The safehouse was barebones—four walls, a door that didn’t close properly, and a single narrow bed shoved against the wall like an afterthought. One thin blanket. No heater. Concrete floors so cold they bit through your boots.
Soap stepped in first, glancing around with a sigh. “Right, well. Guess this place was built for one poor bastard, not three.”
Ghost dropped his gear by the wall with a grunt. “I’ll take the floor.”
“Hell no,” you said automatically, slinging your pack down. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’m used to it.”
Soap rolled his eyes and gave Ghost a flat look. “You’ve got enough screws loose without adding hypothermia to the list.”
“Then I’ll take the floor,” you offered, already tugging at your jacket zipper. “I’m small enough to crash on my pack.”
Both men gave you the same sharp look.
“No,” Ghost said, voice final.
“You’ll ache for a week,” Soap added. “We’re not doing that.”
You all stood there a moment, silent, stubborn. Then Soap looked at the bed again and shrugged.
“We’re all adults. One bed, three bodies. Head to toe if we have to.”
You arched a brow. “Ever tried sleeping with Ghost’s boots near your face?”
Ghost snorted, the faintest smirk in his voice. “I’m not sleeping in my boots, you know.”
Eventually, an agreement was made: all three of you in the bed, boys facing outward—Ghost on one side, Soap on the other, and you safe in the middle. They’d flank you, keep you warm, no funny business. Just sleep.
That had been the plan, anyway.
You weren’t sure what time it was when you woke up—just that the moonlight had shifted and the room was bathed in soft silver. You were too warm, wrapped in heat that had nothing to do with the thin blanket.
Soap’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his hand resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, skin-to-skin and entirely unbothered. His breath tickled the curve of your neck, soft and steady. One of his legs had somehow worked its way between yours, your leg hitched over his.
Behind you, Ghost was molded to your back, chest pressed close, the slow rise and fall of his breath an anchor against your spine. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, the other tucked beneath the pillow you shared. Protective. Possessive. Present.
You shifted slightly, caught between warmth and awareness, and felt Soap's fingers twitch.Ghost’s hand tightened, just a fraction. Like they both felt it too.
Your breath hitched.
It wasn’t anything overt. Nothing crude. You were surrounded, caged in heat and strength and quiet tension.
And God, it felt good.
You could’ve pulled back. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You leaned in—drifting your fingers along Ghost’s forearm, letting your leg press deeper against Soap’s. Neither man spoke, but Soap’s breath caught, quiet and sharp.
Ghost... Ghost exhaled against the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, his face pressing in closer.
You fell asleep again like that—wrapped in the kind of tension that lulled you rather than startled. Wanting to stay wrapped in this dream a little longer before having to face reality.
—————————————————————————
The second time you woke, it was slower—every inch of your body aware before your mind caught up.
Warmth. Weight. Pressure. Breath against your throat.
Soap had shifted in the night, his head now tucked beneath your chin, resting lightly on your bicep. Your arm had curled around him, cradling him. His hand had drifted lower, fingers curved gently around the dip of your thigh. Your hips pressed snugly to his. Innocent, but barely.
Behind you, Ghost had only pulled you closer—his hand now splayed along your ribs, thumb rhythmically stroking the soft skin just under your breast.
You stayed still. Testing the moment.
Then you moved—just a little. A shift, nothing more.
Soap stirred against you, his body pressing closer.
Ghost’s hand stilled… then resumed its slow stroke.
Deliberate. Intentional.
“You’re awake,” came Ghost’s voice—low, gravelly. Dangerous.
You swallowed. “Didn’t mean to move.”
“Didn’t say stop.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Soap chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep and something else. “Think she likes waking up between us.” He arched his neck up and you felt his nose run up your neck, running back down to your collar bone where he nuzzled into you.
Your breath hitched.
“You’re imagining things,” you mumbled, but your voice betrayed you. Soft. Breathless.
“You sure about that?” Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear through the mask. “Because from where I’m lying, you haven’t moved away.”
You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. You were burning now—trapped between them and completely unwilling to escape.
Soap shifted again, his hand trailing down your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts. “We won’t do anything you don’t want, love,” he murmured.
“But if you want something…” Ghost said, voice dropping to a low, dark promise, “…just say it.”
The silence stretched.
And you wondered how you were going to convince yourself that this was a bad idea.
“Be a good girl and give him somewhere nice and warm to cum.”
Simon had been fucking Johnny whilst you rode his face, raking your fingernails through his short hair. You were almost at your second peak of the night and a slow whine left your lips at the thought of moving from your current position—a strong arm snaked around your waist and tugged you backwards as if you weighed nothing.
Once you’re seated, your gaze fixated on Soaps fucked out expression, your slick glistening on his chin. You could feel the rocking from Ghosts thrusts behind you and the resulting furrow of Soaps brow, the small gasps, the way he bit his lip to keep from crying out.
It was a confusing sensation—Soaps cock filling you to the brim, the movement from Ghost pushing him deeper and grinding your clit harder against him, the friction pushing you closer to that edge again. But watching Soaps reactions to your joint movement, looming over him as if you were the one fucking him, bringing him pleasure in a different way than usual. It held your full attention. It awoke something in you.
“Addictive isn’t it.” Ghosts deep, smooth voice in your ear broke the trance you were in and sent a shiver racing down your spine. “I think you’d like to be the one in my position—giving rather than taking for once.”
A sharp bite to your ear lobe forced a low moan from your lips. You grabbed desperately at Ghosts forearm as he moved his hand down and began playing with your clit—causing your eyes to flutter at the overwhelming sensations.
