Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.
No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.
But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.
You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.
So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’
Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.
And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.
“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.
You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”
He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.
They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.
“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”
He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.
It isn't fair, Pearl thought as she cleared yet another path in the nether.
I didn't do anything wrong.
She hacked another pigman that was coming her way.
Physical activity was good for keeping depressing thoughts at bay, Martyn had said. Yet here she was, one the most wealthy residents in this world, able to do her business in nether like no other and yet.
Her soulmate didn't want Pearl.
—
Martyn usually wasn't one for much feelings other than mischief and rage. That was, until he stood face to face with the one he had felt this pull to during every trial and saw…the same rage directed back at him. For doing what he thought had been a good thing.
—
“Have you found yours yet?”
Green hoodie, blond hair, blue eyes. Kind voice and steady hands. They pulled her up from the hole she had fallen in and gave her aid. In another life, he could have been for her. In this life though, she had yet to find hers.
“No.”
Light touches on her ankle, bandaging it. Apparently she had managed to injure herself on a fallen branch and hadn't even noticed it while escaping a creeper.
“Thanks.”
A wide, kind smile.
“No problem.”
—
“Sooo, what do you think about teaming up for a while?”
“Team up? For what?”
“Well, it'll be easier to find resources, that's for sure..”
Pearl mulled this over for a bit.
Martyn continued, a little nervous of what he was going to say next.
“Besides, I was kind of thinking that we, uh, could go and get geared up and collect lots of resources so that when we meet our soulmates we'll actually make a good impression on them.”
tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, vaginal fingering, riding, creampie, not edited, brain worm I had
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The first time you ever bought from Ghost you were wearing a skirt way too short to be socially acceptable, stumbling to his beat-up car with a drunk smile plastered on your face. He remembers it all a little too clearly, the way you leaned into the passenger window, smelling like tequila and the minty mouthwash you used to try and cover the smell up.
“Hi.” You giggled.
“Hi.” He responded, raising his eyebrow at you.
“Um, my friends over there,” You pointed to a group of girls across the street, “Dared me to come buy some off you.”
He stared at you without responding, and there was a long pause of silence before your smile dropped into something smaller.
“Wait? Do you not sell?” You covered your mouth, “Oh my gosh that’s so embarrassing, they told me they bought from you before!”
“Relax, bird. I do.”
“Oh! Great, that’s great. Um, how much for an eighth?”
“On the house.” He smirked, digging through the back of his car.
“What?”
“First time buyer, gotta guarantee you like it.”
You caught the bag he tossed you with a shy smile on your face, humming. “Okay, thank you!”
Ghost watched you jog to your friends after that, holding the bag out to them with a proud smirk.
The next time you bought from him, you were all by yourself, jean shorts showing off your pretty legs.
“Hi.”
He chuckled, “You’re back.”
You leaned into the window, low-cut shirt clinging to the swell of your breasts.
“I am.” You smiled, “How much for an eighth this time, for real?’
“Already have some pre-rolls, you can just have ‘em.”
“Huh? No, I didn’t pay you last time!”
“No one ever wants the pre-rolls anyway,” He shrugs, he lies. “They’re cherry flavored.”
That sparks your interest, “Really? I didn’t know they did that.”
You hand him your phone then, “Put your number in, yeah? So, I don’t have to hope to randomly run into you to buy more.”
When he hands the phone back you laugh after reading the contact name, “Ghost? That’s your drug dealer name? Really?”
“Do you want free weed or not?”
You laugh louder this time, “Yes! Yes! I was just teasing. Thank you!”
You text him two weeks later, a stupid meme at that with beady eyes, ‘more, please sir?’
He hates the way it makes the corners of his lips twitch.
He’s mobile that day, and you send him your address with one too many exclamation marks tagged on the end. You run out in leggings and slippers, a giddy smile on your lips.
“Hi.”
He laughs, “Hi, bird.”
“I liked the pre-rolls!” You say excitedly, leaning into the window, “Never had those before.”
“Yeah? What you need today?”
“You have any more?”
He frowns a little, “Get in with me, I’ll roll you some.”
You open his passenger side door too willingly, “Oh good. I don’t know how to roll,” You confess, “My friends usually do it for me.”
