welcome to my little corner of the void. i’m a writer with a soft spot for the height of ser duncan, the chaos of dom, and the silence of simon riley. you can call me mire ♡ —she/her.
this is where i archive my fics and let my thoughts wander a little too far. i hope you find something here that keeps you company for a while.
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♡‧₊˚ age limit ♡‧₊˚ this blog is 18+ only. i write smut and mature themes that are not intended for minors. if you are under eighteen, please do not follow or interact.
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the archives
♡‧₊˚ ser duncan the tall ♡‧₊˚ the thickest knight in the seven kingdoms.
↳ [masterlist] — all fics, headcanons, and series.
♡‧₊˚ yungblud/dominic richard harrison ♡‧₊˚ late nights, messy eyeliner, and rockstar boyfriend energy. purely for the heat.
↳ [masterlist] — enter for some hot stuff.
♡‧₊˚ simon 'ghost' riley ♡‧₊˚ mire07 reporting for duty.
18+, simon ghost riley filthy thoughts because i can
simon's obsession with your cunt is the filthiest secret he keeps, the one that makes his hands shake when he thinks about it in the middle of briefings.
he can't fucking help it. ever since that first time - your naked body spread out on his bed, begging for his touch - has been completely, utterly hooked. addicted. he can't get enough of the way your pussy feels clenching around his fingers, his cock. the way you taste when he buries his face between your thighs, the sweet musky smell that drives him insane. especially how you look when you're turned on, swollen and glistening for him.
it's gotten bad. really fucking bad. he'll spend hours just playing with you, watching your face as he works you up, sees the pleasure build until you're writhing and moaning his name. loves feeling your slick coating his fingers, how fucking wet you get for him. and god, when you squirt - when you soak his face and hand because he finally pushed you over the edge - that's his favorite part. that's when he feels like he's won something.
he's even started recording it. little videos of you coming apart on his fingers, your pretty pussy spasming as you cry out his name. watches them when he's away on missions, craving you like the worst kind of addiction. it's the only thing that gets him through those long, lonely nights, knowing he'll be home soon to bury his face between your legs again.
on longer ops, he's gotten even more depraved. he steals your panties before he leaves. tucks them into his pocket, pressing them to his nose when he strokes himself. loves that faint scent of you, a desperate reminder of home, of your body waiting for him.
johnny and gaz have no fucking clue. none of the task force knows that their stoic, professional lieutenant is completely pussy-whipped. they'd never believe it if they found out. but simon doesn't care. as long as he gets to keep indulging in his favorite pastime, he'll keep his shameful little secret to himself.
A/N: lol, i’m so mad at tumblr for messing with my explicit drabbles. this one for example, couldn’t make it without getting instantly shadowbanned 😭. tried everything, ended up screenshoting and posting. sowwy, i guess i went too feral for tumblr. 💜
Summary: There’s only a select few things that can make Simon “Ghost” Riley want to fall to his knees, and thank whatever god exists that he’s somehow still alive.
Word Count: 2,630 • Masterlist
There’s only a select few things that can make Simon “Ghost” Riley want to fall to his knees, and thank whatever god exists that he’s somehow still alive.
Coming home to see you, his pretty little wife, laid on your front, sound asleep in your shared double bed, deep red lingerie set peeking out from underneath his old, far too big, rugby jersey with his surname plastered over your form in bold writing, is one of them.
The sun was only just rising, casting golden lines over the shapes of your body, making your skin glow.
Simon simply stood in the doorway watching you.
He’d been late.
He’d texted you what time his flight was supposed to get in, but as usual, something came up. Something always comes up.
You’d clearly been waiting for him, and then thrown the jersey on when it got too late for you to fight sleep. The jersey was loose in a way that let him know this wasn’t the first night you’d slept in it though. It makes his heart ache.
Silent as well, a ghost, Simon creeps into the room. As much as he wants to crawl into bed with you, he desperately needs a shower.
Taking the quickest shower in his life, and slipping on a pair of black boxers, he can finally, finally crawl into bed with you.
He tried not to wake you, but it seemed you’d been waiting for him to come home even in your sleep.
You stirred, confused at the movement as you opened your eyes slowly, trying to see in the low light.
“Simon!” you gasped, your face splitting into a huge grin as you practically jump into his lap, wrapping your legs around his waist where he’s sitting next to you, unable to get any further before you awoke.
Both of your arms wrap eachother in a tight embrace, pulling one another as close as physically possible.
“I missed you baby” Simon mumbled into your neck from where his face was buried in your hair.
You willed yourself to not start crying, voice breaking slightly anyway as you tell him you missed him too, so much. He pulls back to hold your face in his big rough hands, as he wipes away a tear that escaped.
“Oh love” he frowns, but you shake your head, as much as you can in his grip.
“Happy tears” you nearly sob as you bury your face in his neck again. He just hugs you back and holds you till you calm down slightly, rocking you back and forth.
As your sobs retreat, Simon pulls your face up again and kisses you heatedly.
Both your hands had started to wander. You ran your hands over his back, his bare chest, down his arms, feeling every part of him you could reach.
Simon’s hands do the same, slipping under the jersey to feel your skin, till his hands came down to grab your ass.
He groans roughly into your mouth as he’s reminded of the lingerie you had on, and he pulls you even tighter against him so your pretty lace underwear is pressed up against the hardness in his boxers. You hum in pleasure at the feeling, rocking back into him as you both become feverish with want and longing.
Simon starts kissing down your neck, leaving love bites as he goes, still groping and fondling your ass as though he can’t help himself.
The mumbled comment of how much he loves your body, how much he’s missed it, how good you are for him, waiting in bed for him like this, dressed up so pretty, is spoken into your skin.
He suddenly flips you so he’s leaning over you, you land with a bit of an “oof” on the bed, but he’s already smirking and pushing the jersey up to continue to kiss down your body before you can even think to complain.
“Simon” you whine as he bites lightly at your nipple through the lacy bra.
“Shh baby let me appreciate my fuckin’ stunnin’ wife” he groans, tongue dipping out between words to literally taste your skin. He runs his fingers over the strappy sides of your bra, the feeling of your skin between the ribbons criss crossing over you and holds back another groan.
He’s missed your body so much.
As your husband makes his way down to your stomach, giving you the occasional suck or bite, he continues to feel every part of your body he can reach. His large hands caress down your legs, your sides, your breasts, with so much adoration that you turn into a puddle for him.
You feel tears unwillingly prick at your eyes again from how much you’ve missed him.
Simon moves further down till he’s knelt at the edge of the bed. Pulling you down towards him by your thighs as you giggle and prop yourself up on an arm to look at him.
He’s smiling too against your skin, your laughter music to his ears. He begins kissing and sucking at your thighs, leaving marks all over your body. He loves the way you gasp and twitch.