“You should see my view, Bonnie.” The words were so rough you could barely make them out. “Look so pretty taking me like such a good girl. Please. Move. I just need a little more, baby” he was practically whining now, desperately grabbing at your hips and trying to thrust up into you.
“Stop.” You felt the hard, punishing thrust from Simon and Johnnys immediate whimper that followed the act of dominance—and god did it do something to you.
Leaning back into Ghost, you tipped your head onto his shoulder as your eyelids grew heavy.
You twisted your head toward his ear and murmured, “Do that again.”
You felt Ghosts conspiratorial grin on your neck and knew you were all about to be in for a long, long night.
Ghost x f!reader (reader is a knitter and knits items for all the tf141 boys)
The mess hall was quiet, save for the soft clinking of cutlery against trays and the occasional murmur of conversation. You sat at your usual spot, a ball of yarn in your lap, currently working on a swatch for your next project. Knitting had always been a way to unwind, a small slice of home amidst the chaos of the barracks.
Soap sat across from you, elbows on the table as he watched your hands move. “Dunno how you do it,” he muttered, squinting at the intricate pattern forming. “Looks complicated.”
“It’s not,” you said, lips twitching. “You just don’t have the patience for it.”
Ghost, seated beside you, let out a small, amused huff. Neither of you had told the others about that time he came to your room asking you to teach him, rather unsuccessfully. You kept the mess of wool he’d created, never bothering to untangle the mess.
Price was at the end of the table, reading over a report, and Gaz was busy demolishing his second helping of whatever cake was on offer today. It was a rare moment of peace.
Until some new guy, a younger recruit, strolled in and spotted you.
He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Knitting?” He let out a short laugh. “Didn’t realize we had a fucking grandma on the team. Get a life, am I right?” The patronising tone dripping like honey.
You barely reacted, too used to comments like that. But what surprised you was the way the entire table shifted.
Soap leaned forward, forearms resting against the table, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. “You wanna say that again, mate?”
The recruit hesitated, glancing between them. “I mean—it’s just—” He chuckled nervously. “It’s an old person’s hobby, yeah? Didn’t think someone in this line of work would be into that kinda thing.”
Price exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the sheer stupidity unfolding before him.
“It was just a joke, dude.” Looking around for someone who would come back him up, he shifted uncomfortably on his feet again.
Gaz wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned back in his chair, gesturing toward you. “Tell me, mate—what kind of hobbies do you have? Anything as useful as hers?”
The recruit blinked. “Uh…”
“Didn’t think so,” Ghost muttered, setting his mug down with a dull thunk. His voice was even, but there was an edge to it, something dangerous.
The guy’s shoulders stiffened.
And then, as if to prove a point, Soap rolled up the sleeve of his combat shirt, revealing a thick, fingerless gloves with ‘soap’ lettered across the top of both knuckles. “Made this for me last winter,” he said proudly. “Bloody lifesaver in the cold.”
Gaz grinned and tugged at his beanie. “This too. Custom made.” It did have a small Union Jack you had painstakingly knitted into the hat.
Price, without looking up from his report, casually lifted his mug. It was wrapped in a snug, knitted cozy, complete with the Task Force’s emblem on it.
The recruit’s mouth opened, then closed.
And finally, Ghost—of all people—reached into his vest and pulled out a small, neatly folded black scarf. He didn’t say a word, just let the recruit see it before tucking it away again.
Silence.
The guy swallowed. “Right. Uh—sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to us,” Price drawled, finally glancing up. “Apologize to her.”
The recruit turned to you, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Uh. Sorry.”
You simply looked up at him, gave him a once over and nodded once before picking up your needles again. “Apology accepted.”
The table remained silent as the recruit awkwardly shuffled away.
After a beat, Soap snickered. “Bloody idiot.”
Gaz smirked. “Think he’s gonna ask for a scarf next?”
You shook your head, amused. “Doubt it.”
Ghost, still quiet, reached over and picked up the ball of yarn beside you. He turned it in his hands, gaze unreadable beneath the mask. Then, voice low, he murmured,
“Why doesn’t mine have a personal touch?”
At your confused look, he gestured to Price’s mug cosy. Your cheeks heated, you had assumed he wouldn’t want anything like that and honestly it had felt too personal of a gift to give to Ghost, too telling of your feelings towards him.
He was more important than the others to you, you’d trust him with anything, everything.
“I have a pretty obvious motif you could’ve used y’know.” His shoulder knocked into yours, careful not to jolt you too much and make you drop a stitch. “Make me another one.”
You met his eyes, warmth curling in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “A balaclava this time maybe.”
His eyes lit up with something at the idea, “you wanna borrow one as reference?”
Your eyes snapped down to the balaclava he currently wore, hiding the man underneath just out of view. The hint of full lips and a strong nose. The idea of having something so integral to him, it stopped your breath in your chest.
“Ok.” You pushed the word out, nodding at him when he told you he’d get it to you later.
————————————————————————
The rec room was unusually quiet tonight, the usual rowdiness dialed down to a low murmur. A football match played on the mounted TV, a few soldiers half-watching as they lounged across mismatched chairs.
You were tucked into the corner of the couch, legs curled up beneath you, the crochet hook you were using consuming your little bubble of focus.
The balaclava was coming along well, the skull design starting to take shape. It was a labor of love, every stitch precise, carefully crafted to match the one Ghost always wore.
You were mid-row when a familiar shadow loomed over you.
“What’s this, then?”
You startled slightly, fingers tightening around the yarn as Ghost settled onto the couch beside you. He sat close—not unusual, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him even through your layers.
You shifted, subtly angling yourself away from his line of sight. “Nothing.”
Ghost hummed, clearly unimpressed. “Doesn’t look like nothin’.”
