Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
The first time Simon sees you, you’re halfway up a mechanic’s chest and tearing him to pieces.
“You had one job,” you snap, voice cutting through the hangar like a blade. “One. And you still managed to screw it up so badly I’m wondering if you did it on purpose.”
The man—built, older, clearly outranking you in everything but nerve—doesn’t even try to argue.
Because you don’t let him.
You step closer, boots loud against the concrete, chin tipped up like you’re staring down a giant instead of barely reaching his shoulder.
“I don’t care what rank you think protects you,” you continue, quieter now—worse, somehow. “If that bird fails out of the air because of your laziness, I will personally make sure your career ends in a broom closet.”
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
A few heads turn. No one interferes.
From across the hangar, Ghost watches.
Still.
Silent.
Hooked.
There’s something wrong with him, he knows that. Always has been. What he endured growing up and years of war don’t leave a man right. But this—this sharp-tongued, five-foot menace dressing down grown men like they’re nothing—
Christ.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
You don’t even raise your voice again. You just look at the mechanic, unimpressed, like he’s already beneath you.
“Fix it,” you say flatly. “Or get replaced.”
Then you turn on your heel and walk off like the entire world should part for you.
Ghost exhales slowly behind his mask.
“Who’s that?” Soap mutters beside him, equal parts impressed and terrified.
Ghost doesn’t answer right away.
Because he’s still watching you.
Every step. Every sharp movement. The way you don’t hesitate, don’t soften, don’t care.
“…mine.” he says finally, voice low enough that Soap almost misses it.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You don’t notice him at first.
Why would you?
He’s just another soldier in a mask, another shadow in a place full of them.
And you don’t waste your time on shadows.
The first time he speaks to you, it’s because you’re arguing again.
“—if you send me that report one more time with missing data, I will assume you’re illiterate and act accordingly.”
“I am your superior—”
“And I do not care,” you cut in instantly. “Fix it.”
There’s a pause.
Then, from behind you—
“Bit harsh, aren’t you?”
You turn.
Slow.
Measured.
Your eyes land on him—tall, broad, skull mask staring back at you like something out of a horror flick.
You don’t flinch.
You don’t hesitate.
You don’t even blink.
“…and you are?” you ask, flat and unimpressed.
Ghost—Simon—feels something snap pleasantly in his chest.
God.
You don’t know him.
You don’t even care.
You’re looking at him like he’s just another problem waiting to be dismissed.
“Ghost.” he says.
You hum, like that means absolutely nothing to you.
“Great,” you reply. “Then you can mind your business, Ghost.”
And you turn your back on him.
Just like that.
He’s done for.
Completely.
Utterly.
Gone.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
It starts small.
He notices things.
The way you take your coffee—black, no sugar, always too hot.
The way you pinch the bridge of your nose when you’re irritated (which is often).
The fact that no one touches you—no casual brushes, no friendly pats on the back—because you’d probably bite their hand off.
Good.
That suits him just fine.
He doesn’t touch you either.
Not yet.
But he stands closer than necessary.
Speaks to you more than he needs to.
Finds excuses.
“You missed a detail in your report.” he tells you once.
You snatch it from his hand, scanning it.
“…no I didn’t.”
“You did.” he replies calmly.
A beat.
You squint at it.
“…oh.”
Silence.
Then you look back at him, narrowing your eyes.
“…don’t get used to being right.”
Ghost feels something dangerously close to a smile pull at his mouth under the mask.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The others notice.
Of course they do.
“L.T.’s gone soft.” Soap whispers one day.
“Not soft..” Gaz mutters back, watching as Ghost silently sets a fresh cup of coffee down beside you before you even ask. “Worse.”
“Obsessed.”
You still don’t give him much.
A glance here. A clipped response there.
Sometimes you let him stand near you without telling him to piss off.
Sometimes.
And for Ghost?
It’s everything.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The shift happens on a bad day.
Everything’s gone wrong.
Reports missing. Equipment delayed. Someone incompetent breathing too close to your oxygen supply.
By the time Ghost finds you, you’re alone—finally—but you’re pacing, jaw tight, hands clenched.
“Problem?” he asks quietly.
“Several,” you snap, not even looking at him. “All fixable if people weren’t useless.”
He hums.
Steps closer.
You don’t tell him to stop.
That’s new.
“They bothering you?” he asks.
You scoff. “They bother me by existing.”
A pause.
Then, softer—sharper in a different way—
“…I don’t need help.”
“I know.” he says.
You finally look at him.
There’s something in your expression—not soft, never that—but tired. Frayed at the edges.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it.”
You stare at him like you’re trying to figure him out.
Like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for.
“…you’re weird.” you decide.
“Been called worse.”
Another pause.
Then you sigh—short, annoyed—and scrub a hand over your face.
“…fine,” you mutter. “You can stay. Just don’t talk.”
Ghost nods his head.
Steps into your space.
Stays.