“God I missed your sweet cunt baby” Simon practically moans as he presses his face up against your covered warmth. He takes a deep filthy inhale of you and lets out a hot moaned breath that has you clenching around nothing.
You instinctively rock your hips into him and plead his name, way past your tolerance for any teasing already. You’d missed him too much.
As much as it pains him, the sexy lace of your underwear has to come off. He truly does appreciate the effort you’ve gone to for him, but he likes what’s underneath so much better.
Slowly, so slowly, Simon peels your underwear off while staring straight into your eyes, straight into your soul.
Your face heats up as you bite your lip and you can’t help but smile at your rugged husband. You only just manage to keep the intense eye contact long enough for him to break away first.
He can’t help but look down at your naked, soaking, twitching pussy the second you part your thighs for him again. Now it’s his turn to bite his lip as he feels his cock give an aggressive throb.
Lifting your legs over his shoulders, he leans in and licks from your hole to your throbbing clit in one broad stroke, then back down, then up again, stopping to flick at your bud. His groans deep in his chest at your taste are barely drowned out by your unbridled moan.
Your hand flies to his hair, tugging harshly, causing another groan to tumble out his lips. He licks and sucks at your clit, presses his tongue into your leaking entrance, eats you like a man starved.
Usually Simon likes to tease you, unless he’s just gotten back from being deployed, like today. On those days, he could spend hours with his face or any other part of him buried between your legs.
You’re getting close already. Wanting to waste no time, Simon presses a finger into you to massage at the spot deep inside that makes you cry out for him.
Matching his pace with his tongue, he adds another finger and with one last suck to your clit, you’re crying out his name and coming on his fingers. The way your walls flutter erratically around his hand makes his dick twitch violently.
He works you through it, till you’re whining from overstimulation, but he doesn’t stop straight away. He likes the way you try and squirm away from his tongue like you have anywhere else to go.
Relenting his mild torture, you’re panting as you finally relax into the bed. Simon kisses back up your body till he’s pulling you into a slow, passionate kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue.
“Roll over for me babe” he grunts with a nod of his head, able to grope at your ass again with your thighs clinging to his waist.
Simon moves away to allow you movement, and you roll over on your front, arching your back for him enticingly. He shoves a pillow beneath your hips and then you feel the heat of him kneeling behind you. Your cunt twitches in anticipation.
Rough hands take a moment to grope your ass again, running down your thighs till they go up your back.
Pressing lightly, Simon makes you arch your back even further, so your front half is pressed against the bed. He takes a moment to store sight of you like that, with his rugby jersey on, with his name literally written on your body, ass up, all ready for him, somewhere deep in his brain he can never forget.
“Fuck baby, you’re so fuckin’ sexy” he groans out as he rids himself of his boxers, unable to resist giving his obscenely hard, leaking cock a few strokes at the sight.
“Si, baby, please, fuck me please” you beg, wiggling your ass at him again unable to wait any longer for him. You’ve been waiting weeks for him.
“Fuckin’ hell, that what you want baby?” Simon taunts lowly as he presses the hot leaking head of his cock against your entrance.
“You want me to fuck you?” He grunts out, rubbing himself up and down your wetness, watching you twitch as he hits your overstimulated clit.
“Yes, yes please Si, fuck me, make me yours, fill me up, please” you practically sob, nodding your head, pushing back against him.
Normally, Simon would call you greedy for this display but he can’t honestly say he doesn’t feel the same way.
“Oh fuck, yeah I’m gonna fill you up baby, I’m gonna fuck you till you can’t walk, fuck you till the only thing you remember is my name and the feeling of my cock inside your pretty wet cunt” comes spilling out of Simon’s mouth in grunts as he starts to push into you, spilling any utter filth that comes into his mind.
You feel every inch of him splitting you open as he slowly bottoms out inside you, pressed right up against your cervix. You whine and your hips want to twitch away with how deep he is, but his strong hold on your hips has you stilling.
“So good for me” he almost growls like he can’t believe it, as his hips meet your ass, getting as deep as he can go.
After giving you a second to adjust, feeling your walls flutter around him, he slowly pulls out again.
Simon watches his cock sinking in and out of you slowly, as he continues to grope your ass, obsessed with the way you’re coating him in your arousal.
You’re already a mess beneath him, crying out when he angles his hips, starting to build a punishing pace.
“Feel so fuckin’ good, taking me so well, love the sight of m’ name all over you” he grunts between rough thrusts, eyes taking in the sight of your jersey clad body, your head pushed to the side as your face is scrunched up in intense pleasure.
You’re not even aware of the sounds you’re making anymore as he fucks you hard and fast, pulling your hips back into him as he uses his own body weight to slam into you.
Suddenly, a hand in your hair brings you up so your back is pressed against his chest. Wrapping his large tattooed arm around your throat, he shuffles further down under you on his knees so he’s fucking up into you with the same powerful momentum, his other arm securely around your waist. He’s basically holding you above him now, the show of strength making you dizzy with want.
Your cries of pleasure are even louder now there’s no bed in the way to muffle them. You claw at the arm around your neck, leaving harsh red lines, but pressing it into you so you feel the light pressure you’re craving.
Simon catches on and flexes his bicep deliciously so he’s lightly choking you.
“I’m gonna-“ you try to warn, the feeling of his muscled arm around your neck, coupled with his unrelenting pace making your release build all too quickly.
“Fuck baby, that’s it, come on my fuckin’ cock” is grunted into your ear, light kisses that contrast the rough treatment are pressed against your temple as the thrusts somehow get even more powerful.
Your orgasm crashed into you with a severe intensity. You’re wailing, split open over and over as your eyes roll back.
It’s dragged out by every thrust of his unforgiving cock. It’s the kind of orgasm that only Simon can give you.
You’re only able to partially come down to earth as your orgasm fades. You’re still a moaning, crying mess against your husbands hard, sweaty body, his pace relentless.
You start squirming as the rough hand that was on your hip starts to travel downwards to rub your clit.
“’S too much” you whine, but you both know you’ll take it. You’ll take everything he gives you, like you always do.
“Who do you belong to?” Simon grunts, feeling the pleasure starting to coil in his abdomen. He tightens the arm around your neck slightly.
It takes you a second to realise he’d even asked you something. Too distracted by the way he’s sending you to heaven.
Before you can answer, Simon asks again.
“Who”
Thrust.
“Do”
Thrust.
“You”
Thrust.
“Belong”
Thrust
“To?”
He asked again, punctuating his sentence with his cock and pushing the air out of your lungs with the intensity of his actions. Each word coming out as more of a grunt, the final thrust sending you over the edge again.
“You, you, fuck, you Si, only you” you babble loudly as you suddenly come again on his cock, unable to fend away a second orgasm with the way he’s rubbing your clit.
“Fuck that’s right baby, you belong to me, only me” the large man growls out as his thrusts become sloppier with every second.
His arms go to tighten around you to hold you against him, as he somehow fucks into you even harder.
