◞ ྀི◟ ͜ cw:psychological problems, depression, platonic love, soft (suicide is mentioned, if you feel like that, it's better to seek professional help right away), drunk man
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Your room is a mess. It isn't big to begin with, but with all the clutter, it’s hard to even walk through it.
Your father certainly notices these changes in your behavior, but he chooses to stay silent until you decide to open up yourself.
One evening, John comes over. From the kitchen, you heard him and your father planning a "guys' night in"which almost certainly meant alcohol and watching car races.
Through the closed door, you can hear them unpacking their purchases and getting snacks ready. Later, they move into the next room.
It’s 1:15 AM. You can’t hear the men talking, only the low sound of the TV.
At 1:38 AM, there’s a knock on your door. You stay silent.
"Can I come in?" It’s Price’s voice, and he sounds heavily intoxicated. It doesn't exactly put you at ease.
You remain silent, but you grab a pair of scissors from under the bed and lie there, tense.
He opens the door and walks slowly toward the bed with a staggering gait. On the way, he nearly trips over the clutter on the floor.
You quickly hide the hand holding the scissors under the bed and stare at him silently. Almost collapsing onto you with his massive weight, he sits down beside you.
For a second, he stares at the wall with a vacant look. Then, as if flipping a switch, he begins to speak.
"Your father told me about all this..." He gestures around the room, trying to locate your face in the semi-darkness. "I just wanted to tell you something. After my service, I went through something similar "I stopped moving, eating, and sleeping." "Later, I..." he takes a deep breath "I wanted to kill myself..." he reaches out to touch your hand.
"but I got help... Your father..." squeezing your hand, John laughs nervously "...he practically dragged me out of bed with his fists, forced me to seek help. And thanks to... thanks to him, I’m still here."
You remain silent and don't squeeze his hand back, yet it feels strangely comforting to sense his warmth.
"I... I just want to say..." he breathes heavily "...we’re worried about you. We all love you."
John leans up and hugs you. He smells of alcohol and sweat; he radiates both cold and heat. You want to hide deep within him.
You hug him back as you lie there.
Pulling away awkwardly, John stands by the bed. He gives a crooked smile; a sliver of light from the kitchen traces the contours of his face.
Tears rise in your throat.
"I guess I’ll go; I need to get your old man to bed."
Still stumbling over the trash, he leaves the room, gently closing the door behind him.
You weep quietly—receiving support at a time like this. For the first time since these episodes began.
For the past few days, Simon's daughter has been struggling to fall asleep. Tonight wasn't an exception.
It was already past midnight when Simon hears a small knock on the bedroom door. He opens it to find his daughter standing there, all teary-eyed with her teddy bear clutched to her chest. Her lips wobbling when her eyes look up to meet his.
"Come on in, angel." She didn't say another word, didn't need to. She simply padded forward and buried her face into his leg.
Simon crouched down to her level, gently resting a hand on her back. "What's wrong?" A shaky breath, a sound that makes his heart squeeze.
"I had a bad dream.." His chest tightened, just as he expected. "Yeah?" She nodded, rubbing away the tears at the corner of her eyes with the sleeves of her unicorn pajamas.
"There was a monster in my closet.." Simon doesn't laugh, he doesn't even dare to crack a smile. He doesn't tell her monsters aren't real either. (They are, he's seen many of them throughout his life. A lot of them just well concealed under composure and perfect fake smiles.)
He only held out his hand, the option of taking it hanging in the air. The decision was hers to make. "Show me?" She slipped her tiny hand into his with no hesitation.
Together, they walked down the dark hallway, with Simon matching her steps. Once they were inside her room, he flicked on the bunny lamp, a warm light spreading across the room. He doesn't say anything, he was a man on a mission now.
He checks the closet first, of course, sending her a thumbs up when there was nothing. Then under the bed, behind the curtains, even behind her bookshelf. Finally, he knelt in front of her.
"All clear."
"Promise..?"
Simon meets her eyes. "I don't make promises I can't keep, sweetheart." She studies his face for a moment, still a bit cautious before giving a small nod. "Okay.."
He watches her hop back into bed, making sure to tuck her back into bed just the way she liked it with the fabric of the blanket tickling the tip of her nose. "Will it come back?"
His hands brush her hair, lingering there for a minute. "No." he replies matter-of-factly. "How do you know?" This time, he couldn't help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Cause if anything or anyone tries to get in.." A pause. "It'd have to get through me first." Her fingers curled around his hand, her way of showing her trust.
"Can you stay until I fall asleep?" Simon had planned to slip back to bed, instead he doesn't even hesitate to settle on to the floor beside her. "...Yeah."
Eventually, her breathing evened out after a few minutes. Simon lingered beside her, not in a rush to get back to bed this time.
Not because he believed there were actual monsters in her closet. But because he knew how real nightmares could feel.
✧ sex pollen, poly dynamics, explicit smut, oral (m/f & f/m), raw sex, overstimulation, heavy emotional angst, hurt comfort, disregard for military protocol & field medicine, dubious consent (drug-induced). 18+
a sweet, violet poison leaves you drowning in a feverish high, and in the hands of task force 141. kyle and johnny give everything to keep you alive, devouring every inch of you through the haze. but the real torture isn't really the drug. it's the towering, masked lieutenant sitting in the shadows, steadfastly refusing to lay a single finger on you, and leaving you completely ruined for him.
a tiny reminder: we are operating on fever-dream trope logic here, my sweet friends. reality and real-world medical accuracy were left behind in the desert sand to make room for 141 devotion, angst, and simon riley losing his mind. sip some water, drop the realism at the door, and i hope you will enjoy this one, i wrote it with such love. 🧪✨🩷 xx
The mission was a textbook extraction until it wasn't.
The operation had proceeded with the smooth, practiced efficiency that defined Task Force 141. The target, a defecting scientist with knowledge of biochemical weapons, had been secured without firing a single shot. The intel, a collection of hard drives and vials, was safely stowed in Gaz's pack.
The exfil chopper was a welcome sight on the horizon, its rotors beating a steady rhythm against the oppressive heat of the Kastovian desert.
You were moving through the crumbling ruins of the bombed-out laboratory, the air thick with the scent of dust and decay, when a canister on the floor, half-buried in rubble, hissed. It was a sound like a serpent's warning, and then it released a plume of shimmering, purple mist. It was too late to hold your breath. You felt the fine particles, cool and strangely dry, coat your exposed skin, invade your lungs, a scent like overripe fruit and something metallic. Sharp and unsettling. It clung to the back of your throat, a sweet taste that made your stomach churn.
"Contact!" Ghost had snapped, his voice urgent in your earpiece, so different than his usual low rumble. "MacTavish, get her out!"
But it was too late.
The world tilted on its axis, the dusty walls of the lab wavering like a heat mirage. The concrete under your boots felt too hot, radiating an unnatural warmth through the soles, and the air grew thick with the lingering purple haze.
And then, a fire, low and insistent, ignited in the pit of your stomach. It wasn't pain. It was... need. A raw, clawing, all-consuming hunger that obliterated every other thought in your head, every scrap of training, every shred of self-preservation. Your mission parameters, the scientist, the exfil chopper — it all faded into meaningless background noise. The only thing that mattered was the burning, aching emptiness that demanded to be filled, a thirst that cried out for a quenching you couldn't name but instinctively knew you needed, and needed now.
By the time you stumbled out of the ruins and into the LZ, your hands were already shaking. Soap caught you, his strong arms steadying you as you swayed.
"Easy, bonnie," he said, his brow furrowed with concern. "What was in that shite?"
You couldn't answer. You could only look at him, at the pulse point in his neck, at the curve of his lower lip. An overwhelming urge to bite him, to lick him, to feel his skin against yours, flooded your senses. A whimper escaped your lips.
"LT, it's not a nerve agent," Soap said with a dawning realization. "Her pupils are fuckin' huge, but she's not convulsing. She's..."
"Horny," Gaz finished for him, jogging up behind you, his eyes wide with a mix of alarm and something else. He'd seen this before, a briefing on a rogue chemical weapon designed to destabilize a target by turning their own body against them. "It's an aphrodisiac. A potent one."