You didn’t dare look at him, keeping your eyes fixed on the crochet in your lap. “It’s a work in progress.”
A pause. Then, “That the balaclava?”
You bit your lip.
When you didn’t answer, Ghost shifted.
You barely had time to react before he dipped his head, trying to peer over your shoulder. You turned quickly, twisting the fabric away from his view.
“Ghost,” you warned.
He leaned in further, voice low with amusement. “Just wanna see.”
“You cant see,” you shot back, tucking the project behind you to shield it from view. “Not yet.”
Ghost exhaled a quiet chuckle. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“You’re the one trying to peek.”
You expected him to back off, maybe let it go—but of course, he did the opposite.
With zero hesitation, he reached out, fingers brushing over yours as he gently—not snatching, thankfully—tried to pull the item away from your grasp.
You shot your arm out, keeping the yarn out of reach, and before you could react, you lost your balance.
One moment, you were dodging him. The next, you found yourself pressed against the arm of the couch, Ghost leaning over you, one hand braced beside your shoulder with the other reaching towards the yarn you held outstretched.
You both froze.
It wasn’t that different from combat training, really. Close quarters, tangled limbs, the familiar weight of his presence pressing into your space. But this wasn’t training.
You had touched each-other before, it was familiar.
What wasn’t familiar was how it felt.
Your breathing hitched as Ghost’s gaze met yours, dark eyes dominating your vision. His fingers were still grazing your hands, barely there, but enough to send heat curling through your spine.
Your heart pounded, your skin prickling with awareness. You swore his gaze dipped—just for a second—to your lips before snapping back up.
Then, just as slowly, he eased away. “Fine, have it your way, Love”
The moment passed, dissipating like smoke, ease replacing the tension.
You sat up, straightening the yarn in your lap, fingers slightly unsteady as you smoothed out the yarn now carefully hidden behind your raised knee.
Ghost exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “All that just to keep me from seein’ something I know you’re making f’me.”
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You started it.”
He hummed, gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary before he leaned back into the couch, settling beside you like nothing had happened.
You settled more comfortably, not bothering to hide the project any longer. If he inspected what lay in your lap, he hid it well.
Conversation passed easily between you both as you continued your rows. The warmth from him seeping into you through your legs that was pressed against his side.
So I keep seeing the idea of Simon using his balaclava to basically gag himself when he’s having fun alone time and thought it would be hilarious for reader to accidentally interrupt him.
~Enjoy.
You aren’t supposed to be walking down the corridor towards Simon’s room, but after nearly snapping at a rookie in the range, you figured it was either vent or commit murder. You opted for venting.
You knock once—sharp, impatient.
No answer.
You knock again, this time louder, “Riley, you alive in there?”
There’s a thud, a very faint shit, and a few shuffled footsteps before the door swings open. Simon appears in the doorway, breathless, eyes slightly wide. And — your brain stutters — his face is bare. No balaclava.
You blink. “Wow. A rare sighting of the man himself. Can I get my camera?”
He gives you a flat look, like he’s weighing up closing the door on you and pretending this never happened. “What do you want?”
“Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic.” You shoulder past him and step into the room. “I needed to talk—well, vent.”
He closes the door with a sigh and mutters something about boundaries, but doesn’t stop you.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” you begin, pacing as you talk. “You know that new rookie? The one with the smug face and the haircut that screams ‘I’m an asshole’? He tried to explain recoil management to me. Me. As if I wasn’t there to teach him.”
Simon leans against the wall, arms crossed, breathing slowly evening out. He’s listening, but he also seems… distracted. And warm. His cheeks still hold a pink tinge that’s not from embarrassment. You glance at him, narrowing your eyes.
“You alright? You look… flushed.”
“Just warm in here,” he says quickly.
You look around the room. It’s not warm. It’s military-issue cold and sterile.
You plop down on his bed with a huff and grab the first thing your hand lands on, his balaclava. You start fiddling with it absentmindedly as you continue ranting. Running your fingers around its edges, smoothing out the ruffled fabric.
“So then he says, ‘You’re just overreacting because you’re a girl and I gave you a correction.’ And I swear to god, I nearly choked him with my shoelaces.”
Simon lets out a low sound, something like a half-snort, half-growl. “He still in one piece or do I need to head down there and stage a little accident?”
“I’ve got it covered. But thanks for the offer.”
As you speak, your fingers twist through the fabric. But something catches your attention. Your brow furrows. “Why’s this… damp?”
You lift the balaclava higher, peering at the wet patches. “Are these teeth marks?”
Simon stiffens.
You look at him. He looks at you.
His mouth opens. Closes.
And then—blush creeps up like a slow burn from his neck to his ears.
“Oh my god,” you say, blinking. “Simon.”
He clears his throat.
“It’s not—”He rubs a hand over his face, which only makes his ears redder. “It’s not what you think.”
You stare at the balaclava in your hands, then at him, then back again.
“Oh no. It’s exactly what I think,” you say, holding the evidence like it might start screaming confessions. “You used this to shut yourself up while you were—God, Simon!”
“I wasn’t expecting company!”
You both fall into stunned silence. You glance down again at the balaclava. Then back up at him. Your grin stretches slow and wicked.
"I'll leave," you stood slowly backing up to the door, voice all mock-sweet. “Let you... finish.”
You’re laughing as he snatches the balaclava out of your hand, his ears flaming.
As you got to the door, you paused. A thought strikes and before you linger on it too long—“Who were you thinking about?”
He goes very still.
Then you turn, voice teasing, eyes fixed on him. “Anybody special?”
His jaw ticks once. Then again. You swear you can see him calculating the odds—whether honesty is worth the gamble.