“You’re mine, mine, my fuckin’ perfect wife, pretty wife, oh fuck- your cunt feels so fuckin’ good, made for me baby, gonna fill you up with my fuckin’ come- oh shit- fuck-” Simon groans roughly, moaning inbetween words as his orgasm takes over his body.
He fucks himself through it into you, grinding through the aftershocks, only stopping once he had emptied himself completely inside of you.
You’re both panting hard, but Simon brings your head to his to meet you in a breathless, sweaty kiss.
“I missed you so fuckin’ much” he pants against your lips.
You simply moan in agreement, unable to formulate words as your brain still feels fuzzy from the mind numbing pleasure.
You start to move away from him to lay down, and catch your breath when the arm around your neck tightens again.
You feel his cock twitch inside of you, still hard and throbbing despite his release.
Simon hums in disapproval, then with a cheeky bite to your ear, begins to talk again.
“Ah, ah baby, where do you think you’re goin’? I’m nowhere near done with you yet darlin’” he drawls out lowly, a teasing smile in his voice.
The sun had only just come up after all, and he’s got time to make up for.
Little does Simon know, you’re grinning like the cheshire cat as your head gets pushed back down into the mattress.
If this is how he reacted to you wearing a jersey with his name on it, how’s he going to react when he sees the tattoo you’ve got booked for next month?
Thank you for reading, this is part of a series but the chapters can be read individually too, part one here • This has also been cross posted on my AO3 • Masterlist • Photo used in header credit: BettyBRenders.
Summary: Ghost is your next door neighbour. You’re a nurse.
Sometimes, Ghost likes to come round so you’ll stitch him up.
He decides to come round, again, and again, and again…
Word Count: 7,590 • Masterlist
Making your way through the front door, you sigh wearily as you dump your bags on the floor.
Your ten hour shift followed by five hours of emergency triaging, followed by treatment had just ended at the hospital, and you were dead on your feet.
You managed to drag yourself to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine, pausing to take big sips which you then top up.
Shuffling back to the living room, you set your glass down and collapse into the sofa. It’s your day off tomorrow, you’re determined to enjoy your free evening, even if you feel like the living dead.
Despite your plans, you nearly fell asleep once you’d settled on something to watch, only to be suddenly awoken by a banging on the front door.
“What the fuck?” you mumbled, puzzled at who would be knocking on your door so late. Shuffling to the door, you undo the locks and crack it open to peer outside.
You were met with the familiar face, or rather mask, of your neighbour. You only knew him as Ghost, though you were sure that’s not his real name. You’d met him a handful of times, well met was a strong term.
He’d acknowledged your presence with a nod of his head, which you got used to after the first time you tried to say hi, he’d ignored you. You could also tell he was military of some kind, between being gone for months, to the way he held himself. He towered over you. Usually anyway.
The first time he called at your home, he was slumped against your doorway.
“You’re a nurse right?” He grunted out bluntly. You nodded your head, slightly bewildered.
“Yes, I am, are you okay?” You questioned, taking in his appearance.
“Need a hand” he grunted again, gesturing to his side which you could see was oozing blood.
You opened the door as an invitation for him to come in, work mode activating.
“What happened?” You asked, gathering your supplies you had at home, putting gloves on as you gesture for him to sit on a stool in the kitchen.
“Got stabbed” he mumbled, bluntly. Not willing to add any more details.
“Right..” you said quietly, “take your shirt off?” you said, trying to keep your voice even. He just stared at you. “I need to see the wound” you said, like it’s obvious.
Ghost shifts so he’s holding his shirt up high enough for you to see the gash in his side. You try not to let your eyes linger on the abs the movement reveals and you snap back into work mode as you see the injury. Luckily you could take care of it.
“Why didn’t you just go to hospital? Or the police?” You wondered outloud as you began to clean the wound.
“Don’t like ‘em” he grumbles, not even flinching as you start to sew him up. You could tell he wasn’t up for talking so you grew quiet.
After you patched him up, he gave you a nod and an awkward “thanks” and then he was gone.
Since then, he’d come back to you in need of your services. You’d had quite the number of visits. Whatever his job was, it was dangerous apparently. You’d stitched up various knife wounds, tried to set broken bones and even a bullet once lodged in his shoulder.
He never flinched, let you patch him up, occasionally making conversation with you, share tiny bits of his life, nothing classified of course, but small stories about his team, or happier ones he could remember from other times in his life, and he’d listen to your stories intently, then just disappeared into the night again.
He started sometimes, very occasionally, come by without being hurt, to let you know he was going away, or to be careful, or to shove some snacks he bought you ask thanks into your hands or “here I got you this chain lock, let me install it for you”.
The occasional unnecessary visits became more frequent. Just fleeting, stopping at the door, asking how your day was.
A month went by and you didn’t see him. It was normal. He doesn’t always get a chance to tell you he’s leaving. Which is why it’s an even bigger shock when a familiar banging comes at your door late at night, well after you’d been asleep in bed.
Grabbing your only dressing gown, you wrapped it around your body which covered the fact you were only wearing a t shirt and underwear. You unlocked the door, leaving the chain attached like Ghost had told you to do after he came round.
Your eyes widened when you saw the state of Ghost, slumped against the door frame, skull mask instead of just a balaclava, tactical gear still on minus the vest and the helmet.
“Jesus Ghost” you exclaim, rushing to open the door, and you help him to your kitchen stool so you can patch him up. It’s become a bit of a routine now. For whatever reason, you’ve become his personal nurse.
You shed your dressing gown, unthinking other than it’s in the way right now as you pull out your equipment and put some gloves on. You don’t notice the way Ghosts eyes follow your bare legs.
You manage to convince him to take his shirt off this time, carefully helping him and avoiding catching his mask. He had a knife wound in his shoulder, and bad bruising across his chest where the bullet proof vest apparently did its job.
You get to work examining him, and stitching his wounds. You check his ribs and bones to make sure there’s nothing broken. When you’re done, he keeps staring at you.
“What?” You ask nervously, scanning his masked face for some kind of clue.
He sighs, “I uh, my thigh…” he mumbles, looking over at the wall behind you instead of your face.
You will your face to remain neutral as you step back and ask him to take his trousers off, or at least pull them down so you can help him in the most professional manner you can.
He sighs again and starts working his belt buckle. He shuffles his trousers down to just above his knees and leans back on the stool so you can see the wound on his upper inner thigh.
It’s so high that his boxers are covered in blood. You hesitantly come forward to stand between his legs and look at him. He nods slightly, giving you permission to touch his leg.
With your gloved hands, you crouch and begin to examine the wound, moving the fabric of his underwear so it’s not in your way. You glanced up at Ghost to see how he’s doing, but he’s staring blankly at the wall instead of watching you like he usually does. His fist tight on his healthy leg.
