lieutenant!simon riley can’t stay focused knowing reader is waiting for him at home
The safe house is quiet in that way that never really means quiet.
Simon’s back is pressed to the wall, concrete cold even through his kit. Rifle laid across his knees, gloves wrapped around it without thinking. He’s listening, always listening, for the scrape of boots, a breath where there shouldn’t be one, the wrong kind of silence outside the door.
But his head’s not here. It’s a thousand miles away. Warm. Soft. Bare.
He thinks of you without meaning to and then he can’t stop. The way your skin feels under his hands, nothing like the hard edges of weapons and armor. Soft where everything else in his world is sharp. The give of your hips. The warmth at the small of your back when he presses you into the mattress like he’s afraid you'll disappear if he doesn’t keep you there.
Your lips. Christ.
Pink and swollen after he kisses you too long, too hard. The way you tilt her head automatically now, learned, like your body already knows what’s coming when he leans in. He imagines dragging his mouth over yours until you’re breathless, until every sound you makes shoots straight to his cock. He can almost feel it, your breath slipping into his ear, warm and unguarded. The way you say his name like it belongs to you, like it’s not something everyone else barks or growls or fears. The way you clutch at him like you’re grounding yourself and unraveling him at the same time. He thinks about burying himself in your tight cunt for hours once he’s home. No urgency. No clocks to watch. Just heat and friction and the way you cling to him like you know exactly how close he lives to the edge.
His grip tightens on the rifle before he realizes it.
This is dangerous. Letting his mind wander like this. Letting it soften. Letting something matter that much.
A voice cuts through the haze. “Ghost.” Price. Low. Sharp.
Simon blinks, the fantasy shattering like glass. The room rushes back in. The dim light, Soap cleaning his weapon across the way, the faint buzz of comms, the ever-present tension sitting heavy in the air.
“Yeah,” Simon answers immediately, spine straightening, thoughts locking back into place.
“Eyes up.” Price says, already turning away.
Simon nods once, jaw tight beneath the skull mask.
Rifle back in his hands. Ears tuned outside. Mind dragged back to the present, kicking and screaming. But the thought lingers anyway.
Home. You. He thinks about you spread beneath him, breath stuttering, nails scraping into his back like you need him as badly as he needs you. Survival’s non-negotiable. He’s got somewhere to be.