You heard them talking, but the words were just noise. The fire inside you was raging now, an inferno that demanded fuel. You turned in Soap's arms, pressing your body against his, your hands fisting in his tac vest.
"Please," you gasped, the single word ripped from your throat. It wasn't clear what you were pleading for. Touch. Release. Anything to stop the unbearable, aching emptiness.
Soap's hands hovered over your back, hesitant, caught between his duty as a soldier and his instinct as a man. He looked over your head at Ghost, who stood a few feet away, his posture unnaturally stiff.
"LT?" Soap's voice was a plea for guidance.
Ghost said nothing. He was a statue carved from shadow, his skull-printed mask an impenetrable wall. But behind the mask, his eyes were fixed on you.
He watched as you rubbed yourself against Soap like a cat in heat, a soft, desperate sound escaping your lips.
He watched as Gaz moved closer, his hand coming to rest on your hip, a grounding touch. Every point of contact, Soap's chest against yours, Gaz's fingers on your skin, sent little shocks of pleasure through you, but it was like trying to put out a forest fire with a glass of water. It wasn't enough. You needed more.
Gaz, ever the pragmatist, was the first to break. "We can't leave her like this," he said. "It's torture. The mission's over. We get her back to the chopper, but we have to... manage this."
"Manage this?" Soap echoed, a hint of his usual humour laced with disbelief. "How the fuck do we 'manage' a biochemical horniness bomb, Gaz?"
The journey back to the base was a fever dream. The world outside the chopper's window was a blur of sand and sky, but inside, you were trapped in an overheated prison of your own body.
They had you sandwiched between them on the bench seat, Soap's solid form on one side, Gaz's on the other. Their presence was both a comfort and a torment. You could feel the heat radiating from them, smell the familiar scents of sweat and leather, and it was driving you insane.
"Please," you mumbled again, your head lolling back onto Soap's shoulder. "It hurts. I need... something."
Soap shifted, his thigh pressing against yours. "What do you need, hen? Tell us what to do."
You couldn't. You didn't have the words. Instead, you turned your face into his neck, your lips brushing against the salty skin there. You inhaled deeply, his scent a potent drug.
"You smell so good," you slurred, your tongue darting out for a taste. You heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the muscle in his neck tense under your lips.
"Fuck," he muttered, his hand coming up to tentatively touch your hair. "I don't think I can be a gentleman right now."
Ghost, who had been silent since you left the ground, was suddenly there, crouched in front of you. His masked face was level with yours, his dark stare intense. He reached out and tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.
"Listen to me," he commanded, his voice a gravelly growl that should have been annoying but instead sent a wave of heat pooling in your core. "You need to drink. Can you do that for me, Sergeant?"
You nodded, or tried to. Gaz was already holding a canteen to your lips. You took a sip, the cool water a shock to your system. But the fire inside just hissed and raged on. You pushed the canteen away.
"Not what I need," you whined, your eyes drifting back to Ghost. He was so close. You could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, see the strain in the lines around them.
You wanted to touch him. You wanted to rip the mask off and see his face, feel his mouth on yours.
"Simon," you breathed, using his first name, a breach of protocol you'd never dare make if you weren't burning up from the inside out. "Touch me. Please."
You saw him flinch, a full-body recoil as if he'd been struck. His hand dropped from your chin as if burned, and he retreated back to his seat, putting a deliberate, painful distance between you.
The rejection stung, a sharp, confusing pang amidst the physical haze. Why wouldn't he touch you? The other two would. You could see it in the way Soap's breathing had gone ragged, in the way Gaz's hand kept stroking your thigh, his thumb tracing circles higher and higher.
"He's just... tryin' to be professional," Gaz murmured in your ear, trying to soothe you. But his words didn't make sense. Nothing made sense except the need.
You turned your attention back to Soap, who looked like he was at war with himself. You solved his dilemma for him by throwing a leg over his lap, straddling him. The surprised "oof" he let out was almost comical.
"Christ, Johnny," you purred, grinding down against the hard length you could feel against his zipper. It was a blessed, glorious pressure. "You're so hard for me."
His hands flew to your hips, stilling your movements. "Fuck, you can't — we're in a bloody chopper," he hissed, but his eyes were glazed, his pupils blown wide.
"Don't care," you moaned, rocking against him again. The friction was bliss, a tiny wave of relief in an ocean of need. "Mmm, feels so good."
This was how you arrived back at base. Disheveled, panting, and clinging to Soap, while Ghost sat in stony silence across from you, his gaze an unreadable weight. You were a mess of conflicting signals, a sobbing, whimpering, needy mess, and the professional soldiers tasked with your care were completely out of their depth.
In the medical bay, the situation didn't improve. With Price and Laswell unreachable, the on-site medic was at a loss. The chemical was experimental, with no known antidote. The only advice was to "keep the subject hydrated and comfortable until the compound metabolizes."
"Comfortable," Soap scoffed, running a hand through his mohawk as he looked at you writhing on the examination table. "She's fuckin' climbin' the walls."
Gaz stood by the door, his arms crossed, his expression grim. "We can't just... do nothing."
"We're not doin' nothin'," Soap argued, his eyes on you. "We're... supervisin'."
You were past listening. You'd torn off your own tac vest and shirt, the cool air of the med-bay a brief relief on your feverish skin. Your bra felt too tight, too restrictive. You fumbled with the clasp.
"That's it," Ghost's voice cut through the air, sharp and final. He moved with purpose, scooping you up from the table, a blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. He carried you out of the med-bay, his gait long and determined, Soap and Gaz following in his wake like chastised puppies.
He didn't take you to the barracks. He took you to his quarters. It was the first time you'd ever been inside. It was spartan, clean, and smelled like him. The door clicked shut behind the three of them.
"Right," Ghost said, his voice strained. He set you down on his bed, his hands lingering on your arms for a second before he let go, as if touching you was painful. He turned to face the others, his back to you. "This is what's happening. We are going to stay here. We are going to help her through this. And whatever the fuck happens in this room tonight, it stays in this room. Are we clear?"
There was a heavy pause. You watched, your head swimming, as Soap and Gaz exchanged a look. It was a look that held a world of unspoken things: loyalty, desire, and a deep, unwavering trust in their Lieutenant.
"Aye, LT," Soap said quietly.
"Crystal," Gaz added.
Ghost nodded, a sharp, jerky movement. He turned back to you, and you saw the torment in his eyes. It was the raw agony that cut through the chemical haze in your brain.
"Listen to me," he said, kneeling in front of you, his hands on his knees, not on you. "You're not well. This is the drug talking. We're going to help you, but you have to try to stay with us. Can you do that?"
You nodded, but it was a lie. You couldn't stay with him. The fire was roaring now, a beast demanding to be fed. You reached for him, your hand tangling in the strap of his vest.
"Simon," you whined, tugging him closer. "Don't be nice. Just... please."
His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping. He looked over his shoulder at the others.
"Hold her."
Soap and Gaz moved in, one on each side of you, their hands on your shoulders, holding you still against the headboard. It was a restraint, but to you it felt like an embrace. You struggled for a second, then went still, panting.
Ghost's hands, those hands you'd been obsessing over, finally moved to your body. He pushed the blanket aside, his eyes on your face. He hesitated, then his gloved hands moved to your chest. His touch was clinical at first, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin above your bra.
"Gloves off," you gasped.
He looked at you, a storm of conflict in his eyes. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pulled the gloves off, finger by finger, and tossed them aside. When his bare hands touched you again, the difference was electric. His skin was rough, warm, real.
A choked sound escaped your lips.
"’s just to... take the edge off," he said, as if trying to convince himself.
His thumbs circled your nipples through the thin lace of your bra, and you arched off the bed, a cry torn from your throat.
"Fuck, that's it," Soap murmured in your ear, his breath hot. "Is that good, bonnie?"
"Yes, yes, fuck," you babbled, your head thrashing against Gaz's shoulder. "More. Harder. Please, Simon, touch me properly."
Your words seemed to wound him. He flinched again, but his hands obeyed your command. He pushed the cups of your bra down, freeing your breasts. His gaze finally dropped, and you heard his sharp, hissed intake of breath. He looked at you like you were a masterpiece and a grenade all at once. His hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples.
You were lost. The filter between your brain and your mouth was completely gone.