You begin your work when he suddenly goes tense. You glance up to ask if he’s okay, when a sizeable bulge starting to form just to the side of you, catches your eye. Ghost is still staring at the wall so he didn’t know you’d seen. Except it’s Ghost, so of course he does.
“Shit listen it’s uh, it’s been a while” he tries to joke, uncharacteristically awkward. Of course, you think, it’s not because of you.
“It’s okay don’t worry” you try to laugh it off “believe me, stuff like this happens more than you’d think” you say to try and relieve his awkward tension, except it seems to do the opposite.
A flash of rage passes through Ghost at the thought of some other scumbag getting bricked up at his nurse while you’re just trying to do your job and help them. It fizzles slightly knowing he’s also one of these scumbags right now.
He cringes at himself for not having better control of his body, but the sight of you between his legs, on your knees almost, so close to his crotch, just does something to him he can’t control. It’s not just that it’s been a while, although that is true.
He so badly wants to leave, but you’ve got a needle half way in his leg.
You can almost see his inter turmoil so you squeeze his non injured knee.
“Hey it’s really okay. You’re not making me uncomfortable” you blush, trying to sooth him. It was true.
You’d been harbouring a bit of a crush on him, somehow, even though you hadn’t seen his face. Out of all the people you’ve sewn up this month, you’d choose Ghost a million times to get a boner in your face. He doesn’t respond, and continues to stare at the wall.
“Really-“ you start.
“Stop. Talking” he mumbles, cutting you off, “please, just.. ” he says the last part so quietly you almost miss it.
You continue to sew up his wound, clearly talking about it is making him feel more awkward so you decided to leave it, for now.
When you’re done and stand back, Ghost quickly pulls his trousers back up, he starts to limp with wide quick strides to the door when you reach out tentatively to grab his arm. He spins and stares at you again, eyes darting from the hand on his arm to yours. You pull your arm back and fiddle with the hem of your shirt.
“Stay? For a bit? You’re hurt, I’ve got left overs you can eat, or tea, or coffee?” You ask, trying to hide your nervousness of a flat out rejection.
You think that’s what’s going to happen when he continues to stare.
Slowly, he nods.
“Let me get changed” he mumbles, after taking stock of his dirty, blood soaked gear. He’d just come back from a mission, and wanted to be alone instead of fussed over back on base, but he was hurt, so he’d come to you instead.
Ghost trusted you. Somehow. You’d made him feel comfortable around you in such a short amount of time, it kind of scared him. You never pushed him when he was silent to your questions, or when he didn’t take off the mask.
Instead, you talked about your day instead, told him about annoying patients, what your friends were doing, never faltering at his answers being grunts or simply nothing. You patched him up, no questions asked.
Most of the time, he’d just watch you work. Watch how your nose scrunched up when you’re concentrating, sometimes you would bite your lip. Watch how you tried to move your hair out your eyes while you worked, without using your sterile gloved hands.
He liked it when you fussed over him, as much as he’d hate to admit it. You were always worried about him and tried to do more than just patch him up, let you feed him, something, but he’d always refused.
Until today.
Maybe it was the fact his leg hurt and didn’t want to stand to make himself food, or maybe it was the multiple wounds, or maybe it was just you that he could no longer resist.
Ghost fumbled around in his own apartment, quickly hopping in the shower, then getting changed into some sweats and a baggy hoodie.
He’d noticed a gash on the side of his head he needed you to look at, one he couldn’t really see, so as he glanced at the mask, he decided to go without it for once. He trusted you.
When he lightly knocked on your door again after almost turning around, you answered quickly. You did a double take at his bare face, but quickly smiled at him like normal, as if nothing had changed.
He let out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding, as you let him back in your home.
Meanwhile, internally, you were kind of freaking out. Yeah, you had a crush on him before, but now you’ve seen his face, you felt slightly in love.
Holy shit, he’s so fucking hot? He was blonde, hair cut fairly short against his head. He was handsome, in a rugged, hardened way. His nose was crooked from a break or two. Or five. There were deep ragged scars over all his face to match the rest of his body, but they didn’t take away from his allure.
You go into the kitchen to continue your mental freak out while you prepare the left overs. He follows.
“Tea?” You ask, thinking it’s a bit late for coffee.
“Sure” he says a bit stiffly, leaning against the counter.
You turn to look at him to ask how he takes it when he says “two sugars, no milk” before you can formulate the sentence.
You nod and smile at him again. Turning to flick on the kettle to make his tea.
He doesn’t know how you do that, just smile at him so freely like you’re not making him want to fall to his knees for you.Like he’s not essentially a highly trained weapon.
Aside from his team, you’re the only other person he has regular contact with and it’s by choice. He used to go to you sometimes with very minor injuries, for you to check him out. You knew he knew it’s not bad enough but you check him out anyway. Eventually, he dropped the excuse he was hurt all together.
You look the wound on his head that he genuinely needed checking. His blonde hair was an alarming share of red when he’d taken it off before his shower, but you deem that “he’ll live” and it shouldn’t need stitches.
“The head bleeds more than anywhere else” you explained, “head injuries always look a lot worse than they usually are”.
Of course, he already knows this, but he hums in interest anyway.
You hand him his tea with a “careful it’s hot”.
He takes a sip, then sighs.
“Simon” he says suddenly, like he was wanted to rush the word out.
You look at him.
“What?” You question the sudden word, tired brain taking a second to catch up.
“My name, call me Simon” he says again gruffly, as if it’s obvious.
“Simon” you say slowly, then smile brightly at him. He huffs and rolls his eyes, a light pink dusting his cheeks.
You gasp playfully at the sight.
“Did I just make the big scary Ghost, blush?” You giggle, nudging his shoulder with yours slightly as you prepare his food.
“You think I’m scary?” He asked, more serious again.
You turned to look at him properly again. “No” you said honestly, looking him in the eye.
“Ever?” He asked.
“Never” you smile at him, “I’m not scared of you, you might be scary to other people but you’re not to me.”
He doesn’t answer and lets you continue to dish out a healthy portion for him, and a smaller one for yourself.
You can see him eyeing your smaller portion with a bit of a frown so you explain.
“I’ve already had my tea, like 4 hours ago?” You laugh. You’d been in bed when he came round.
Ghost, or Simon now, huffs again and moves to sit at the table where you placed his dish. Secretly he feels a bit guilty now, waking you up.
You both eat in a comfortable silence, Simon wolfs his own food down with astonishing speed.
“Good?” You ask laughing slightly. He just nods, with a hum of agreement and continues to eat.
Once you’re both finished, Simon awkwardly excuses himself, thanking you for the meal, saying you need your sleep and retreats to his own flat quite quickly, not leaving any room for an argument.
You pout slightly but the fact you’d had dinner together put a smile back on your face.
Baby steps, you remind yourself. You’d been determined to befriend him as soon as you met him. You had a feeling he didn’t have many people around him.