From then on It’s over for everyone else.
Because Simon Riley—silent, deadly, untouchable Ghost—
is yours.
He brings you coffee without asking.
Stands behind you like a wall when you’re tearing someone apart.
Fixes problems before they reach you.
And if anyone dares to speak to you out of line?
They don’t make that mistake twice.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
One day, you finally ask him.
“Why are you always around?”
He looks at you.
Really looks.
And for a second, something raw slips through the cracks.
“Because I want to be.”
You narrow your eyes.
Suspicious.
“…that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
A long pause.
Then—
“…weird..” you repeat.
But you don’t tell him to leave.
And Ghost?
He’s never been so completely, irrevocably owned in his life.
Simon Riley who accidentally blurted out "get that look off your face before I fuck it off" to you when you were side eyeing him because he said something super out of pocket. He meant to say "get that look off your face before I take it the fuck off" but words are hard.
And you decided to challenge him and he doesn't back down from a challenge. So guess what? Now you're in his quarters, with your face pressed into his mattress as he's railing you with all he's got and telling you that "this is what happens when you don't wipe that stupid fuckin' look off your face".
After that, you started going out of your way to push his buttons if it meant that you'd be getting fucked viciously every time.
⤷ cw: smut, age gap(reader is in their early 20’s), missionary, fraternization, spit(just once), breeding kink.
john price who was hesitant to approach you at first, knowing about your little crush on him that soap always teased him about.
“lil bonnie has a crush on ya’ cap, why not date the sweet thing ay?” he’ll chuckle amused, patting price on the back as he puffs out a smoke.
“i’m not datin’ a kid” he grumbles unamused, putting out his cigar as he stands to leave.
scoffing at the thought as he walked through the mess, you definitely are a cute young thing. all eager and obedient every time you were needed for something.
all soft and pliant, the plump of your ass and the fat on your hips making him wonder how good it would be to fuck you raw hold you close.
but it’s.. unprofessional, really. not only is he twice your age but it would also be fraternization. an old bloke like him with such a cute thing to breed go out with, feeling all the judgmental stares as he holds you by the waist.
“cap? hello?” he’s suddenly startled by your voice, grumbling under his breath as he rubs his face. definitely out of surprise and not because his cheeks were flushed.
“christ kid, what did ya need from me?” he grumbles annoyed, trying hard to focus as he stares down at your cute figure.
eyes staring at him so intently, cheeks rising with every raise of your lips, and god that smile. holding a folder between those soft hands of yours, your nipples lightly peeking over your dress shirt.
it was taking every ounce of him to not take you right here and now. “i just needed you to approve this for the next batch of supplies coming in, it would be really nice if you could do it” you mumble shyly.
john price was a patient man, but seeing a sweet little thing be so shy and needy for him was too much. he couldn’t let you suffer alone now, could he?
well that’s what he believed right now, hands pushing your knees to your chest as he pistons his thick cock into you. thumb holding down your tongue as you whined for him, cock drunk as all you could think about was his thick girth splitting you open.
sobbing from pleasure as he spits into your mouth, tongue lapping at your tears before giving you a deep kiss. planting wet kisses on your collar, rutting deeper into you as he sucks on your nipple.
“fuck, mactavish was right. i should just breed ya full and put a nice ring on that finger yeah?”
i love old man price, he’s so yummy (i might write fauxcest?)
was gonna specify his smell, but some ppl don’t like smoking and i don’t really want ppl uncomfortable. kinda awkward bc i used to smoke lol.
pervy roomate könig will be posted tomorrow! it ended up longer than i expected and i have a few more oneshots otw so i wanna post at least 2 tgt tomorrow :3
Imagine you’re just out walking your dog, hood up, earbuds in, having a nice little stroll like a normal person.
And then there’s pounding footsteps behind you, a hand snatching the back of your jacket, and suddenly you’re yanked off your feet and hauled backwards against a stranger’s chest. There’s a gun jammed up under your chin and some asshole is kicking at your dog.
Your dog- your rescue dog- bolts, leash slipping from your fingers, and the blind panic that hits you has nothing to do with the weapon under your jaw or the group of very armed men who suddenly appear in front of you barking orders.
“Put the gun down!”
“Let them go!”
“Hands where I can see them!”
There are like, a plethora of different voices shouting, guns raised, tension sky high, and all your brain can process is: oh my god this is going to set him back so bad in his recovery.
You’re squirming in this guy’s grip, not because of the gun, but because you are furious. that’s your baby. your abused, soft-eyed, loud-noises-are-still-scary baby.
The shouting ramps up, your annoyance ramps up with it, and finally you just snap, throw your head back and slam your skull into your kidnapper’s nose.
He screeches, his arm jerks, there’s a deafening crack of gunfire from someone in front of you, and a hot spray of blood hits your face as the guy drops. You slip in it, hit the ground hard, ears ringing.
And all you can think is: oh my god my dog is definitely freaking the fuck out somewhere.