But you don’t give him the chance.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, a dramatic grin tugging at your lips. You step back into the room, arms folding. “It was me, wasn’t it?”
He says nothing, glare intensifying.
“Oh this is too good—which fantasy is your favourite?” You don’t wait for his response, “Is it me all sweaty and stinking from the gym?”
He steps closer to you. You step back.
“Or was it that time I came back from that recon op, covered head to toe in mud and God knows what else? Because that,” you gesture up and down your body, “was peak seduction, obviously.”
Simon exhales a short breath like he’s trying not to laugh—or trying to not strangle you. You don’t stop.
He steps forward again. You step back, softly hitting the door behind you.
“Or—wait—was it when I had the flu and couldn’t stop sneezing and had tissues stuffed up my nose? Yeah. Super sexy. Real fantasy material.”
You go to make another jab, but he finally speaks—and the calm, gravelly tone of it slams into you like a punch.
“Yeah,” Simon says. “So what if it was you?”
Your mouth opens—and then you freeze. That’s not the answer you were ready for.
“It’s always you,” he adds, stepping forward, hands bracing against the door on either side of your head, “Doesn’t matter if you’re sweaty, or dirty, or pissed off enough to break someone’s jaw.”
You blink, reboot your brain. You shove him lightly in the chest, half-laughing. “Shut up. I’m the funny one, remember?”
He doesn’t budge.
A smirk tugs at his lips—not cocky, not cruel. Confident.
“You gonna keep teasing me now?” he murmurs, voice like gravel and sin. Head tilting to the side, mockingly.
Your throat is dry. “I mean… probably not.”
His eyes flicker around your face, you can hear your heartbeat in your head.
You drag in a breath, “You want me?”
“That depends,” he says. “You gonna keep running that mouth, or you want me to put it to better use?”
That definitely short-circuits your brain.
“Jesus Christ.” you whisper, voice a little too breathless, a little too eager.
“Only name you’ll be praising tonight is mine, sweetheart.”
Later, when you’re stripped bare on his bed, legs trembling, his mouth on your pussy like he’s starving, you try to muffle the moans clawing their way out of your throat.
Simon lifts his head, lips glistening. “Mmm—what’s wrong? You struggling to keep quiet?”
You let out a broken noise—and he grabs the balaclava, the same one from earlier, and presses it into your hand.
You don’t hesitate.
You shove it between your teeth, biting down, back arching as he flattens his tongue and devours you.
“Much as I’d like to hear all those pretty little noises,”Simon smirks against you, clearly satisfied, and licks another stripe up your clit—slow, deliberate—before sucking it into his mouth. “I’m not willing to share. Especially not the sounds of me making you come.”
And the way you whimper around that fabric?
It’s better than anything he’d imagined.
Your back arches. He groans softly at the way your hips buck, hands gripping your thighs tighter to pin you in place.
“Yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing your slick skin. “Just like that.”
Your hands fly to his hair—short and messy from your earlier interruption—but you don’t pull him away. You anchor yourself, like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
“You’ve no idea,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down to join his mouth, “how long I’ve wanted to do this. You, like this—open and so needy and all mine.”
A low, desperate sound catches in your throat, muffled by fabric.
His fingers slide inside you—two at once—and your eyes roll back. He curls them just right, searching for that spongy area to make you shake. His tongue keeps working in tandem, relentless and steady, mouth slick and warm.
You’re close. It’s spiraling fast, too fast.
Simon knows it, too.
“C’mon, love,” he mutters, the words pressing against your skin. “Be good for me. Come on my tongue.”
That’s all it takes. You break apart with a cry smothered by his balaclava, thighs clamping around his head, body shaking with release.
He doesn’t stop.
Keeps going through it, coaxing every last aftershock out of you, until you’re squirming, twitching—pushing at his shoulder with your feet.
Finally, finally, he pulls back—licks his lips slowly like he’s savouring every second of you on his tongue. He leans up over you, arms caging you in, watching with dark, hungry eyes as you pant, flushed and wrecked beneath him.
Your hand shakily lowers the balaclava from your mouth, and your voice comes out hoarse. “You’re a menace.”
He smirks, dragging the fabric from your hand and tossing it aside. “You didn’t seem to mind.”
You scowl at him half-heartedly. “I didn’t.”
He leans down, nose brushing yours. “Good.”
Then he kisses you—deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue—and you moan, arms looping around his neck before you can think better of it.
When he finally pulls away, breathless, he smiles. A rare one. Soft, but no less intense.
“You’re not getting the last word tonight,” he says, voice thick with promise.
You lift your brows. “No?”
He shakes his head, trailing kisses along your jaw, your throat, the curve of your shoulder.
“I’m just getting started.”
Your breath hitches at the low, dangerous way he says it. I’m just getting started.
“Yeah?” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. “Planning to ruin me, Lieutenant?”
That smirk comes back—sharper now. Almost wicked.
“Oh, I’m not planning,” he murmurs, fingers trailing down your side, dragging goosebumps in their wake. “I’m going to.”
He slides lower, mouth returning to your skin—not frantic, not rushed, but with purpose. Reverent. His stubble grazes your sensitive flesh, and you flinch, still overstimulated and burning for more.
You can’t believe he’s going down again.
Your hands find his shoulders, nails pressing into muscle as he hooks your knees over his broad shoulders again, spreading you wide beneath him. You’re already slick, flushed, raw—too sensitive to take much more. You feel like the only thing that exists in the world when Simon Riley is between your legs.
“Need to get you prepped for me, doll. Gotta get this pretty little cunt,” he says softly, breath hot as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, “soaking wet for me.”
You moan, head tipping back against the pillows. You never thought his mouth would be this dirty—half expected the stoic, silent Lieutenant he is in public.