You had a smile on your face while you cleaned up. His walls were up but you wanted to wait for him to open the door, instead of breaking through.
However, when you settled back in bed, your mind turned back to the very sizeable bulge in his underwear.
You could see it twitching occasionally in your peripheral vision as you tried your best to focus on the poor man’s stitches.
Your hand started to snake down to your underwear, dipping under the waist band.
You moaned softly as you pressed your fingers to your clit, imagining it was Simon’s big hands instead.
You start a steady rhythm that has you breathless, when suddenly there’s a knock at your front door again.
Your hand flies out of your underwear like you’d just been caught in the act, your heart pounding.
You shuffle across your flat again and open the door, unchained before hand because who else would it be?
Simon stood there, red in the face as he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.
“I um tore my stitches” he grunted out.
You give him an exasperated look as you pull him inside by his forearm.
“What do you mean you tore your stitches? You were gone for like 20 minutes” you sighed, getting your kit out again.
You stopped to wash your hands and remembered what you were doing just before he knocked and your felt your face heat up. Luckily he couldn’t see while you were facing the sink. You take a deep breath and turn back to him.
“Well?” You asked, looking at him. He’s not getting out of answering this time.
His eyes snap up to yours after they seemed to linger on your bare legs for a second.
“I was working out” he mumbled.
Ghost could lie, Simon however, it seems couldn’t lie quite as well. It wasn’t his performance, so much as it was that he’d just been stabbed, and it’s like three in the morning.
You sigh, not really believing him but too tired to argue.
“Take your shirt off again” you say as you ready your equipment, seeing the blood leaking through his shirt.
“Both of them” he mumbles, glancing down to his thigh, where you could see the blood coming through there too.
“The fuck Simon?” You huff. You’d just done these, how did he rip them so bloody quickly?
“Now you really have to tell me what you were doing, partly as payment for stitching you up again, and partly because you’re not allowed to do it again, until these have healed more” you say, looking at him expectantly.
Simon wasn’t looking at you, his eyes darting around your kitchen from where he sat on the stool. His face was starting to heat up as he avoided your harsh eye contact.
“Iwashavingawank” he mumbled so fast you couldn’t catch it.
“What?” You asked, wanting him to repeat it.
“I was jacking off okay? Fuckin’ hell..” He rushes out, taking you by surprise.
You stared at him for a second, unable to form a thought over the idea of him touching himself that entered your brain.
Touching himself so vigorously that he tore the stitches in his shoulder and thigh.
“Must be pretty pent up then” you try to joke it off, like you hadn’t just been doing the same thing to the thought of him.
“Something like that” he huffs, eyes darting towards you and then away again.
You finish patching up his shoulder again, applying a new adhesive bandage.
You move away so he can pull his dark coloured joggers down, but he didn’t move.
You simply stared at him, matching his usual energy, sleeplessness catching up with you.
He sighed and pulled the waistband down enough so you could fix his wound. As you crouched down between his legs again to inspect it, Simon’s hand moved to cover the bulge that started to form in his underwear.
You were practically on your knees in front of him, his body didn’t care that he’d just come to the thought of you like this.
He’d pulled his stitches when he’d finished, muscles tensing all over his body enough that they had popped from the unexpected strain.
In his weak defence, he hadn’t had time to tend to himself while he was away even once.
His quickly hardening problem was more obvious this time, the underwear he had on after his shower weren’t as tight.
You tried to ignore it best you could as you redid his stitching, intending to make some comfortable small talk like usual to make him feel better but your sleep deprived brain just blurted out “it’s okay, please don’t be embarrassed. It’s funny actually, before you knocked, I was doing the same thing”.
You froze when you realise what you said. So did Simon. The hand on his covered cock flexed slight.
Neither of you said anything, but you could feel his eyes on you as you finished his stitches and wrapped him up again.
When you were done, you slowly looked up at him, still crouched between his legs. The way he was looking at you made your face heat up. Like he wanted to eat you.
“What were you thinkin’ about?” Simon almost whispers to you.
Your eyes flicker down to his hand that’s basically gripping his clothed cock at this point, then back up to his hungry eyes. He catches it and something in his demeanour shifts.
“Oh yeah?” He asks more confidently, moving his hand over himself again to grab your attention.
It works and your eyes flicker down again. You make a show of dragging your eyes over his bare chest, freely staring now. You nod your head at him when your eyes meet his face, biting your lip.
Suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet, strong hands wrapping around your waist and the back of your head as you’re pulled into an incredibly heated kiss.
You wrap your arms around his neck when you get with the program, after a bit of shock wore off, and run your hands all through his short blond hair, tugging slightly when his teeth nip your lip.
He goes to pick you up from the backs of your thighs but you pull away and put your hand on his chest. He immediately pulls his hands away, holding them up like they’d burned you.
You pull him down for a quick peck, him willingly bending since he’s so much taller than you, to try sooth his worries that he didn’t do anything wrong.
“I wasn’t joking about earlier when I said you can’t do that till they’ve healed a bit more” you try to say sternly, looking up at him.
His face shifts from worried to slightly shocked, then he smirked slightly at you.
“I mean, I had something a bit more than that on my mind, I don’t know about you” he teased back, but his face fell when your serous face didn’t change.
“You’re kidding me” he stated flatly, not as a question because he could tell you weren’t.
“I’m not sewing you up for a third time tonight Simon, as much as I’d love to participate in other things you have in mind” you sigh, lightly tracing the bandage.
He starts to kiss down your jaw and nuzzle into your neck, pressing small kisses anywhere he can reach. He feels you sigh, leaning into him despite your words.
“I’ll be so careful, love” he whispers in your ear. Your heart flutters at the new term of endearment.
“I don’t believe you” you tried to huff, voice only wavering slightly at his actions. Your hands were still in his hair and the nails scraping over the nape of his neck made him shiver.
You’re trying to be the responsible one but your will is only so strong against this wall of raw muscle.
His hands ran all over your body, squeezing and groping anywhere he could reach.
It seems now Simon knew you weren’t going to reject his advances, the floodgates of how touch starved he actually was, opened.
You wanted this too, you were just being stubborn and worrying about him too much.
“I will, I’ll be careful, don’t want you t’ worry your pretty little head ‘bout me, just need you so bad love” he mumbles into your neck, pushing his hardness against your lower stomach.
He sucked a love bite into your neck, and as your hands tightened in his hair, he let out a groan.
Your will crumbled as you gasped his name. He groaned again at the sound of his name falling from your lips and brought his head up to kiss you again.
While you were distracted by his tongue behind your teeth, he lifted you onto the counter with mostly his good arm.
You gasped again at the sudden coolness of the counter, your hands starting to explore the canvas of his back muscles, squeezing at his good shoulder and biceps. He leans into your touches.
“You sure you want this?” He asks seriously, breaking away to look at you. Even on the counter, he’s still taller than you so you have to look up.