His mouth dips into a smirk, “Yeah? ‘Ts not that hard, watch.”
You lean closer, eyes wide like he’s actually teaching you valuable information and not how to roll a joint.
“Gotta make sure to take out all the seeds and stems before you grind it.” You watch him grind it enraptured. “Gotta roll up the tip first, then, wrap the paper tight.”
You nod eagerly.
“Fill it with your flower, roll it upwards with your thumb to make your shape. Then,” He licks across the paper, “Seal it with the glued edge, and twist the tip.”
He holds it out to you, “There you go.”
You take it between your fingers with a soft smile, “Thank you.”
You text him three days later, a picture of a lopsided joint that he definitely didn’t sell you.
‘How’d I do?’
‘Looks like shit.’
‘That’s mean :(‘
‘Come over, let me help.’
‘On my way!’
You show up an hour later, the crooked joint in your hands. You sit on his couch with a frown.
“You know, I didn’t think it came out that bad.”
“Give it here.” He laughs, “You packed it up wayyy too much. Got too much at the end here too, didn’t tap it out.”
Still, he lights it, holding it out for you to smoke. You take it between your fingers, inhaling a small amount before coughing slightly. He smirks at your watery eyes, taking the joint from you to smoke it.
“Sorry,” You say, “I got my lip gloss on it.”
He chuckles, the tip glistening with the gloss, placing it in the corner of his lips, “Doesn’t matter.”
It tastes like your lip gloss. Strawberries and weed.
You take turns smoking it. Simon watches you the whole time, with lidded eyes, focused on the way your pretty lips curl around the joint. The way your chest rises with each inhale, your eyes becoming heavier and heavier, a lazy smile smeared across your lips as you lean closer to him on his old couch.
All he can think about is those lips wrapped around his cock and not the tip of the joint. And he’s definitely rock hard in his sweats, but he doesn’t care if you notice, not when you keep giggling at every bad joke he cracks.
He jerks himself off when you leave, promising you’ll be safe and text him when you get home. He finishes when your message pops at the top of his screen ‘made it safe :)’
He invites you over himself a week later because he’s got random inventory, he ordered them himself, of strawberry wraps and he’s certain you’ll like them.
You do like them. You’re melted into his couch, blinking lazily at him.
“How come you never charge me?” It’s a whisper.
He looks at you, the room dizzy with smoke and your pretty gaze.
“Never make pretty girls pay.”
“Oh?” You sound disappointed, “So, you give it free to other girls?”
He shakes his head, “Just you.”
You squint, “Are you only giving me free weed so you can get a lay?”
He smirks, “Is it working?”
You scoff, smacking him in the shoulder, “Unbelievable.”
He catches your wrist.
“You giving it to my friends for free too?”
“Careful,” He smirks, “You’re starting to sound jealous.”
You roll your eyes, trying to pull away from him. He keeps you close, tugging you into his lap so fast you have no choice but to slip onto his thighs. You don’t look at him, eyes focused to the side.
“Just you.”
You peer down at him then, “Huh?”
His fingers find your cheek, still burning from the embers of the joint, “You’re the only one I don’t charge.”
“Yeah?” You whisper.
“C’mere already.” He murmurs, pulling you down to kiss him.
You make a noise of surprise, like you hadn’t expected your smoke sessions to lead to this, with his cock pressed between your thighs eagerly, grip on your chin and hip to keep you close to him.
You kiss him back earnestly, smaller hands finding his shoulders. He loves it, fuck he loves the way your hands shake against his skin, the vibrations that leave your chest and fill his. He’s been dreaming about this since the moment you walked over in your tiny skirt.
Your bottom lip pops away from his, glistening with his saliva and not the lip gloss you insist on wearing.
“Wanted you to do that for ages.”
He chuckles against your lips, “Yeah?”
Your hips grind against his then, “Only reason my friends made me go was because I wouldn’t shut up about how hot you were.”
He presses his teeth against your neck, fingers making quick work of your belt and pants. “Came over with your ass and tits out, been jerking off to the memory ever since.”
You inhale sharply, “Fuck.”
Your eyes flutter when his fingers find your cunt, squelching with the sound of your arousal. He dips one finger in, drawing a whimper from you, and god you’re so fucking warm. The weeds got you nice and lax, a small grin on your lips as he coaxes you with one thick finger and he's sure he's never wanted to fuck someone more.