“And the way you fucking taste…” He groans, low and wrecked, like he’s the one falling apart.
You feel the press of his tongue again—slower this time, but no less consuming. He laps at you with long, deliberate strokes, occasionally dragging his teeth just barely where you’re most sensitive, making you gasp.
One of his hands slides up your belly, splaying against your chest. His thumb brushes over your nipple and you arch into him with a broken whimper.
“Sensitive,” he hums against your folds. “You gonna come again for me?”
You nod helplessly, words gone—wrecked by the overwhelming heat and sensation. He chuckles darkly and closes his mouth around your clit again, sucking gently.
You don’t stand a chance.
Your second orgasm crashes into you, your back bowing, thighs shaking around his head. It’s slower than the first, but deeper—like it’s being pulled from the base of your spine, curling through your entire body. You sob his name into your palm, clinging to his shoulders like you might fly apart without him.
And still, he doesn’t let up. He works you through it, tongue and fingers moving in tandem, until your legs twitch and you let out a half-laugh, half-whimper.
“Simon, fuck, I—please—”
You push his body away with your foot, he sits back on his knees, gliding his hand up and down your calf, lips slick with your release, eyes dark and feral as he takes you in. Perfectly dishevelled.
“Too much?” he teases, his voice rougher now, tinged with something almost smug. “Or just enough?”
You glare at him through your lashes. “I hate you.”
His grin widens as he pushes your leg out of the way and crawls back over you, nudges your jaw with his nose. “That’s not what your cunt says.”
He’s filthy. You groan, dragging him down by the back of his neck into a kiss—deep, messy, a little desperate.
“You gonna fuck me or just keep teasing me to death?” you breathe against his lips.
He laughs—low, throaty.
“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you,” he promises. “Nice and slow.”
He reaches down between you, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, just enough to make your breath catch again.
“But not until you beg for it.”
Your body jerks at the glide of his cock against your aching core—warm, heavy, teasing. A fresh wave of heat pools low in your stomach, and you tighten your grip on his shoulders, nails digging in with a whimper you barely catch behind clenched teeth.
“Beg?” you echo, breathless.
Simon hums, nose brushing your cheek, voice like gravel and smoke.
“You heard me.”
He presses the tip just barely into you—then he pulls back, slow and deliberate.
Your eyes flutter shut. He does it again.
“C’mon, love,” he says, mouth grazing your ear now. “You were so full of clever little comments before. Where’d all that mouth go?”
You glare up at him, flustered and trembling, every nerve ending alight. “You’re insufferable.”
He grins, unfazed. “And you’re soaked. Dripping, even.”
Another teasing thrust—shallow, maddening. Your body aches, clenches around nothing, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.
You huff out a frustrated sound, forehead resting against his chest. “Simon—”
“Ah-ah.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “You want my cock, you ask for it.”
You decide to give in.
You lift your chin, lips brushing his as you whisper, “Please, Simon.”
He doesn’t move.
You swallow, cheeks burning. “Please fuck me. I need it.”
That dark heat in his eyes flares. “Say it again.”
You moan in frustration, squirming beneath him. “Simon, please. I need your cock. I need you to fuck me—now.”
That does it.
His control snaps like a wire under tension, and he surges forward, burying himself inside you in one long, delicious thrust. You cry out—the stretch making your back arch as he bottoms out.
“Fuck,” he grits through clenched teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “Christ—you’re so tight. Fuck, I know I’m big, baby. You can take it. I know you can. Show me how good you can be f’me.”
Your hands claw at his back as he starts to move, slow at first, then harder, deeper. Each thrust steals breath from your lungs, pushes moans past your lips without thought.
He groans into your neck, biting down gently before pulling back to look at you—flushed, panting, completely undone.
“You like this?” he growls, fucking into you harder. “Me inside you, filling you up?”
You can’t speak. Can only nod, eyes rolling back as he angles his hips just right and hits that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision go white.
His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit. “One more,” he says roughly. “Give me one more. I want to feel you come on my cock.”
You’re close—so close—and his words tip you right over the edge.
You fall apart with a sob of his name, walls clenching around him as your climax hits like a tidal wave. He groans deep in his chest, slamming into you once, twice more before he spills inside you with a shuddering gasp.
The room goes quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing and his heartbeat pounding against your chest.
After a moment, he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. His voice, when it comes, is quieter. Rough in a different way.
“You alright?”
You nod, a little dazed. “More than alright.”
He kisses you then—slow and soft, a stark contrast to everything that came before it.
You whisper into his lips, “Am I better than your imagination?”
This is in no way proof read btw. Also sorry this took me so long to post.
You checked your gear one last time, weapons loaded, comms live, extraction plan ready. Everything was set.
Except him.
The two of you had been almost entirely silent the entire morning. He was throwing plenty of sidelong glances at you, you were acting strange.
“Why is your rifle set up?” Of course Ghost wouldn’t ignore anything out of the ordinary, especially not with how you acted during the mission briefing. You hadn’t run into Soap before you left, luckily.
“Prefer using the scope to check on our target,” you just had to find something to distract him, “Gonna write me up for it?”
He looked at you too closely, studying your expression, “You seem nervous—“
“I’m not.” The response came out like a reflex. You didn’t look at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice you anxiety.
Ghost gently called your name, pulling your eyes to his concerned ones. Seconds passed as neither of you said anything.
He was looking at you like he used to, before everything had gotten so complicated. when the two of you had been able to share space as easily as breathing. As if understanding you was easier than understanding his own mind, perhaps it was at times.