He’s not just asking about having sex. You can tell. He’s asking about all of him. He can’t do this and then walk away from you. You can’t either. If you do this, you’re his.
“Yes Simon, I want all of you” you say earnestly, looking into his eyes.
He holds your face in his big hands, searching your eyes for any sign you’re not sure, then pulls you to him in a kiss so fierce yet gentle it makes you want to cry, when he finds nothing but adoration in your eyes.
“Usually I’d pick you up and take you to your bedroom but I believe I made some stupid agreement to preserve my wellbein’ so you better get your stunnin’ little ass in there now” he commands, tone still light as he lifts you from the counter, spins you then starts to herd you from behind towards your room, slapping your ass lightly as he peels away from you to check the locks and turn all the lights off for you.
If he slipped across the hallway silently to grab one of his smaller guns, which he hid on the top of your wardrobe for now as your back was turned, you’d never know.
You jumped when he wrapped his warm arms around you, from where you stood clearing some of your things off the bed. You hadn’t heard him come up behind you at all.
“Sorry, love” he teased, not sounding sorry in the slightest, pressing kisses from your temple down your neck again. You sighed and relaxed into his hold.
“You really are like a ghost” you laugh, he huffs in acknowledgment against you but doesn’t say anything. Simon has more pressing matters to attend to.
He spins you round so you’re facing him, then crowds you backwards so you fall onto the bed. You expect him to follow you, but he just stands there at the end of the bed above you, staring again.
There’s a different gaze in his eyes this time though, he looks like he wants to devour you. It sends a shiver down your spine, he looks somehow, even more excitingly large from this angle.
Then your jaw drops as he literally falls to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to take in the sight before he’s pulling your hips towards him.
“Your shoulder” you yelp, trying to remind him to be careful through his man handling. He dips his head and lightly bites your thigh in retaliation. You cry out again which fades into a moan as his tongue soothes the sting.
Simon kisses your thighs, getting closer and closer to where you need him but suddenly he wants to take his sweet time. You almost whine as you try to move your hips to urge him on, but his big arm to wraps around you to keep you still.
Taking pity on you, Simon presses the flat of his tongue over your wet underwear.
You do whine this time, eyes fluttering at the not quite enough feeling, while Simon groans at the taste leaking through from how wet you are. He ruts hips into nothing, eager for some friction that isn’t there.
Deciding he’s not in the mood for teasing you anymore, he makes quick work of your underwear, flinging it off to the side before he sets his tongue back on you, making contact with your puffy clit.
You arch your back as he runs his tongue though your wetness then back up to loop around your bud.
Your hand flies down to grip at his hair, while the other grips the bedsheets beside your head. He works you with his tongue on your clit, watching you intently to figure out what you like best.
Simon adds two of his thick fingers next, crooking them to find the spot that shoots pleasure up your spine.
“Ah! Simon” You cry, hurling towards your finish quicker than you ever expected when he finds it. He keeps his pace consistent as you start to rock your hips in warning of your oncoming orgasm. Not even a minute later and the damn breaks, your orgasm intense. You even feel it flood out of you around his fingers.
Simon decides he wants to hear your moans forever when you come on his fingers and tongue. He works you through it, wanting to savour every even small whimper you made for him. He drags his tongue over your entrance then licks his fingers clean, making eye contact with you as he does so.
“Holy shit” you puff out a breathy laugh.
“Feel good?” Simon checks in gently, nose pressing against your cheek as he came to lean over you.
“Mhm so good” you sigh, finally getting your breath back a bit as you kiss his pretty lips. He kisses you back then hooks his good arm round your waist, picking you up mostly with one arm to deposit you with your head in the pillows effortlessly.
You huff a laugh, smiling up at him, feeling fluttery at the show of strength.
“Be careful” you try to scold lightly, Simon just rolls his eyes at you and smiles. You smile wider, continuing your staring at his face which makes him blush slightly. How can this man eat you out like that but blushes when you see him smiling?
He taps out of the eye contact by kissing you again, then flipping so you’re on top of him.
“You know, on account of I’m injured n’ all” he smirks up at you. You raise an eyebrow at him, laughing, then duck your head to begin your path of gentle and not so gentle love bites down his chest.
You’re careful to avoid any areas that look sore. You’re sucking on skin too close to the bruises on his chest accidentally, and Simon bucks his hips up into you with a grunt. If it weren’t for his solid grip on your hips, you would have gone flying forward.
“Fuck baby” he groans, moving your hips back and forth as he grinds his hard on up into you, while you continue to give him love bites, exploring his muscled arms and chest.
You sink further down till you’re sat between his legs, kissing down his abs. They tense and quiver with your harsh sucking, leaving more makes across his abdomen and hips.
When you get to his waist band, you look up at him while your fingers curl over the edge, one last nod from him has you pulling them down.
His large, hard cock rests against his lower stomach, leaking and twitching when you kiss his hips again. There’s no way you’ll be able to fit the whole thing in your mouth.
Your mind flashes back to his teasing earlier and well, if he wanted to tease, you could too. You sucked bites into his inner thighs, watching them twitch along with his length.
Simon’s big hands come to wrap in your hair, not applying pressure, just holding. When you finally, finally kiss the base of his cock, he groans and his fists tighten.
“Fuck baby c’mon, I’m not gonna last like this. I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said it’s been a while” Simon groaned from above you as you placed small kisses up his length.
He felt like he hadn’t had that wank earlier at all, already ready to bust from weeks of pent up sexual frustration, and your teasing is only adding petrol to the fire.
You took pity on him, so you grabbed the base of his cock with one hand, leaning forward to give small experimental licks to the leaking head.
Simon gasped quietly, trying not to buck his hips or just force your head down. Pressing your tongue harder against the head, you drag it across the leaking slit, tasting the salty pool of pre he was creating.
He moaned this time, hands tightening further into your hair, pinpricks of mild pain across your scalp. You finally took him into your mouth and he groaned loudly, hips bucking up slightly where his self control is running out.
Bobbing your head up and down, you use your tongue to swirl around the head, pressing and licking with your actions.
“Fuck baby so good, mouths so pretty love” he groans from above you. You glance up and meet his already staring eyes. He’s flushed down to his chest, hazy eyes, looking like you hung the fucking moon for him.
When you make eye contact with him, with his cock nearly down your throat, he thrusts up into your mouth again. You hum around him to encourage it before he can apologise.
You feel him throb. He moans loudly again, thighs twitching at the sensation. Simon starts to slowly move his hips in a steady rhythm, and paired with your playful tongue and the humming, he’s not going to last long at all.
“Shit, fuck, oh my fuckin’ god I’m gonna-“ Simon grunts in warning, seconds before his cock throbs and his spend is shooting into your mouth. He groans long and low, as his incredibly intense orgasm passes through him.