"Your hands are so big," you moaned. "I bet they'd feel so good inside me. Filling me up."
Gaz's hand was stroking your arm, his other arm still holding you steady. "She's just speakin' her mind, Soap. Can't blame a lass for bein' honest."
You turned your head to Gaz, your lips finding the skin of his neck. You bit him, gently, then licked the spot.
"You wanna touch me too, Gaz?" you whispered. "I bet your fingers are just as good. I want all of you. All your hands."
This time, the silence that followed was heavy with decision. Gaz looked at Ghost, a silent question in his eyes. You couldn't see Ghost's face, but you felt the shift in the room.
"Just... help her," Ghost rasped. He didn't move, his hands stilling on your breasts as if frozen.
That was all the permission Gaz needed. He turned your face to his and kissed you. It was deep, demanding, a kiss of lust. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met him with equal fervor, your hands coming up to clutch at his shirt.
Soap wasn't far behind. You felt him shift on the bed, and then his lips were on your neck, his teeth scraping your skin, his hand coming up to cover one of your breasts, taking over where Simon had left off.
And Simon... Simon just watched. You could feel his eyes on you, a hot, heavy weight. You broke the kiss with Gaz, turning your head to look at him.
"Simon," you gasped, Soap's fingers rolling your nipple. "Don't just watch. Come here. Kiss me. Please."
He looked like a man facing a firing squad. He shook his head, a barely perceptible movement.
"I can't."
"Why not?" you whined, the rejection cutting through the pleasure. "Don't you want me?"
His answer was a choked sound. He surged forward, but not to kiss you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged against your skin. His arms wrapped around you with a bone-crushing force, as if he was trying to anchor himself or shield you from the world.
He said nothing, but the way he held you, the way his body trembled against yours, spoke volumes.
You realized, in a fleeting moment of clarity amidst the chemical haze, that this was perhaps his hell. To see you like this, to have you begging for him, and to believe it wasn't real. Maybe he couldn't distinguish between the drug and your true feelings, and the risk of being wrong was more than he could bear. Or maybe…
You held him back, your arms circling his neck, even as Gaz's lips found your jaw and Soap's hand slid down your stomach, inching towards the waistband of your pants. You clung to the trembling reality of Simon, and let the others chase the chemical phantoms from your body.
It was a strange, heartbreaking, and intensely erotic tableau. Ghost holding you for dear life, while the other men you trusted, your brothers-in-arms, did what was necessary to save you from yourself.
"I can't," Ghost's voice was a raw, agonized whisper against your neck. He repeated it, more to himself than to anyone else. "I can't... fuck, I'm sorry. I jus’... I can't."
He pushed himself away from you, the sudden absence of his body heat a cold shock. You reached for him, a cry of protest on your lips, but he was already on his feet, putting the bed between you. He looked wild, unhinged, his chest heaving, his now gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"LT—" Soap started, his own voice strained, his hand frozen on the waistband of your pants.
"Take care of her," Ghost cut him off, his voice a harsh command. He looked at you one last time, his eyes a maelstrom of pain and desire and something so pure it made your heart ache. "I'll be... outside. Just... make it stop."
And then he was gone, the door of his quarters clicking shut behind him, leaving you with Soap and Gaz and a deafening silence that echoed the emptiness he'd left behind.
The fire in you still raged, but now it was laced with a new, sharp pain.
You whimpered, a small, lost sound.
"Hey, it's alright," Gaz soothed, his hand moving to cup your cheek, turning your face away from the door. His touch was gentle. "He just needs a minute. He's not... it's not you, okay? This is just... a lot."
You nodded, blinking back the tears that had suddenly sprung to your eyes. The drug didn't like sadness; it wanted pleasure, it demanded it. The conflict was nauseating.
Soap leaned in, his forehead resting against your temple. "We've got you, bonnie," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of sympathy and lust. "We're gonna get you through this. Just... trust us."
You did trust them. With your life. Now, you had to trust them with your body, in the most vulnerable way imaginable.
Gaz's thumb stroked your cheekbone. "What do you need, sweet girl? Tell us what to do."
You took a shuddering breath, trying to claw your way through the haze to a coherent thought. The need was still there, a pulsating, insistent beat between your legs.
"Make it stop hurting," you whispered, the words brittle.
Soap's hand, which had been hovering, finally slid beneath the waistband of your pants. His touch was direct, confident. He didn't waste time, his fingers finding the slick, swollen folds of your sex with an unerring accuracy.
"Fuck, she's soaked," he breathed, the wonder in his voice unmistakable. He ran a finger through your wetness, circling your clit with a touch that had your back arching off the bed.
Gaz's lips found yours again, but this kiss was different. It was softer, more comforting, a way to distract you from the raw intensity of what Soap was doing. He kissed you slowly, his tongue coaxing yours, a silent conversation of reassurance.
"You're so beautiful," Gaz murmured against your lips. "So fucking strong, taking this so well."
Soap's fingers slid lower, one thick digit pressing at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, and the feeling of being filled, even slightly, was a profound relief. A moan tore from your throat, muffled by Gaz's mouth.
"That's it," Soap encouraged, his voice husky. "Yer so tight, so hot for it." He began to move his finger, a slow, deep thrust that had you seeing stars. He added a second, the stretch a burning pleasure that pushed you higher. "God, I can’t wait to feel ye cum on my hand."
His words were gasoline on the fire. The combination of his skilled fingers pumping inside you, Gaz's possessive kiss, and the memory of Simon's pained eyes created a vortex of sensation that was overwhelming. You were lost to it, your body moving of its own accord, riding Soap's hand.
Gaz broke the kiss, his mouth moving to your ear. "Let go for us," he whispered, his voice a dark, seductive command. "Be a good girl and cum for Johnny, yeah?"
The permission, the endearment, the sheer filthy intimacy of it all... Your orgasm hit you with the force of a freight train, a silent, violent explosion that started in your core and radiated outwards. Your inner walls clamped down on Soap's fingers, your body shaking uncontrollably between them. You were distantly aware of Soap groaning your name, of Gaz holding you tightly, whispering praise that you couldn't comprehend.
As the waves of pleasure slowly receded, they left behind a profound exhaustion.
The chemical fire wasn't gone, but for the first time in hours, it was banked, reduced to a low, simmering ember instead of an inferno. Your body felt sated, your mind fuzzy and calm.
Soap carefully withdrew his fingers, and the loss made you whimper.
"Shh, I know," he soothed, cleaning his hand with a towel from the bedside table. "Ye did so good, hen. So, so good."
They laid you down, arranging the pillows around you. Gaz pulled a blanket over your trembling form. The room was quiet, save for your ragged breathing and the soft hum of the base's ventilation system.
"It'll come back," you murmured, the dread already creeping in at the edges of your bliss.
"Yeah," Soap sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at Gaz, a silent conversation passing between them. "We'll be here. We'll keep doing... this. Until it's over."
Gaz nodded, his expression serious. "We've got you. Just rest now."
You closed your eyes, the darkness welcoming. Relief, shame, lingering pleasure, and a deep, aching hurt for the man who was probably standing guard outside the door. As sleep finally claimed you, your last conscious thought was a prayer that when this was all over, you'd find a way to explain to Simon what this really was.
The reprieve was brief. You woke to the insistent, gnawing ache returning, a low-grade fever under your skin that quickly built back into a raging blaze. The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the desk. Gaz was dozing in the armchair, his head tilted back, while Soap sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with a weary but focused expression.
"Hey," he said softly as your eyes opened. "How you feelin'?"
"Like I'm on fire," you rasped, your voice hoarse. You shifted under the blanket, the friction against your sensitive skin enough to make you gasp. "Again. Please, Johnny."
His jaw tightened, a flicker of something stray crossing his face. He nodded, his hand reaching for the blanket. "Okay. We'll... try somethin' different this time."
He pulled the blanket aside, and you saw you were still in your open bra and pants, the fabric of the latter darkened with a large, damp patch. Soap's gaze lingered there for a second before he hooked his fingers into the waistband.
"Can I take these off?"
You nodded frantically, lifting your hips to help him.
Gaz stirred in the chair, stretching as he woke. He was at your side in an instant, his presence a solid comfort. "Alright, beautiful?" he asked, brushing the hair back from your face.