A hand gently encased the back of your neck—applying a pressure which helped ground you. A memory flashed of the time you had been one comment away from breaking after losing your Mother where Ghost did the same thing. His own way of comforting you. Your head fell forward, allowing his thumb to come up to softly stroke your cheekbone.
You could feel his hesitancy, he wasn’t someone easily fooled. You just needed his guard down a little more.
You flicked your eyes up, connecting to brown orbs—and moved. Swift and sharp, you jabbed the syringe into the meat of his arm.
He caught your wrist too late.
"Fuckin' hell—" he growled, stumbling back. His knees buckled as the mild sedative took hold. Just enough to slow him, not knock him out completely.
You grabbed a length of reinforced paracord from your belt and, with practised efficiency, tied his arms and legs. You worked fast, using the task as a distraction from the hurt and betrayal now flooding his eyes.
"You little shit," Ghost growled, struggling against the bindings. His voice was rough with disbelief and fury. "You're drugging me now?"
"Not drugging," you corrected carefully, tightening the last knot. "Sedating. Slight difference."
He gave you a look that promised violence, “This isn’t you.”
You hurried around grabbing all the items you would need.
“Maybe you don’t know me anymore.”
“Oh don’t give me that bullshit.” He scoffed. His eyes followed each of your movements, thinning at you as your fingers brushed his skin whilst attaching the comms unit to his ear.
"You’re staying here," you said firmly. "Watching my six from a distance. If you come after me, you’ll compromise the mission and my safety."
“Like hell you are." he bit out.
You hesitated, then keeping your voice low. "It’s the better play. You’ll see."
His face hardened under your stare. The Ghost his enemies saw becoming real in front of you. You had pushed too far, you knew that for sure now, there was no coming back from this distrust you had built. Now wasn’t the time to think about it, you grabbed your pack and disappeared into the brisk air.
A coldness settled in your chest, leaving you untethered. This wasn’t you; you didn’t need Ghost to tell you that. You’d already made your choice, and now you’d have to live with it, no matter how loudly your heart screamed traitor, urging you to turn back and let Ghost in again.
Static buzzed softly in your earpiece as you moved through the desolate streets, every step careful, precise.
Ghost’s voice crackled through a couple minutes later, low and deadly.
"You’re a bloody idiot."
"Good to hear your voice, Ghost," you whispered, checking your corners.
"You think tying me up was clever? When I get out of this—"
"You'll do what exactly?" you asked under your breath. "If you tell Price, you know he’ll never let me on a mission again. Is that what you want?"
Silence, then darkly "You're takin’ advantage of the fact I care about you."
Your chest squeezed. But your tone stayed breezy. “Its called leverage.”
You hadn't spoken this freely with Ghost in weeks, a sharp tug in your chest growing the further away you got. You hope he would forgive you with time, but you supposed you had already become so distant that it wouldn't really matter either way.
A grunt filtered through your earpiece, “Soon as I’m out of these knots, I’m coming after you. This tantrum of yours ends now.”
"You’re not coming after me because I’m already in. You would only draw more attention and risk getting us caught if you came now," you murmured, slipping into a half-collapsed building being used as a temporary base. "And if you were honest, you'd admit you’re a little impressed."
Silence for a beat.
"Pissed," Ghost growled. "Not impressed."
You chuckled quietly as you continued weaving your way through rubble.
"I would've taken an eastern approach," Ghost muttered.
"Don't need the commentary, Ghost" you said.
"Should've thought about that before you left me behind." Ghost didn't quite pull off the light tone he was aiming for, coming out harsher than you think he intended.
The mission unfolded quickly, enemy patrols avoided with skill that would’ve made Price proud.
You fed updates through comms in a low murmur, Ghost giving occasional grunted responses. His anger simmered under the surface, but you could feel his focus, sharp as ever, adapting to the new role you had shoved him into.
Then you entered the main objective building and your comms went silent.
For nearly two minutes.
"Come in," Ghost said sharply. "Status."
Nothing.
“Fuck—” Ghost cursed, pulling out the long-range radio, pacing tight circles. He could hear faint movement, boots, rubble, but no voice. No breathing.
“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he said, dangerously quiet. “Where the hell are you?”
Still nothing.
Another fifteen seconds.
He was debating calling in backup, consequences be damned, when your voice finally crackled through, hushed and annoyed.
"Jesus, Ghost," you muttered. "Keep your panties on."
Ghost exhaled hard, sagging against the wall. Relief hit him like a truck.
"You were silent for almost three minutes," he snarled. "I thought you were dead."
"Couldn't talk," you said calmly, as if explaining it to a child. "You know... stealth mission? Talking in a hostile-controlled building isn’t exactly smart."
There was a pause.
"You could’ve given me a heads-up, smartass," he muttered.
You smirked to yourself, moving swiftly to your exit point. "Oh, also. Sweetheart?"
Ghost growled low in the comms, and even without seeing him, you could picture the furious expression under the mask.
A smile twitched on your lips, unbidden.
You were about to respond when the hair on the back of your neck prickled.
Movement.
Two shapes burst from the doorway directly beside you, shadows in black tactical gear.
They were definitely not supposed to be there.
You spun, barely dodging the first strike, your back slamming into the concrete wall behind you. One of them lunged. You blocked, twisting his arm and driving your elbow into his throat. He staggered, but the second was on you in an instant, catching your ribs with a brutal kick.
You gasped, doubling over, and dropped to a knee.
"Form's slippin'," Ghost murmured in your ear, cool and observant. "Don't let 'em box you in."
You gritted your teeth, parrying a punch and driving your knife into the first man’s thigh. He screamed. You cut it off at the source with a second slash. The other grabbed your hair, yanking your head back—
“Fuck off,” you snarled, slamming your elbow into his nose. He reeled, blood spurting, but he had grabbed your knife arm and pinned it.