He rocks his hips into your mouth, working himself through it. You swallow everything he gives you, and use your tongue to drag out his orgasm, long enough that he’s over sensitive, groaning and hissing as his thighs and hips twitch under the pressure of your tongue. He lets you though. He’d let you do anything you wanted to him.
When you release him from your torment, he’s still very much hard. Simon quickly pulls you up so you’re sat on his hips again, his hot cock settled between your bare wet folds. You moan at the sensation and can’t help moving your hips back and forth.
“Simon, want you inside me” you whine, feeling yourself coat his cock in your arousal, suddenly done with any and all forms of foreplay. You feel his dick twitch at your words.
“Fuck baby, c’me ’ere” his grunts out, pulling you down to kiss you again. His other arm goes to position himself at your entrance now you’re leaning forward. “You sure?” He asks one last time, pulling away from your lips slightly.
You nod quickly, “please, please” you start to beg, feeling him so close to where you want him.
“Okay, okay shh, I’ll give you what you need love, no need to beg me” Simon soothes, starting to press in. “Oh fuck baby, you’re so tight” he groans out, hissing as he slips further inside you, still sensitive from your mouth.
You’re glad that you’re so aroused for him, taking him is no easy task. You moan at how full you feel, walls fluttering to adjust to his size. You sit up slightly and slowly start rocking your hips down on him.
He stays still, letting you control the pace, for now.
His hand slips between your bodies to rub at your clit, distracting you from any discomfort. You both moan into each other’s mouths when his hips meet yours, and he’s bottomed out inside of you. So deep that he’s pressed against your cervix.
Simon can feel you clenching around him, adjusting to the large presence, and you’re both covered in a sheen of sweat now.
Simon gives your body a minute to adjust, getting the go ahead when you start moving your hips again, back and forth in circles, humming a moan.
“You ready?” He asks, pulling you back down to him and gathering some of your hair in his hand again, the other coming to guide your face to his, making you look into his eyes.
You blush, and smile as you nod, gently reminding him to be careful with his stitches again and then pressing your lips against his.
Slowly, he pulled out of you again while you kissed, till just the tip was left, braces you by wrapping a strong arm round your waist, and then he suddenly thrust back into you. Hard.
You cry out a moan into his mouth, mildly startled but it’s quickly overwhelmed by how good it felt. Your hands fly out to claw at his chest.
Simon starts a slow, powerful rhythm, pulling you back down onto him as he drives his cock up into you.
You can’t kiss him while he does this to you, so you hold yourself up on his chest above him, as eager to see his face during this as he was to see yours. The way you’re pressing down on him with your body weight, nails cutting into his skin makes him grunt, and snap his hips harder.
Simon’s glad you made him cum earlier, he wouldn’t have lasted two seconds with this sight above him. Your eyes are scrunching closed, although you seem to be trying to keep them open, but the pleasure he’s giving you is too much. You make heavenly noises, loudly crying out his name when he grinds up into you, catching your clit on his pelvis.
Loud staccato moans with every hard thrust up into you. He angles his hips so the head of his cock bullies the soft spot inside you with every thrust, making you keen. His hands grab anywhere they can reach, your chest, your ass, they hold you against him tightly.
Your nails rake down his upper chest, leaving raised red lines over his shoulders and even arms. Avoiding the stitched wound, but only just. He groans at the feeling and it spurs him on even more.
“So perfect baby, takin’ me so well” Simon mumbles, “so wet for me, could stay ‘ere forever”. He grunts his praises for you in between the moans and groans you’re ripping out of him.
As your orgasm starts to build, your arms shake with the weight of your body. When Simon sneaks a hand between you to play with your clit again, your arms give out and you wrap them around him instead, burying yourself in his neck.
“Come on baby, come on my cock” he grunts out, breathless with pleasure and the effort he’s putting into fucking you.
Two more strokes of his fingers, and you’re coming loudly on his cock. You feel it relight deep inside you with every rock of his hips, dragging it out, wave after wave of pleasure. He holds you tight against him with one arm, and his thrusts increase as you tighten impossibly around him.
“Yes, yes, fuck yes that’s it baby, come on my cock, gonna fill you up, fuck” Simon groans at the feeling, the way you’re fluttering around him drags his orgasm out of him as well. With a loud, rough moan, he’s slamming into you, once, twice, then he grinds as far in as he can go as his warm come covers your insides.
Breathing heavily, you both hold each other in a sweaty embrace for a while, till you start to drift off to sleep.
Simon manages to lift you enough to slide out from under you, albeit with your mumbles of protest when the warmth beneath you is gone.
He pads over to your bathroom to grab a cloth to wipe you down. He stops to look in the mirror to check his stitches, luckily they’d mostly held, somehow, but he needs to fix one or two on both his leg and shoulder. It only takes him a couple of minutes, expertly matching your stitches with the kit under the sink.
He applies a new adhesive bandage and you’d never even know. Not that he hadn’t genuinely needed your assistance whenever he came round, but one or two stitches was nothing. He can’t help but smile to himself as he takes in the sight of the many love bites scattered over his body, and the raised red lines from your nails.
Coming back to the bed, he wipes your sleepy form down, cleaning up the mess he left between your thighs, throws the cloth in the washing basket, then climbs back into bed with you. You’re already passed out, the late night and intense orgasms catching up to you.
Simon pulls you to him, and you move to rest your head on his chest in a half conscious state before you’re out again.
He plays with your hair while you drift back off, pressing a kiss to your temple as he looks around your room briefly, in an innocent curiosity of just wanting to know you better, before sleep over takes him.
For the first time in years, Simon sleeps peacefully.
Over the next few months, while Simon isn’t deployed, you continue to deepen your relationship together.
He’s always round at yours while he’s on leave now. He feels happy for once. Something that felt like he’d never have again.
You’d said “I love you” accidentally, while in the middle of what could only be described as an aggressive love making session.
Simon’s thrusts were deep and sensual, he’d been kissing every inch of skin he could reach, touching you with such care in contrast to the way he’s pushing his fat cock deep inside you.
He’d come when you said it.
“Oh god I love you too, fuck” he’d moaned through his orgasm, harshly thrusting himself through it.
“Shit, sorry” he grumbled sheepishly as his premature release, but you just dragged him into a deep kiss.
As the months went by, he ended up selling his own flat. He wasn’t there, any time he spend on leave, he was always at yours anyway. Now when he was deployed, he had someone waiting for him back home.
He actually wanted to make it home. He had to, for you.
Johnny was the first person to notice a change in Simon.
The first thing he noticed was that he appeared eager to leave base whenever they got back from a mission.
Johnny just chalked it up to Simon being sick of people, but he got more concerned when he noticed Simon was injured sometimes, and still left.
Johnny tried to ask him how he’s dealing with these injuries he leaves with but he just shrugs him off saying he deals with them himself. Not completely uncharacteristic and he’s not dead yet so Johnny leaves it for now.