"Need you," you breathed, looking up at him, then at Soap, who was now sliding your pants down your legs. "Both of you."
They exchanged another look over your head, a silent agreement forged in the crucible of the last few hours. This time, they moved with a shared, unspoken purpose.
Soap discarded your pants, leaving you bare from the waist down. He didn't touch you immediately. Instead, he stood, and with a few quick movements, undid his own belt and pants, pushing them down just enough to free his cock. It was thick and hard, straining upwards...
"Can't fuck ye," he said, his voice thick with regret. "Wouldn't be right. But... you can use me. Use us to get what you need, yeah?"
The offer was so raw, so generous, it almost broke you. Before you could answer, Gaz was moving, positioning himself on the bed behind you. He sat back against the headboard, his legs spread, and gently pulled you back to rest your back against his chest. His arms came around you, one hand splayed across your stomach, the other cupping your breast. His clothed erection pressed against your lower back.
"Lean on me," he whispered in your ear, his breath warm. "Just relax."
Soap knelt on the bed in front of you, his fist slowly stroking his impressive length. "C'mere, bonnie," he coaxed. "Put yer legs over mine."
You did, your thighs parting over his, your feet resting on his hips. The position was utterly exposed, wanton, and perfect. It left you completely open, your slick, swollen pussy on display.
"Beautiful," Gaz groaned, his eyes dark as he looked down at your body. "So fucking beautiful."
Soap shuffled closer, the head of his cock now just inches from your core. He took himself in hand, notching the thick head against your entrance, but not pushing in. Instead, he began to rock his hips, sliding his cock through your wetness, the underside of his shaft bumping against your clit with every thrust.
"Oh, God," you whimpered, your head falling back onto Gaz's shoulder. The sensation was incredible — a delicious friction that stimulated your clit without the intensity of penetration. It was exactly what you needed.
"That's it," Soap grunted, his eyes fixed on where his body met yours. "You're so wet, fuck... soakin' me."
Gaz's hands were roaming your body, one pinching your nipple, the other sliding down to join the messy, slick friction at your core. His long fingers found your clit, circling it in time with Soap's thrusts.
"Tell us how it feels, love," Gaz purred in your ear.
"Feels... so good," you babbled, your hips starting to move, chasing the pleasure. "Both of you... so good... I'm so close already."
The pressure of Soap's cock on your clit, the expert circling of Gaz's fingers, the heat of Gaz's body behind you — it all coalesced into a tightening spiral. You were grinding down on Soap's shaft shamelessly, using him, exactly as he'd offered, the slick sounds of your bodies moving together filling the room.
"Gonna cum," you gasped, the warning tearing from your throat.
"Do it," Soap growled, his rhythm increasing. "Cum on my cock, sweetheart. Make a mess for me."
Gaz's fingers pressed down harder on your clit, and that was it. Your orgasm crashed over you, less of a shockwave and more of a long, rolling tide of pleasure. You cried out, your body convulsing, your inner muscles clenching around nothing as you soaked Soap's cock and stomach with your release.
Soap cursed, his own climax triggered by yours, his hand pumping furiously as he spilled himself on your stomach in thick, hot ropes. The feeling of his cum on your skin, the smell of sex in the air, the arms holding you safe. It was blissful.
But as the waves of pleasure subsided, the ache returned, a persistent, gnawing hunger that demanded more. You were still burning, and one orgasm, however intense, was not enough to quench the fire.
Your eyes fluttered open, and your gaze found Gaz, who was watching you with a mixture of awe and concern. His own need was evident, the hard line of his cock pressing against your back. A wave of gratitude washed over you, for his gentleness, his restraint, his unwavering support.
"Kyle," you breathed, turning your head to look at him. "You've been so good to me. Let me... let me thank you."
Before he could protest, you were shifting, moving away from Soap's spent form and turning to face Gaz. You pushed him back against the headboard, your hands moving to the button of his pants. His breath hitched, but he didn't stop you. You freed his cock, long and slender and perfect, and wrapped your hand around it. He was heavy in your palm, and the guttural sound he made as you began to stroke him went straight to your throbbing pussy.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his head falling back against the wall. "You don't have to..."
"I want to," you insisted, your voice husky with desire and sincerity. You leaned down, taking him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sinking down until he hit the back of your throat. The taste of him was clean, masculine, and you moaned around his length, the vibrations making his hips buck.
"Jesus, fuck," Gaz swore, his hands coming up to tangle in your hair, his grip tight but not painful. "Your mouth... fuck."
You felt Soap shift behind you, his hands on your hips, encouraging you to move. You adjusted your position, rising onto your hands and knees, your ass in the air as you continued to worship Gaz's cock with your mouth. You took him deep, your tongue swirling around the shaft, your hand stroking what you couldn't take.
Then you felt it. Soap's breath, hot and humid, against your exposed folds. His tongue delved in, a slow exploration that had you gasping around Gaz's dick. He ate you with a focused intensity, his lips and tongue working in tandem, lapping at your clit, fucking into your hole. The sensation was mind-blowing. Gaz's cock in your mouth, Soap's tongue in your pussy, their hands on your body, their voices in your ears.
"Look at her," Soap murmured against your folds, his voice thick with awe. "Tastes like heaven, too."
Gaz was panting, his hips thrusting shallowly into your mouth. "Gonna cum," he warned, his voice strained. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum."
You doubled your efforts, sucking harder, faster, your hand pumping his shaft in a firm, steady rhythm. With a hoarse cry, he came, his release hot and thick on your tongue. You swallowed it all, milking him through his orgasm until he was spent, his body going soft against the headboard.
As you sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, Soap's tongue became more insistent, his focus narrowing to your clit. He sucked it into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it in a rapid, staccato rhythm. The pleasure was sharp and it built quickly, a pressure cooker about to explode.
"Simon, fuck" you whispered, the name escaping your lips before you could stop it. Your orgasm tore through you, a violent, shuddering release that left you gasping for air. You collapsed forward, your forehead resting on Gaz's thigh, your body trembling uncontrollably.
They held you as you came down, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Soap used the discarded towel to gently clean your stomach, his touch reverent. Gaz pressed soft kisses to your shoulder and neck.
But as the haze of pleasure cleared, a new feeling began to creep in, cold and sharp.
Shame.
You stared at the mess on your stomach, felt the sticky residue between your thighs, and the reality of what had just happened slammed into you. You'd just used your friends, your teammates, to get off. You'd begged and whined and degraded yourself for a chemical-induced high.
A sob caught in your throat. "I'm sorry," you whispered, the tears starting to fall. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I'm so... I'm disgusting."
"Hey, no," Soap said immediately, his face full of concern. He tossed the towel aside and moved to cup your face. "Don't ye dare. This is not your fault. This is the fuckin' chemical, that's all."
But you couldn't stop. The sobs wracked your body, violent and uncontrollable. You felt dirty, used up, and horribly, utterly alone despite being held by two of your closest friends. "I'm sorry," you repeated, over and over.
Gaz held you tighter, his arms a cage of comfort. "Look at me," he said, his voice firm but kind. When you didn't, he gently turned your head to face him. "We wanted to help. We chose this. You didn't force us into anything. We're a team, remember? We look after our own."
You looked from Gaz's earnest, worried eyes to Soap's pained expression.
You knew they were telling the truth, but the guilt was a poison, spreading through your veins. You'd crossed a line, and you didn't know how to come back from it. You curled into yourself, trying to escape their pity, their kindness, which only made you feel worse.
The drug-induced lust was gone, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing that was almost as hard to bear.
They didn't try to talk you out of it anymore. They just held you, Soap lying down on your other side, forming a protective, comforting barrier around you as you cried yourself into a fitful, exhausted sleep. But even in your dreams, you were haunted by the image of Simon's stricken face as he walked out the door.
It was quiet when you woke again. The kind of deep, predawn quiet that felt like the world was holding its breath. The fire inside you was reduced to the faintest of embers, a dull ache that was more memory than reality. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, your mind was clear.
You were alone in the bed. The sheets were clean, the mess from before meticulously erased. You sat up slowly, your body aching with a deep, muscular soreness. On the bedside table was a glass of water, a bottle of painkillers, and a note.
The note was in Soap's messy scrawl.