You’re probably a little in shock because your survival instincts are nonexistent. instead of crawling for cover, you suck in a breath and start yelling at the top of your lungs. “GHOST! GHOST, COME HERE, BOY! IT’S OKAY, YOU’RE SAFE! MOMMY’S OKAY!”
The armed men in front of you actually jerk back in surprise.
You scramble to your feet, still wobbling, spinning in circles as you cup your hands around your mouth.
“GHOST! COME HERE, BABY! IT’S OKAY, SWEETHEART, YOU’RE SAFE, MOMMY’S RIGHT HERE! ”
“Uh… Ghost?” one of the men asks carefully.
You whirl toward him, wild eyed. “Yeah, that’s my fucking dog. My good boy who has been doing so well in his recovery from being an abuse victim, and now his progress is probably going to backslide because some jackass decided to play hostage taker- GHOST! C’MERE MY WITTLE BABY BOY, MOMMY WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU- ”
Three of the soldiers are doing that nervous side eye thing at the fourth one- a hulking mountain of a guy in a skull mask- who has gone absolutely, completely still with a very real, very noticeable bulge forming in his cargo pants.
You, meanwhile, are still cupping your hands and cooing into the empty street:
“Ghoooost, baby, it’s okay! Mommy’s okay! Come to mama, my brave, handsome boy!”
“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”
sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.
——————-
the headache you wake with is devastating.
biblically so.
and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.
and fuck, suffering you are.
you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.
practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.
wait - practically? no. you did.
you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.
“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
fuck sakes.
you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.
and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.
“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.
his dog tags.
you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.
a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.
you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.
spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.
it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?
fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.
and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.
finally, you knock.
it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.
you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.
you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”
he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.
you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.
you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”
his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.
“did i?” he doesn’t move.
you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.
“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”
he still doesn’t take them.
“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”
your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”
he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”
you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.
“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.
“i-“
you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.
simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.
you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”
“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”
and there it is. here it comes.
“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”
“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.
silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.
you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.
when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”
your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.
“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”
“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”
oh god.
“shame?”
“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”
“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“
he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”
“walk me-“
earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”
“you don’t-you don’t have to-“
he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.
“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”
you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.
part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.
“look, simon-“
he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”
you blink, holding your breath.
“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”
fucking hell.
“yes.” you exhale.
“what was it.”
your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.
“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”
“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”
your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.
“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.
and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.
he doesn’t buy it.
“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”
christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.
this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.
“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”
“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”
you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”
“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”
“simon-“
he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”
it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.
clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.
“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”
it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.
“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”
his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.
his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—
“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”
your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.
“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”
your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“
“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”
you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.
“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”
“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”
something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.
“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”
his mouth is barely a breath from yours.
“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”
he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.
“fuckin hell.”
and then he’s kissing you.
no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.
“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.
you blink, dazed. “i-what?”
his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.
“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”
“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“
that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.
“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”
you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.
“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”
you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”
he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.
you fucking moan at the sight.
and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.
he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.
“oh, fuck-“
he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”
his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.
“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”
you’re panting now. shaking.
“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“
“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”
you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.
“tell me.”
“no-n-never like this—”
he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”
your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.
“simon-“ you whinge.
he cuts you off. “look at me.”
you do. barely.
“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”
you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.
it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.
“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”
you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.
“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”
you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.
when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.
“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”
you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.
the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“
he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”
you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.
you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.
“y’remember what else y’said last night?”
you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.
“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”
you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.
“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”
and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.
“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.
“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”
he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.
“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“
“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”
he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.
“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”
“fuck simon-“
“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”
it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.
it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.
he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.
“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”
he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.
you shriek, squirming with no where to go.
“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”
your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.
“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”
“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“
you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.
“mhm. messy little thing.”
he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.
“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”
you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.
“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”
“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“
“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”
you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.
“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”
another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“
“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”
a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—
“fuck—fuck.”
he lets go.
he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.
and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.
he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.
“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”
simon ‘ghost’ riley who never bothered learning how to flirt properly so is just horribly blunt with you all the time.
“tits look good in yer top love.” uttered with a straight face over his coffee mug in the morning. “makes me want to fuck ‘em.”
bend over in front of him to pick something up? he's groaning and tipping his head back, palming himself through his jeans with a, “fuckin’ christ love, look at you. perfect fuckin’ arse. c'mere, don't walk away when I'm picturin’ you face first on the carpet.”
it's worse if he's had a few drinks. he can't help but tell the lads how his “missus ‘as the prettiest cunt I've ever fuckin’ seen.” before abruptly leaving so he can go home and see it for himself.
and when he does get home with whiskey on his breath and smoke laced through his clothes? he just pulls you to the edge of the sofa; your pajama bottoms and underwear gone before you can blink. “there she is.” he mutters, spreading you open with two fingers and dropping a kiss on your clit. “there's my pretty little thing.”