"Breathe. I can't get a clear shot if you keep moving all over the place." He must've free'd himself from the binds and set up at the rifle, you were on the east side directly opposite him, you just needed to get him a clear shot.
You twisted, broke the grip, losing the knife in the process. But he surged back up, bloodied and furious. He got you on your back, straddling your waist, and smashed your head back into the concrete.
Your hands came up to knock him off but your movement felt sluggish. You stared into your attacker’s wild eyes, hands locked on his wrists, arms shaking from the strain.
You knocked his weight to the side, surging your hips up to knock off his balance. His arm was now pressing against your throat, cutting off your air supply.
Bucking your hips you finally unbalanced him, earning you a punch to your jaw. "I don't have a clear shot. You need to move, soldier!"
Ghost sounded angry in your ear.
But he had picked up the knife and began to circle you, lunging to try and find an opportunity to weaken you.
Then a single, sharp crack echoed across the river.
The man’s head snapped back. His body slumped.
You shoved him away, chest heaving, trying to process it. The first man had long bled out beside you.
Your comms crackled.
"Clean shot from 600 out," Ghost said casually. "I'll take my thanks now."
You coughed, wiping blood from your face with the back of your glove. “Bastard.”
"You're welcome, Soldier." A pause. "You gonna need any further assistance?"
You stood, body sore, heart pounding, and looked across the river toward the dark silhouette of the safehouse.
“Nope,” you muttered, popping the 'p', “Thanks for the cover.”
"Anytime. Now move.”
Shouts sounded from close by. You turned and ran toward the exit, bruised and bloody, but alive.
The debriefing room was thick with tension the moment you strode through the door.
Price stood stiff-backed by the table, arms folded, the look on his face halfway between relief and thunderous rage.
Soap was leaning against the wall, hands grasped behind him, staring at you like you'd grown a second head.
And Ghost…
Ghost was a storm barely contained, his arms crossed tight, boots planted like he was holding himself back from physically shaking you.
No one said anything at first.
You offered a weak, tired smile.
"Mission success," you said tightly, eyes shifting over the men you suddenly didn't recognise.
The reaction was immediate.
Price slammed his palm down on the table so hard it rattled. "What the fuck were you thinking?" he snapped, voice rough.
Soap whistled low under his breath, shaking his head. "You’ve got some fuckin' brass ones, I'll give ye that."
Ghost said nothing, just stared at you.
You couldn’t meet his eyes.
"Drugging a teammate?—“
“Sedating.” You cut in.
“—Ignoring direct orders? Going solo into a hot zone?" Price was listing every sin like he was reciting charges in a court-martial. "You think you did a good job didn't you."
"I completed the mission," you insisted, voice hoarse. You were sweating now. not from nerves, but something deeper.
"You compromised protocol," Price barked. "You put yourself and this whole unit at risk. You think we're gonna forgive you for this? You think you're special?"
“No, of course not. I realise I shouldn't have done it but-”
“You made that suggestion and I said no. That should have been final. You disobeyed a direct order from a superior.” Price got up in your face, “I’ve changed my mind. You’re off duty. I don’t care what missions we get, you’re not on them until I say so.”
You opened your mouth to answer.
Nothing came out.
The room tilted slightly, the edges of your vision blurring.
You staggered a step back, the three of them surrounding you, looming over you, blocking out the light in the room.
"You should've never come back. We're better off without you y'know-" Price's eyes are drilling into you as he pushes you back, your feet stumbling into a table.
"...Sorry," you croaked.
“Always wanting what Johnny and I have. Tried your best to ruin us, didn’ ya" Ghosts words intimately whispered into your ear sent you reeling backward. "You’ll always be alone."
A hand came out and grabbed your throat, your hands clawing at it as your vision began to fade at the edges. Their faces merging into one. The last thing you saw before you faded into darkness were their eyes looking down at you with indifference.
You choked awake on a shoulder, the gentle sway sending your head spinning.
“—fuck, she’s gone, I can’t see her anymore. Soap, what do I do!” You could hear Ghosts urgent voice in your ear. Your comms still connected to where he was trapped in the safe room, where you left him incapacitated.
You were still on the mission.
You must have made some sort of sound because the soldier next to you glanced over, seeing your eyes blearily looking around.
You could vaguely hear Ghost frantically shouting in your ear. He was being forced to watch you get captured, unable to help due to your earlier decision to leave him behind. You were sure he was furious.
The butt of a gun swiftly took consciousness away from you again, knocking the comms piece from your ear.
The last thing you heard was Ghost shouting your name. Not in anger this time, but fear.
The guy huffs out a chuckle, planting a hand on the bar and leaning further into your space.
You’re not usually a violent person.
Well… that's not exactly true. You are literally part of a pretty serious Task force for the Army.
You try to be a non-violent person. But this guy just burned through the last of your patience.
Finally turning to him for the first time tonight, you take him in. You first notice that he's actually kind of cute—in that boyish, preppy, goes-to-the-gym-five-times-a-week way. Secondly, you notice he has mistaken your attention as encouragement, doubling down on whatever godawful pick-up attempt he was about to make.
His hand lifts, aiming for the loose strand of hair near your face. You assume he’s going for the classic tuck-it-behind-the-ear move. He never makes it that far.
He’s face-down on the bar, his arm wrenched behind his back before he can so much as say How you doin’?
He starts whining, then—oh, you have got to be kidding. The man is actually crying.
Your face twists with disgust, you had barely even touched him.
Pitying him, you let go. He slides off the bar, rubbing at his eyes before staggering back to his friends. They burst into laughter, jostling him with mocking banter about getting rejected.