'Gone to get ye some real food. Gaz's on watch outside. LT's... around. Drink the water. Take the pills. We'll talk when you're ready. -J'
Your heart clenched. You swallowed the pills with shaky hands, the water cool and soothing. You needed a shower. You needed to scrub the last twenty-four hours off your skin until you felt like yourself again.
The small, attached bathroom was a sanctuary. You locked the door, peeled off the remnants of your clothes, and stepped under the hot spray. The water stung your overused, sensitive skin, but you didn't care. You stood there for a long time, letting the steam and the water cascade over you, washing away the sweat, the tears, and the lingering scent of sex and regret.
When you finally felt clean enough, you shut off the water and wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel. You caught your reflection in the mirror—pale, hollow-eyed, and almost free. The monster was gone.
You took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.
The main room was just as you'd left it, except for the man sitting in the armchair by the window. Simon.
He was in full kit, his mask back in place, his posture rigid and military-straight. He didn't stand when you emerged, just watched you with an unreadable expression.
"How are you feeling?" His voice was devoid of all emotion, a flat, neutral line.
"Clear," you replied, your own voice quiet. "I think the… I think it's gone."
He nodded, a single, sharp jerk of his head. "Good. That's good."
The silence that followed was a chasm. You wanted to run to him, to explain, to apologize for everything, but the icy wall he'd thrown up was impenetrable. You felt more naked in that towel, in front of that mask, than you had when you were writhing naked on his bed.
"Simon—" you started, taking a hesitant step forward.
"Don't," he cut you off, the word a soft but absolute command. He stood, his movements stiff and economical. "What happened... was a medical procedure. A necessary intervention under extreme circumstances. It's classified. It doesn't leave this room. It doesn't... change anything."
The words were precise, clinical, and they cut you deeper than you thought possible. He was erasing it, boxing it up and locking it away.
"Is that what you really think?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
"It's what needs to be thought," he said, turning away from you, his gaze fixed on the closed door. "You're cleared for duty tomorrow. Report to me at 0800. We'll debrief then. Get some rest, Sergeant."
He walked to the door without another glance, his back a wall of rejection. When the door clicked shut behind him, you sank to the floor, the towel pooling around you, and finally let the silent tears fall. The drug was gone, but the damage it had wrought was only just beginning to surface.
The next few days were a special kind of hell. The base was the same, the mission clockwork ticking on as if nothing had happened. But for you, the world had tilted on its axis and refused to right itself.
Soap and Gaz were... they were good. Too good. They treated you with a gentle, protective camaraderie that made your chest ache. They joked with you at mess, included you in conversations, and watched your six during drills with an extra layer of vigilance. They never mentioned what happened, but it hung in the air between you, a shared, unspoken secret.
Ghost had been living up to his name. Before, his presence had been a constant, a dark but steady shadow you could always count on. Now, he was a void. He'd assigned you to a different fireteam during drills, his orders delivered through Gaz or the comms channel. If you entered a room he was in, he found a reason to leave. If your paths crossed in a narrow hallway, he'd press himself against the wall, his masked face turned away, creating a cold, silent bubble of space around him that felt miles wide.
It was a brutal, efficient erasure of every moment of intimacy you'd ever shared, every lingering glance, every quiet conversation. He was Simon Riley, your Lieutenant, and nothing more.
And it was killing you.
You told yourself it was for the best. His "medical procedure" logic, as cold as it was, made a certain kind of military sense. Fraternization was a minefield. What had happened was a catastrophe of protocol. He was protecting you, protecting the team, by building this wall.
But to you it didn't feel like protection. It felt like punishment.
And as the days turned into weeks, a horrible, insidious thought began to take root in your mind: he found you disgusting. He'd seen you at your most vulnerable, your most debased, and the sight of you now was just a repulsive reminder of that chemical-fuelled madness. The way he couldn't even look at you seemed to confirm it. He was revolted.
This thought became a splinter under your skin, working its way deeper with every cold shoulder, every averted gaze. It festered, poisoning your own self-worth. You started avoiding mirrors, started pulling away from Soap and Gaz's gentle concern, retreating into a shell of your own making.
The breaking point came during a late-night gear check. You were alone in the armory, the air cool and smelling of oil and steel. You were methodically cleaning your rifle, the familiar motions a comfort, when the door opened.
You didn't need to look up to know who it was. You could feel his presence, the way the air suddenly felt heavier, charged. You kept your eyes on your weapon, your hands moving with practiced precision, hoping he'd just get what he came for and leave.
He didn't. He moved to the workbench opposite you, his movements unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He began cleaning his own sidearm, the slide of metal on metal a grating counterpoint to your own rhythm.
The silence was unbearable. It stretched, thin and taut, until you couldn't stand it anymore. You had to know.
"Are you ever going to talk to me again?" The question came out sharper than you intended, laced with the pain of a week's worth of silence.
His hands stopped. He didn't look up. "I am talking to you, Sergeant. I'm giving you an order: maintain focus on your gear."
The use of your rank was a slap in the face.
"Don't," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "Don't hide behind that with me. Not after... everything."
"There is no 'everything'," he bit out, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "There was a mission, a complication, and a resolution. End of story."
"No," you said, finally looking up, your eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt. "There was you, holding me while I begged for you. There was you, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world, and then looking at me like I was nothing the next day. You can't just... order that away, Simon."
He slammed his pistol down on the bench, the sound echoing in the small room. He still didn't look at you, but his entire body was rigid, thrumming with a tension you recognized all too well.
"I am your superior officer," he ground out, each word precise and clipped. "You are a soldier under my command. What happened was a lapse in judgment, a catastrophic failure of protocol on my part. It cannot and will not be repeated. It will not be discussed. Is that understood, Sergeant?"
His words were a wall of steel, but you heard the crack in his voice, the slight tremor in the last word. He wasn't just angry; he was in agony. And your own pain, your own festering insecurity, gave you the courage to lunge for the crack.
"Is that what this is about? Protocol?" you asked, your voice softer now, losing its anger. "Or is it about me? Do you... do you think I'm... repulsive now? Is that why you can't even look at me?"
He flinched, a full-body recoil that was as good as a confession. He finally turned his head, eyes finding yours.
It was the opening you needed. "Then what is it?" you whispered. "Why are you doing this to us?"
He was across the room in two long strides, his body a coiled spring of violent energy. He caged you in against the workbench, his hands slamming down on the metal on either side of you, his masked face inches from yours. The sudden proximity, the raw power of him so close after days of nothing, was dizzying.
"Want to know why, bird?" he snarled, his voice a guttural thing that bore no resemblance to his usual controlled tone. His eyes were blazing. "Because every time I look at you, I don't see my sergeant. I see you on my bed, with my name on your lips. I see you with Johnny's cock in your mouth and Gaz's hands on your skin. And I want to bloody kill them for touching you."
Your breath hitched in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"I walked out that door because if I had stayed," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, tormented growl, "I would have thrown them both out and fucked you myself. I would have shown you what it really feels like to be filled by me. And it wouldn't have been a goddamn medical procedure. It would have been me claiming you, owning you, ruining you for anyone else."
He was so close, the heat of him enveloping you. You could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the tremor in his clenched fists.
"I'm not disgusted by you, sweetheart," he hissed, the endearment a stark contrast to the venom in his voice. "I'm terrified of you. Of what you make me feel. Of how badly I want you, even now, right here. So I stay away. Because ‘s the only way I can keep from breaking every single rule I have left."
His confession left you reeling. But the splinter in your heart didn't dissolve. Instead, it twisted, a fresh wave of doubt washing over you.
You reached up, your hand trembling as it brushed against the hard line of his jaw, the fabric of his mask rough against your fingertips. He flinched like a stray dog expecting a kick. He leaned into your touch for a split second, a pathetic, desperate gesture, before pulling back, as if your touch burned him.
"Don't stay away," you whispered, your voice thick with tears, but also with a hard edge of disbelief. "Please, Simon. Don't punish us both for this." you told him gently, your words a test. "I'd much rather you break all your rules with me than be like this."
A shuddering breath escaped him, a sound that was almost a sob. He leaned his forehead against yours, a gesture of utter defeat. For a moment, he was silent, the mask a barrier you still desperately wanted to tear away.
Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice a broken plea. "Tell me to go, and I'll walk out that door right now. I'll be your LT. I'll pretend none of this ever happened."
You slid your hand around to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft, short hair at his nape. You pulled him down, forcing him to feel the steady, undeniable rhythm of your breathing.
"Stay," you breathed, your lips brushing against the rough fabric over his mouth. "And don't ever pretend again."
With a ragged groan, Simon crushed his mouth to yours. The kiss was immediately filthy—a desperate starved friction. But the balaclava was a thin, infuriating barrier keeping you from the man beneath it. You could feel the heat of his lips, taste the moisture seeped into the weave, but you needed more. You needed him.
Your hands scrambled up his chest, fingers hooking into the heavy straps of his vest, dragging him impossibly closer. You bit at his lower lip through the fabric — a sharp, possessive snap that ripped a growl from his throat.
He answered in kind. His massive hands left the bench to seize your waist, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all. He hoisted you up onto the edge of the cold steel, sweeping aside gun parts and tools with a brutal flick of his arm, before stepping flush between your parted thighs. The contrast was dizzying—the freezing metal at your back, the inferno of his body pressing into your core.
"Simon," you gasped into the fabric.
You didn't strip the mask off completely—you couldn't bear to take the Ghost away, yet you wanted every single piece of him. Instead, your hands hooked under the hem of his balaclava, yanked it up over the bridge of his nose, and left the dark fabric bunched above his cheekbones.
The sight was intoxicating. The skull motif still stared down at you, dark and imposing, but beneath it was his bare, scarred mouth—his lips swollen, wet, and panting for air.
You didn't give him a second to think. You dragged him back down, claiming his mouth with a raw, desperate hunger.
This time, there was nothing between you. His lips were rough yet surprisingly soft, faintly tasting of coffee and mint. You licked into his mouth, your tongue sweeping deep, claiming every inch of the territory you’d been denied for an agonizing week.
"I wanted you..." you managed to breathe out between bruising, open-mouthed kisses, your hands cupping his stubbled jaw. You pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye, your voice trembling with absolute truth. "I needed you back then, Simon. In that room... it wasn't the chemical calling your name. It was me."
Simon froze, a shuddering gasp tearing through him as your words hit him.
"Fuck," he rasped, his bare mouth sliding over your jawline, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. "Don't... don't do this to me unless you mean it."
"I do," you whimpered, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders. You dragged his mouth back to yours, kissing him until you were both breathless. "I need you now more than I ever did when I was on that drug. I'm clear, Simon. I'm completely sober, and I’n fucking begging you."
A primal sound vibrated as he took control of the kiss, turning it into a battle for total dominance. His tongue rolled over yours, possessive, sucking you deep into his mouth. Through your uniform, you could feel him — hard, thick, and straining against your core — and the pressure sent a sharp, delicious shockwave straight down to your pussy, soaking your panties instantly.
You reached down, grabbing the hem of his black t-shirt, tugging it upward with frantic urgency.
"Up," you commanded weakly.
He obeyed instantly, stripping the shirt over his head in one smooth motion and tossing it aside.
Your bare hands were all over him then, mapping the broad, scarred expanse of his chest, your palms delighting in the rough dusting of hair that tickled your skin. You leaned forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck, biting the hard line of his collarbone before laving over the mark with your tongue.
"Jesus, sweetheart—fuck," he hissed, his head falling back, exposing his throat to your mouth.
His hands moved with ruthless speed, yanking at the buttons of your uniform shirt, popping them off one by one until the fabric fell open. He didn't bother with the clasp of your bra; he simply hooked his large, calloused hands over the cups, shoving them down to spill your bare breasts into his palms.
When his bare thumbs rolled over your hardened nipples, you arched off the cold bench, thrusting your chest directly into his touch, a loud, wanton moan echoing off the concrete walls. You were already so close, the build-up of the past week, the sheer, filthy reality of finally having him, pushing you to the edge in record time.
His mouth followed his hands, ducking down to close over one nipple, sucking it hard. The wet heat of his mouth, the sting of his teeth—everything was more intense, more real, than you'd ever imagined.
Your fingers flew to the buckle of his belt, desperate, clumsy in your haste. You got it open, fumbling with the button and zipper of his cargos, freeing the heavy, thick length of his cock into your waiting palm. You groaned at the feel of him, velvet skin over rigid steel, and began to stroke him from root to tip.
He cursed against your breast, the vibration of his voice a new layer of sensation that had your thighs quivering around his hips.
"Keep doing that, and this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he warned.
"Good," you panted, your free hand reaching up to fist the back of his head, the other squeezing the base of his cock possessively. "I want you to fuck me on this bench, Simon. Now. No more waiting."
His only response was to grab your hips, dragging you to the very edge of the workbench.
With rough, impatient hands, he yanked your pants and panties down in one go, leaving them tangled around your boots. He froze for a second, his gaze dropping between your spread thighs, and a low, reverent curse escaped him.
"Bloody hell," he breathed, his eyes wide with disbelief as he took in the sight of you — so wet you were practically dripping. "All this... f’ me?"
You nodded, your hands gripping the edge of the bench behind you, your chest heaving. "All for you. Always for you, Simon."
He fell to his knees on the hard, concrete floor, his massive hands gripping the backs of your thighs, pushing them up and out until your legs were over his shoulders.
"Need to taste you," he growled, the words muffled against your inner thigh. "Need to know this is real."
And then his mouth was on you.
The first long, slow lick of his tongue from your entrance to your clit was almost enough to make you come undone right then. He groaned against your folds, the sound vibrating through your most sensitive flesh. It wasn't gentle; it was a man starving, feasting. He licked and sucked with a brutal intensity, his tongue delving deep inside you before circling your clit with devastating precision.
You cried out, one hand flying to the back of his head, holding him to you, your hips grinding shamelessly against his face. He let you, his own hands digging into the flesh of your ass, holding you open for his ravaging mouth.
"Simon... oh God, don't stop," you whimpered, the pressure building to an unbearable peak.
"Never," he growled against your swollen flesh, the words a dark promise. "Gonna make you fall apart on my tongue, sweetheart. Gonna feel you cum all over my face."
His words were filthy, but his hands were filthier. He slid two thick fingers inside you, curling them upward to find that spongy, sensitive spot deep inside. The sudden, intense pressure made you cry out.
"Shhh," he soothed, his voice a velvety rumble. He didn't stop what he was doing, his tongue still lashing relentlessly at your clit. Instead, he brought his free hand up, pressing his palm firmly over your mouth. The gesture was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the raw, primal way he was devouring you. "Can't have the whole base hearin' what a needy little thing you are for me, can we?"
You whimpered against his hand, the sound muffled, your eyes rolling back in your head. The feeling was overwhelming. The stretch of his fingers inside you, the relentless stimulation of his tongue, the weight of his hand on your mouth, grounding you while simultaneously driving you wild. You could feel the slickness of your own arousal coating his face, see the way drool and your juices mingled at the corners of his mouth, but he didn't seem to give a fuck. He looked utterly lost in you, his movements messy and uncoordinated in their desperation.
He was watching you the entire time, his eyes now dark with lust, fixed on your face, drinking in every expression of pleasure as if it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He pulled his mouth back just enough to speak, his thumb still circling your clit.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. "I want to see those eyes when you cum for me. Let me see you fall apart, little bird."
You locked eyes with him, the intensity of his gaze almost too much to bear. He plunged his fingers back inside you, curling them again, while his tongue returned to your clit, flicking it in rapid, staccato movements. The pressure snapped, a white-hot explosion of pleasure that started deep inside and radiated outwards in overwhelming waves.
You screamed against his palm, your body convulsing on the cold steel, your back arching off the bench as you came hard. You could feel your release flooding his hand, soaking his palm as he continued to work you through it, his movements slowing only when your trembling started to subside.
He finally pulled back, his face glistening with your essence.
"Fuckin' beautiful," he breathed, his voice thick with satisfaction. He slowly lowered your legs from his shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to your inner knee before standing up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as he shoved his own pants and boxers down, freeing his cock. It was angry, dark red, jutting out from a thatch of hair. It was, you thought then, more than you could take.
