out and then right side out again. Pulling your trigger with a calloused finger.
He touches you with care, but not like heās afraid youāll break. No, thatās not how you touch a gun.
You touch a gun like itās something with the power to take. Something with the power to destroy. To kill.
God knows you could kill him, wake up and realize you deserve more than he could offer. You could blow up in his face and leave him bleeding out on the floor.
He worships you with the same precision he uses to clean his gun, careful strokes with delicate touches. Just like a weapon, sometimes you need different things from him. A gentle hold and little aiming. Rough hands and a steady prop against his shoulder. Sometimes his entire body is behind every movement, thighs wide for support even when his back starts to ache with effort
Simon fucks you like a bullet.
He tears himself apart, or at least he would if you asked him too. Slowly losing his sharp edges with every ricochet as he bounces around you.
He fucks into your cunt as if you pulled a trigger, letting himself go in whatever direction you ask. Hard, slow, fast, teasing, nights when you make him do that thing with his hips.
You go at it like animals most nights, pulling that raw want out of the holster and flicking off any safetyās that get in your way.
Thereās no bullet proof vest or gun case that can hide him from the most dangerous weapon of all.
captain john price who thinks youāre cheating on his with his lieutenant, simon riley, so he thoroughly bangs you in his office, making sure to leave visible marks along your jawline and neck which heās usually so careful about.
he shoves your panties in your mouth, placing his firm hand on top to seal the sticky fabric against your tongue.
and when simon comes in for their pre-planned meeting, heās greeted with the sight of your head hanging off of the desk and knees draped over his captainās shoulders.
price commands him to stay, talking through infiltration strategies, potential threats, new shipment of weapons and new personnel changes as all planned. would have been a perfectly normal meeting had price not been rutting up into your soaked cunt the whole time.
and simon is blissfully unaware of priceās accusation, but more preoccupied with making sure his eyes donāt drift any lower than the captainās stare.
so he sits stiffly, eyes shutting briefly as he hears you mewl when a sharp crack comes down against your clit.
and when priceās soften dick slips out of your abused and dripping puss, he finally peels the panties that are equally as wet with your saliva from your mouth.
thatās when you and simon finally get to explain that all the secret communication between you and his best man was to only plan him a surprise party for his birthday next week.
theartofmadeline
gamechangershow
ellievsbear
vaporwave