Your grin turns into a broken cry when he adds another, lips quivering around the shape of his name. Ghost. Ghost?
His thumbs already on your lips, gaze strong on you, “Simon.”
You nod in quiet understanding, “Simon.”
There’s a sticky strip of arousal that clings to your panties when he slides them off your thighs and it takes everything in him not to bury his face below and smell.
You scramble to his sweats, tugging them down impatiently. He lifts his hips willingly, lets his strained cock smack against his abdomen angrily. You lick your lips when you see it, eyes wide at the sight.
He grips it by the base, thumb coming up to wipe at the precum spilling from the tip.
“Oh my god.” You groan, “Let me ride you, please.”
He slides lower on the couch, tapping your hips casually in agreement like he hadn’t been picturing you on top of him for weeks, “Go on.”
You rise to your knees above him, shaking hand grabbing his cock so lightly it makes his eyes flutter. You glide his tip along your seams until it snags at your entrance, and you make a soft noise when he pops through. You slide down eagerly as much as he holds your hips and grits through his teeth to take it slow.
Your head falls to his shoulder when you sink to the base, his head rolling to the back of the couch because you’re so fucking warm and tight, and the weed definitely isn’t helping because he’s feeling everything ten times worse.
And when you lift your hips, he swears he sees heaven between your thighs when you drop back down and your pussy makes an obscene squelch.
You bury your face in his neck, arms around his shoulders and just fucking go at it. Ass slamming against his so fast the room echoes with each slap. You whine high-pitched with each thrust like you aren’t the one setting the pace, like you aren’t the fucking yourself raw around his cock.
“Jesus, bird, slow down.” He grunts, fingers dimpling your skin.
He says it because your legs are shaking and there’s sweat beading on your chest, whimpers falling from your lips endlessly, but more so because he doesn’t want it to end this soon. When he hasn’t even laid you back properly to fuck you the way he had hoped.
You don’t listen well.
You just keep sloppily fucking yourself onto his cock because you’ve found the sweet spot, the one that has you on the brink of an orgasm.
His lips on your neck do it for you, your toes curling into his shitty ass couch when you break. You soak his balls then, pussy clenching so tight around him he has to bite down on his cheek so he doesn’t bust.
He’s already moving you to your back, finding a home between your thighs when you come back down. You don’t even argue, like the perfect thing you are, folding your own legs to his shoulders, and arching into the couch.
He slides in slow, and your pussy spreads for him so prettily.
“Fuck,” he drawls, “Listen to her, just fuckin dying for me to fuck her.”
You whine loud at that, hips bucking to get him to move. He doesn’t wait a second longer, thrusts so hard into you, you feel it in your toes and your legs straighten out in shock.
He fucks you slow and hard, pace languid from the weed pulsing in his veins. You like it, at least he thinks you do from the way you keep writhing under him, the beginning syllables of his name broken on your lips between every thrust.
When he leans forward, pressing your knees to your shoulders, you gasp in shock from the stretch, but then his tip snags against that spot in your cunt that melts your brain into mush, and your eyes just roll into the back of your head.
He smirks proudly, bullying his length against that spot until you’re pushing at hips, murmuring something along the lines that it’s too much.
He doesn’t stop.
You pulse around him when you cum a second time, sweet voice ripped from your throat, and turned into blinded pleasure when he stamps his thumb against your swollen clit. Your feet tense at his shoulders, fingers tight against the cushions.
He finishes inside of you then, head falling to your shoulder with a deep groan, hips fucking into you with each pump.
I just know when Johnny gets a partner, Simon is the constant third wheel.
And you aren't too keen on the idea at first. You didn't sign up for a brooding and antisocial third, but you eventually accept that they're a packaged deal. You even start to feel bad for Simon, he's got this intense connection to Johnny, and you soon realize it's because he's the only one whose ever gave him the time of day.
It was never a competition for Johnny either, the man just seemed to like to be involved. He was never jealousy of the attention Johnny gave you.
Everything becomes threes after that. Dinner reservations, movie tickets, matching pajamas you buy for the holidays that sparks concerned conversation from all your friends and family when you send out Christmas cards with a menacing man next to you and Johnny that they've never met.