He stepped between your legs, the head of his cock nudging against your oversensitive, soaked entrance. He didn't push in, not yet. He just stood there, his hands on your hips, his chest heaving as he looked down at you.
"'m not wearing a condom," he said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement of intent. "I need to feel you. All of you. Are you okay with that?"
You were still panting, your body thrumming with aftershocks, but your answer was immediate. You reached down, wrapping your hand around his thick length, guiding him to your opening. "Yes," you whispered. "Just... please, Simon. Fuck me, I need you inside me."
He let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sigh of relief, and pushed forward.
The stretch was incredible, a slow, exquisite burn as he filled you inch by thick inch. He was so much bigger than you'd imagined, his girth forcing your body to adjust to him. You were trembling again, the over-sensitivity from your orgasm making every nerve ending feel like it was on fire.
"Si," you gasped, your nails digging into his forearms.
"I know," he soothed, his voice strained. He stopped when he was fully seated, his balls pressed against your ass, giving you a moment to adjust. He bent over you, his body a hot, heavy blanket, and captured your lips in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. It was a stark contrast to the raw power of him inside you. "I've got you. Just... breathe for me, sweetheart."
You did, taking deep, shuddering breaths, your body slowly relaxing around his. He started to move then, with shallow, careful thrusts, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. He found your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and pinning it to the bench above your head, a gesture that was both intimate and grounding.
As your body adjusted, the burn morphed into pleasure. Deep, profound pleasure that had your head spinning. "More," you whimpered against his lips. "Harder."
He growled his approval, straightening up and grabbing your other hip. He pulled out almost all the way, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming back into you. The new angle was devastating, the head of his cock hitting a spot so deep inside.
"Fuck!" he hissed, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. "You're so fucking tight. So fucking perfect."
He set the rhythm, the heavy steel of the workbench creaking and groaning under the force of his thrusts. Each snap of his hips made the sound of skin slapping against wet skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. You were a mess beneath him, trembling and moaning, completely at his mercy.
He leaned down again, kissing you deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth in time with his cock thrusting into your pussy. It was overwhelming, a complete sensory overload. His hand was still holding yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in a surprisingly sweet gesture amidst the primal fucking.
"Look at me," he commanded again, his breath hot against your lips. You opened your eyes, meeting his intense, burning gaze. "I'm never gonna get enough of this. Of you."
You watched him, watched the way his jaw clenched, the way the muscles in his neck strained. He was holding back, you could tell, his movements controlled despite the raw power behind them.
"Don't hold back," you panted, your free hand moving to his face, your thumb tracing his lower lip. "I want to feel all of you, Simon. Let go."
His eyes flashed with a feral light. He released your hand, only to grip both your hips in a bruising hold. He lifted your ass off the bench slightly, changing the angle, and began to pound into you with a renewed, unrestrained ferocity.
The new angle had him hitting your g-spot with every single thrust, and you were gone. You spiraled back into a blinding orgasm, your body clenching down on his cock like a vise. You cried out his name, your voice echoing off the walls, no longer caring who heard.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" he roared, the feeling of you pulsing around him triggering his own release. He slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt the hot, powerful jets of his cum filling you up, marking you from the inside out.
He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in your neck.
Slowly, he softened inside you, and you immediately felt the hollow sense of emptiness when he started to slip out. A small, involuntary sob escaped your lips at the loss. He stilled instantly, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes filled with concern.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, pulling out the rest of the way and then quickly gathering you into his arms. He sat back on the bench, pulling you with him so you were straddling his lap, your head tucked under his chin. He held you tightly, one hand stroking your hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on your lower back. " I’ve got you. You're okay."
You nuzzled into his chest, the scratch of his chest hair against your cheek a comfort. "Just... didn't want it to end," you admitted, your voice muffled by his skin.
"It's not over," he promised, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Not by a long shot. We're moving this to my quarters. My bed."
You were quiet for a moment, enjoying the feeling of his solid warmth around you. Then a thought struck you, and you pulled back slightly to look at him. "What if... what if someone had walked in?"
A wicked smirk spread across his face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Someone did."
You froze, your eyes going wide. He chuckled, a low, deep sound.
"Right about the time I had my tongue in you, I heard the door. They left pretty quickly after that first scream, though."
You felt heat creep up your neck, a mix of embarrassment and excitement . "Oh my God," you whispered.
"You have a very impressive set of lungs, Sergeant," he teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
You couldn't help but laugh, the sound a little breathless. You leaned in and kissed him, a soft, lingering kiss.
"Good," you whispered against his lips. "I'd hate for anyone to think the chemical was better than the real thing." You pulled back with a sly grin. "Because it wasn't even close."
He laughed, a real, genuine, happy sound that you knew you would do anything to hear again. He stood up with you still in his arms, holding you securely against his chest.
"We’re in a lot of trouble," he mumbled against your forehead.
You sighed, contentedly, as he carried you towards the door, ready to start round two.
I genuinely didn't expect to be making this post but unfortunately there will be no new chapter tomorrow. I know, I know I said there would be but hold you horses and let me explain before you get upset...
Usually, I work on my original book during the week and work on my fanfiction at the weekend, kind of like a treat. Which is exactly what I have done this week.
However, what I wasn't expecting this weekend was to receive bad news.
A close friend of the family was on holiday this week (this lady basically having watched me grow up and help shape me into the person I am today) and has been in a very serious car wreck. Her husband died upon impact and she was air-lifted to the nearest hospital where she continues to fight for her life.
I have taken the news quite hard and have been taking this time with my family to process and grieve this horrific news. As such, there is no new chapter coming tomorrow as I haven't been able to sit and write without bursting into tears.
No, the fanfic isn't done and I do plan to keep working on it. I feel awful for promising you guys a chapter tomorrow and then not delivering but, under the circumstances, I hope you can understand my extended break from posting.
The Placebo Effect will be back on the 3rd of August (definitely) and, depending how I feel during this upcoming week, I might even post a random chapter to give you guys something to go off. Because I'm genuinely itching to keep writing this story for you all.
Thank you for all your continued support and I please ask you keep me and mine in your minds at this difficult time.
Hi! I just wanted to send you a little message because you’ve been receiving some awful comments and people have been crossing your boundaries. I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with that.
I wanted you to know how much I genuinely love your fics, all of them. The way you write Ghost is one of my absolute favorites. Your writing has given me so many moments to look forward to, and I’m really grateful you choose to share it.
I hope you remember that for every loud, disrespectful person, there are so many readers like me who simply appreciate your talent and want the best for you. Please take care of yourself, and thank you for everything you create. ❤️
i’m not gonna lie, I fully sobbed when I opened this. thank you from the bottom of my heart.🩷
whatever bad vibes or weird comments happen on the internet... none of that actually matters to me at the end of the day. what does matter is knowing that genuine, thoughtful people like you are out here actually reading and connecting with my work.
ghost is so insanely special to me. out of every character I’ve ever written, he’s the one I’ve cared about the most. he’s just endless, you know? there’s so much depth to explore with him, and I’m constantly fascinated by how to write him. so to hear that my version of him resonates with you honestly, that’s the highest praise I could ever ask for.
thank you for dropping by to be so sweet. your message saved my night! sending you the biggest hug & 141 kisses! 🤗🪽🪽🩷
I WROTE SOMETHING!!! After months of hiatus, please enjoy this nothing drabble with Reader x Ghost, and some medical & latex gloves kink thrown in there. Hurt/Comfort, as always.
MASTERLIST
The steel – medical-grade – is cold against your skin. A welcome reprieve against the fever burning through your wrecked body. You have little memory of why you are here. Who you were before. Flashes come sometimes, painful, nightmarish slivers torn apart from your foggish past with herculean efforts. People harming you. Scientists. Military. Insignas you don’t recognize. Experimenting new drugs, new weapons who don’t leave traces on your body, rather your mind. Sterile rooms. Too bright lights. Needles, and robotic voices, and orders to follow.
The door to your cell opens, and the same man as always enters. He’s a behemoth. Huge, clad in tactical black, a surgical mask on his face – black also. His sleeves are rolled up on his massive forearms, black ink spilling on his procelain white skin. He put on his black latex gloves in silence. You know what comes next.
You can’t really understand it. All you know is it hurts – but it’s not like it is intentional at the same time.