A pair of eyes catch yours as you return to your seat.
They're surrounded by streaks of black makeup, a balaclava with a skull print and a stockily built body.
Ghost.
His gaze narrows. Amusement? Maybe. You're not sure, but heat coils low in your stomach anyway.
You snap your eyes away, not looking to gain anymore attention tonight.
Not that you think he would ever try anything.
No—Simon Ghost Riley isn’t the type.
Not even if he thought she was the most stunning thing he’d ever seen.
You quickly check your phone, but the sensation of being watched lingers, prickling at the back of your neck.
Then, a shadow falls over the bar beside you.
“Another,” comes a familiar voice, low and rough.
You glance up just as the bartender sets a fresh glass in front of you—your drink, exactly the same as before. Your gaze snaps to the man who ordered it.
Ghost.
He’s close enough that you catch a faint hint of the cologne he is wearing. His eyes, framed by that streaky black makeup, flicker toward you briefly before settling back on his own drink.
You hesitate. “What’s this?”
He nods at the glass. “A drink for you”
You blink, taken off guard. Your mind jumps to the obvious conclusion.
Oh. No. No way.
Your stomach twists uncomfortably, and you lean back slightly. “Look, if this is an attempt at—”
“Relax,” he interrupts, finally turning to face you fully. His gaze is steady. Amused? You have no idea. “Not tryin’ it on with you.”
Heat creeps up your neck, embarrassment settling in. “Then why—?”
A small huff of amusement escapes him. “Because you spilled your last one.”
You frown. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” he confirms, nodding toward the far end of the bar, where the preppy gym rat is still rubbing at his face. “Whiskey in the eyes. That’s why he was cryin’.”
You stare at him.
Then, slowly, you turn your head to look at the guy—who is, in fact, still dabbing at his eyes while his friends howl with laughter.
Realization dawns.
“Oh,” you murmur, feeling incredibly stupid.
Ghost watches as it sinks in, then exhales a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Christ. You thought you scared him to tears?”
You cross your arms, feigning indifference. “Well, it’s happened before.”
That earns you a proper laugh, a rare thing, deep and genuine. “I don’t doubt that for a second.” He shakes his head again, still amused, and nudges the fresh drink toward you.
“Anyway,” he says, eyes flicking over you once more before he straightens up.
And just like that, he turns to leave, rejoining a grinning Johnny.
You stare after him for a beat, then down at the glass in front of you.
A bit of insight into how the team discovered your hobby (pure fluff guys don’t get too excited)
——————————————————————————
The morning air bit through the training field like a knife. Frost clung to the edges of the grass, boots crunched softly over frozen earth, and visible breath curled in front of the squad as they gathered for drills.
You were tugging on the last of your gear when you felt someone watching.
“Oi,” Soap’s voice rang out, loud and unbothered as always. “Where’d you get that?”
You paused, hands still gripping the soft, dark wool wrapped around your shoulders and neck. It was a hooded scarf—something between a cowl and a cloak, thick enough to block out the chill that seeped through the base at ungodly hours like this. You were surprised he’d noticed. You were still the new one—not shunned, but not quite familiar either. Floating on the edge of the Task Force’s tight-knit chemistry, earning your place one drill at a time.
You were just finishing tying it at the back of your neck when you looked up. Soap was already grinning. “That thing you’ve got on. Looks like something outta Skyrim.”
You snorted. “It’s just for the cold.”
Gaz wandered over, raising a brow as he caught sight of it. “Didn’t know we had gear like that in supply.”
“It’s not standard,” you mumbled, brushing a few loose strands of your hair back into place.
Ghost was there too, silent as ever, standing at the edge of the group and watching with those unreadable eyes of his. You suddenly became very aware of the fact that most of the team had turned to look now—Price included, giving the scarf a mildly curious once-over.
“Where’d you get it?” Gaz asked again, this time with more genuine interest than teasing. “Looks warm.”
You hesitated, then shrugged. Guess it’s now or never, “Made it.”
“Wait—” Soap’s face lit up. “You made it?”
You nodded reluctantly. “Knitted it. Helps pass the time.”
For a moment, you braced yourself. You’d been expecting a bit of a joke. Nothing cruel—but something. A smart remark about old ladies and rocking chairs, maybe. Something to chip away at the edge you’d worked hard to maintain since joining the team.
But it didn’t come.
Soap just grinned wider. “That’s brilliant.”
You blinked. “It is?”
“Hell yeah,” he said, already stepping closer to get a better look. “You made the whole thing yourself?”
“Yeah.” You tried not to sound defensive. “I do it when I can’t sleep. Keeps my hands busy.”
Soap gave a low whistle. “You ever think about sellin’ ‘em?”
You laughed—that was the joke, surely.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Could use one of those for winter patrols. My ears freeze off every time.”
“You don’t need to pay me for a scarf,” you replied, half-smiling now.
He held a hand up. “I insist. I’ll pay in drinks. Or smokes. Or whatever form of currency you accept.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the warmth creeping into your chest.
Gaz grinned. “Well, if you’re taking orders…”
You groaned and dropped your face into your gloved hands. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
But there was no teasing. No mockery. Just genuine interest—and, maybe, a bit of admiration.
Even Ghost said nothing. But when you glanced up, he was still looking at the scarf, just a second longer than necessary before turning away and pulling on his own gear.
The moment passed quickly—Price barked for everyone to gear up and move out—but the warmth of it lingered.
A smile curled itself onto your lips.
You weren’t just the new fighter anymore.
You were the one who could put an enemy on the ground in ten seconds flat and knit a hooded scarf to survive the winter.
And apparently, that was more impressive than anyone expected.