He sleeps on the couch most nights. At first, it was after a night out at the pub, and he was too drunk to drive home. Then, it turned into every weekend. Which evolved into a third toothbrush at your bathroom sink, three pairs of shoes at your door, and a designated mug he drank his tea out of every morning.
You woke up to him in your kitchen more times than you didn't. He just became this constant presence in both of your lives that the two of you even forgot what it felt like for him not to be there.
And the two of you realize it might have gotten too far when you're looking to move out and only look at houses that come with a second room for him. The man is appalled when you ask him if he wants to have his own room, he wants to sleep in the same bed with you and Johnny.
John Price’s favorite position is a mating press because he’s a fucking dirty old man with a raging breeding kink. The position allows him to fuck you real deep, kiss your cervix just so with his fat tip so that he fills your womb thrust after thrust.
And he keeps you there long after he’s finished, legs pressed to your shoulders, cock keeping you nice and plugged with his seed, muttering something breathless and ragged about ‘making a baby stick.’
John MacTavish’s favorite position is cowgirl because he’s obsessed with you and it gives him the perfect view of everything you. How your face scrunches when you sink all the way to the bottom or the way your tits bounce with each new thrust.
How your weight feels on top of him, so you’re in control. And the way you look at him, eyes determined, when he starts to get overstimulated, and begs you to stop, but you just fuck him harder.
Kyle Garrick’s favorite position is doggy because he’s an ass man after all and your hips are the perfect handles. He can’t stare at the way your ass recoils off his hips for too long or listen to the loud smack or else he’ll finish too quickly.
And he doesn’t even have to tell you; you just know he likes it when you bury your face into your arms and arch your ass that much higher. You don’t ever run too, just take the way his balls slam against you, meeting him with each deep thrust.
Simon Riley’s favorite position is prone brone because he can’t look at your face without immediately needing to finish. He’d rather take you this way, with your body trapped under his, weight suffocating you, so you have no option, but to take it.
Likes curling his hand around your neck and burying his face against your shoulder. Likes the way your legs kick out even more when he’s fucking you too roughly hands scrambling to find purchase on anything.
Captain price who’s imaging bending you over his desk as soon as you’re assigned to his team.
It’s wrong, he knows it is, you’re his sergeant, but he tells himself as long as he doesn’t act on those thoughts he’s fine. He can imagine you all he wants, on your knees, mouth stuffed, eyes watering, gasping for air when he finally lets up.
He tells himself that atleast.
Tells himself that right up until you’re laid out on his desk, needy cunt grinding against the length of his cock because he told himself— told you, that it wasn’t wrong, long as his dick didn’t slip in.
But nothing soon turns into gritted comments of ‘Jus’ the tip ‘ts not wrong if ‘ts jus’ the tip darling.’
Except he can’t stop until he’s ball deep, head falling on your shoulder muttering something along the lines that he couldn’t help it, you felt too good sweet’art.
He doesn’t really know how to be. His father and mother never had a loving relationship.
You accepted that, knew that you were the one that had to initiate physical touch or be the one to use terms of endearment most of the time. You knew how to love him without it.
But you couldn’t even pretend mornings weren’t your favorite. When he was just a little softer around the edges in the morning sun, half asleep and groggy.
He’s told you he doesn’t sleep much on assignments— doesn’t sleep well in general.
So, when he pulls you in by your waist, pressing his face into your neck with a soft noise of protest when you try to climb out of bed, you can’t even hold in your giggle.
Those are the few times his wall comes down, when he’s too half asleep to realize he’s calling you his baby and murmuring not to leave him just yet.
You’ll hold your pee in for as long as he holds you.
He’s got crows feet and forehead lines. His knees and ankles pop when he stands. And his visions gone to shit.
His doctor prescribed him glasses.
He hates them.
They fog up when he drinks tea in the morning and in cold weather. They gave him headaches, at first at least. He can’t even take a nap without them getting in the way.
And yet, there’s not a day he regrets wearing them. Not when he can finally see you clearly again, in all your flesh and glory. Finally see the curve of your nose or the corners of your lips turn when he kisses you without having to squint.