Your heart rate starts to pick up as soon as he’s approching your bed – for lack of a better word to describe the weirdly comfortable slab of steel you’re lying on. He’s here, his giant figure backlit by the violent light emanating from the medical lamp on the ceiling. Makes him look like a shadow when he leans toward you. Your body reacts on instinct, muscles clenching, limbs rattling in the padded cuffs holding you down.
Like always, he starts by looking at your face, huge hands craddling your jaw, turning your head from side to side. Fingertips prodding at your skull, until a tender spot makes you wince. That’s when he turns to type in a few words on a touchscreen propped up next to your contraption. The pause is short, and he is back at touching and examining your skull, your jaw, your neck. Then the rest of your body. He is unhurried, methodical, way too calm in his task, even when you’re trying to move away from his touch, especially when he is grazing on where you hurt the most. When you move too much, he has no choice but to fiddle with the IV in your arm, and you feel the mellow warmth of painkillers washes over you. Head spinning, you don’t really know if him saying “’Am sorry” is a trick of your imagination or not.
Was he really caring about you? Then, why would he hurt you like this? Keeping you restrained? But on the other hand, why would he care to give you medication for the pain? Why the soft padded cuffs and not the unyelding metallic straps you were sadly used to?
You’re racking up your memory to try and remember when he first appeared. He’s not the same as the doctors you see in your nightmares. No, he’s definitely different. The room you’re in is different too. Something happened back then. The sudden burst of gunshots. Alarms blaring. You close your eyes, focusing all you can on the memory. Soldiers you’ve never seen before entering your cell. The rise of the panic in your chest. Tears and screams. The pinprick of a needle on your neck, and everything fades to black.
You’re brought back to the present by a gravely voice.
“Open your eyes. Hey hey stay with me.” His tone is commanding yet warm enough that you want to listen to his instructions. Near your head, you can hear the machine monitoring your heartbeat and its too-fast bipping.
“Breath. You’re safe here.” He goes on. You do as you’re told, focusing on his eyes – deep brown, almost kind? – as he’s looking at you, searching your face for signs of further distress.
You finally relax, and he’s back at finishing his thorough examination of your body. The softness of the latex gloves on your skin feels nice. The repetition of his touch, mapping dutifully every inch of your limbs, only stopping to type some more notes, becomes soothing. You can hear him hum in approval when he presses on a particular spot that used to be painful and you don’t react. You lay quietly, letting him do his job, untils he seems satisfied and removes his gloves.
“You’re improving.” he comments, as he open the flow of your IV more widely. “That’s good.”
You feel the effect of the product in your veins almost immediately, your eyelids becomes heavy, your brain foggy.
“We’ll bring you back, I promise” he whispers before turning his back to you and making his way to the exit of the cell. The thick door opens and closes on his shadow, just as you loose consciousness.
Five Times Simon Riley Almost Said "I Love You" + bonus :3
1. After a nightmare
You slowly stir when you feel the mattress dip beside you. Simon thinks you're asleep, not surprising considering you're playing the part fairly well.
He had quietly checked every window after another nightmare and made sure to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. And when he crawls back into bed, you mumble. "Is everything okay?" he blinks, mainly because he didn't expect you to be awake, partially because your voice sounded so soft like that.
"...Yeah." he huffs out, getting comfortable before taking your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze lingering for a moment. "You know I-"
"-should go back to sleep."
2. Getting groceries
You two have been in this aisle for approximately seven minutes. Arguing over cereal over all things. Apparently the cereal he chose was too bland, and apparently yours was too sweet.
"You're impossible." he rolls his eyes, but it lacks any real bite to it. In response, you stick your tongue out at him and blow a raspberry. The audacity. Except he stares for a second too long, and he doesn't know if the fluorescent lights above them were frying his brain but he almost cracks a smile.
"I-you.." he paused. "Forgot the milk."
3. Before Deployment
He was already dressed, mask on and gear ready. You fix the collar of his jacket, fingers staying a moment too long. His voice is quiet, not the usual—the heavier kind. "If anything happens.."
"No." You don't let him finish. "Listen–" you shake your head even more firmly. "No." He sighs, at your stubbornness and because he knows that you're both lying to each other.
He rests his forehead against yours. "I lo—" Except duty calls, and it always wins. "Lock the doors after I leave."
4. In the hospital
It wasn't anything life-threatening, thank goodness.
A concussion, broken ribs, probably a stab wound somewhere. What mattered the most to you was the fact that he was still there, even if he was still half-asleep from the medication.
"I love you." you whisper, thinking he wasn't awake. Then— "I know." Not because he doesn't feel it, god knows he does so much that it hurts. But because if he says it back, it can be another thing he can lose.
5. The ring
Not a proposal. Just browsing around on the rare occasions where you and Simon could actually go out together. He stopped walking when he sees you trying on rings as a joke.
"They suit you." The salesperson laughs. Simon can't stop staring, because all he can see is years. Gray hairs. Sunday mornings spent on the porch. A life he was never supposed to survive long enough to have.
He reaches for your hand silently, thumbs tracing the silver band of the ring. "Let's-" his throat tightens when he feels the coldness of the metal. "...go home."
Bonus!
It wasn't anything dramatic.
Just a small cardboard box, some paperwork. In it were dog tags, a stained folded mask, the watch you had bought him last Christmas.
Price clears his throat, snapping you back to reality. "He wanted you to have these." he says, not looking at you. How could he?
You see it. Inside the box, there was a receipt. Months ago, way before he even got deployed. From the jewelry store you went to. Just one item, paid in full, never collected.
a/n: ok i wrotr this like half asleep yolo u guys have this idk i hate this format
You were 16 when you found out Simon Riley wasn’t actually your father. He had always been cold and distant with you, but you chalked it up to that being how he was. You didn’t know he hated you. Everyone told you that your mother abandoned you, but your dad stepped up. Raised you alone. You were why he went on less and less missions. He didn’t like leaving you with other people, saying they didn’t know how to handle you. That did confuse you. You were a good kid, after all. You almost never got in trouble.
One night, after crying yourself to sleep on your 16th birthday because Gaz had to go on a mission so, predictably, your Dad forgot it was your birthday at all, you woke up to whispers.
“What are we gon’ do when she turns 18?” Simon whispered in frustration.
“I’m not sure,” Price sighed. You could hear him puffing on that nasty cigar.
“Not sure? We’ve got less than two years. We need a plan,” Simon was sounding increasingly annoyed.
“I know, I know!” Prince growled as you crept closer to peer into the living room. “But what are we meant to do? She’s Makarov’s daughter. We can’t let any of his people find out she’s still alive.”
You’d heard that name before. In hushed whispers. When your Dad and the rest of the task force were drunk. How close Johnny had come to death. How they thought he had died. Held a funeral. Everything. Only for him to be dumped nearly a corpse with a taunting note attached.
What were they talking about someone being his daughter? Did they mean you?
Your stomach was rolling. Chest nearly heaving. Bile burning your throat.
“See ‘im every time I look at her,” Simon gruffed, tightening his jaw under his balaclava.
“That’s not her fault, Riley. She’s just a kid.” Price’s words were right, but there was an unfamiliar note of disgust in his tone as well.
“Kid or not, she’s his. Had to waste these years caring for her. Acting like she’s my own. Fucking disgusting,” Simon sneered.
You tried to turn quietly. To hide the tears, but you knocked into the little table in the hallway that you and Simon always tossed things on. Keys. Wallets. Random shit from your pockets.
Both men stopped talking.
Simon cautiously called out, “Kid? You there?”
Tears trickled down your face. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. They heard you crying anyway.
Price was the first to make it to the hallway. He saw you crouched on the floor. Hugging your stomach. Eyes already swelling as you sobbed.
Simon came next. Face unreadable as always. Yet, he was the one who crouched down beside you. Patting your back.
“Kid, why are you crying?” he gruffed out, but you could tell. He knew you knew.
Of course you didn’t answer. There wasn’t enough air in your lungs to wheeze out words. Instead, you both crouched there while you let the floodgates swing open. With Price awkwardly supervising.
When you were done, Simon muttered, “I was just mad. You’re still mine.”
When you shook your head, chest still heaving, face still wet, eyes still swollen, Price interjected. “Maybe she should spend some time with me.”
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