The next time Johnny suspects something, he catches Simon on the phone while they’re resting in a safe house on a mission. They only have burner phones here so whoever it is, must have had the number, or Simon had the number.
He was too far away to hear anything, but that in itself was strange because he’s used to Ghost barking orders, leaving no room to be misheard. So who is Simon talking to so, so softly? Oh my god, did he just laugh?
When he tries to question Simon about who was on the phone later that night, he just shrugs him off again, staring hard in a way that left no room to argue.
The months drift by, and Johnny feels like he’s no closer to figuring out what’s going on with his Lieutenant, and why he’s suddenly not completely unpleasant to be around.
He’d caught Simon having some self inflicted fun once. That’s when he started to suspect Ghost might have got himself a little lassie.
It wasn’t the first time, for either of them to walk in on each other. It isn’t unusual for these men who are away for months, especially because they all live so close together, but the fact he seemed to hide a physical picture from him before bothering to hide his junk was very intriguing. Johnny had never seen him with that photo before.
All of Johnny’s current questions are answered one evening, Johnny is asking Simon about the tattoos on his hands.
They’re both drunk, bored out of their minds, trying to stake out a place for a mission except there’s no one coming in or out, and he asks about the line that runs across the base of his ring finger.
“Wedding ring” Simon mumbles out without really thinking, alcohol dulling his usually sharp mind. His fingers ran over it as he gazes down at it with a look that could only be described as longing.
“Wedding ring??” Johnny yells, way too loud for the late time of night.
“Ah shit…” Simon sighs.
Thank you for reading, this is part of a series but the chapters can be read individually too, part two here • This has also been cross posted on my AO3 • Masterlist • Photo used in header credit: BettyBRenders.
simon riley who quits smoking for you without a second thought
it was a nasty habit he's had since his teens, his way of dying a little bit with each lit cigarette. he never expected to last this long, with all the packs he goes through, bullets dodged, and the battles he's barely survived. he never thought to quit, always itching for a stick between his fingers to ease his anxiety and shaky hands.
before he met you, he never had a reason to. now that he has you, tucked into his side and leeching off his warmth, he knew he had to change. the little looks of disappointment every time he went for a smoke gutted him, or when you'd grimace every time you had to swallow his cum made him grit his teeth. or simply the idea that his smoking could kill your pretty lungs.
he quit cold turkey, like an idiot. it was the hardest thing he's been through, even if he wouldn't admit it, and he's been shot, stabbed and many other questionable things.
but it'd be easy in comparison if it meant keeping you healthy, giving you the live you deserved with him.
sure, he was as grumpy as ever and itched to put his lighter to good use, his hands shaking at his sides with restraint. he needed something to do, something to take his mind off the bad thing he craves.
and there's nothing more he craves than you. lips wrapped around your clit as he feasts on your puddy. tongue laving over the swollen flesh with half lidded eyes, murmuring excuses of, "jus' need m'lips 'n 'ands busy, luv." plunging thick fingers into your plushy cunt, slick and soaked with arousal as you let him. you're so proud of him for quitting, letting him overstimulate your pussy if it meant he never picked up another pack.
so instead of smoking ten a day, he'd eat you out ten times more instead.
It's crazy and wildly unfair the types of people who will be out there with no shame over any of their behavior meanwhile I'm stuck being nauseated at myself for every very normal conversation I have with someone
For the Dunk side of the bed, would love both the sfw and nsfw versions of this lovely mountain of a man taking care of a female identifying reader on her period. The poor man being so alarmed by the blood because in his line of work it usually has a very different connotation, but also not being afraid of it and still doing his earnest best to help take care of you in whatever ways, erotic (not spicy, per your earlier reblog ;) ) or not, that you need.
A/N: hiii, thank you so much for this request! i took a tender nsfw approach because i just couldn’t help it!🩷 xoxo
The fire had died to crimson embers, bleeding warmth into the shadows. You woke to a throb deep in your belly, a heavy ache that weighted your bones. Air brushed your bare shoulders, but the man beside you burned. You lay tucked against him, your spine flush with the solid wall of his chest. His arm rested over your waist, heavy as an oak branch, anchoring you to the mattress.
When you shifted, skin dragged against the dense muscle of his thigh. A low rumble vibrated through his chest. In sleep, he only held tighter. His grip molded you to his torso, his massive hand spreading over the ache in your stomach. His palm was rough, thick with calluses from sword work, yet he pressed with a gentle, shielding pressure that kept out the draft.
"Ser?" you murmured, the word thick and dry in your throat.
He answered not with words but by nuzzling your neck, his nose burying into your skin. His breath came in hot, slow puffs that made you shiver, tickling just below your ear. The hedge knight was soft in these quiet hours, slow to stir. On any other day, you would have melted back into his touch, but the throb in your womb grew too loud. Your breasts felt heavy, swollen, aching sharply the moment you adjusted your weight.
You twisted slowly in his arms until you faced him. His features were hard planes and soft shadows in the dying light. His nose had that crooked bend from a tourney years past; a pale scar cut clean through his eyebrow. His hair lay tangled across his broad forehead. He was built for fighting, a man made of iron and timber, but in sleep his huge frame was loose. To the world, he was a shield. Here, he was your Dunk.
Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, his thick stubble scraping against your skin. His eyes stayed closed, but his mouth softened at your touch. Your hand moved down his throat, over his chest, where the dark hair was coarse against your palm. You felt so small next to him.
Sliding your hand lower, following the ridges of his stomach to where the blanket started, you pressed your own belly, trying to ease the cramp inside. The pressure only made the ache twist tighter. You frowned, a sudden, familiar dampness spreading between your thighs—too wet, too slick for the sheets.
Your breath caught. You knew that feeling.
With a knot of dread tightening in your chest, you lifted the blanket. Even in the dim ember-light, the dark stain was clear on the linen, spreading beneath you. Your blood, soaking through your shift and onto the bed, right where he had been inside you hours before.
A gasp escaped you. You scrambled back, pulling away from his warmth in a sudden panic. The movement made you clumsy, and you tumbled off the side of the bed. Your bare feet hit the cold stone floor. You stood there shivering, watching a dark line trace down the inside of your thigh. Heat flooded your face. You had ruined his bed, made a mess of him, exposed this raw, private part of your body.
Dunk woke the instant you left his side. The ropes of the bed groaned as he sat up, a mountain of muscle rising in the gloom.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
His voice was rough with sleep but sharp with immediate worry. His eyes searched the room before finding you. His gaze swept over your shaking body, seeing how you tried to pull the hem of your shift down to hide the stains. When he caught the dark smear on your thigh and the wet patch on the bed, his face went completely pale. To a man like him, blood meant violence. It meant a blade.
"Gods," he choked out, his voice cracking. "I did this. I hurt you."
He stepped off the bed, his massive hands held out, trembling.
"No, don't look!" you cried, shrinking back against the wall as tears spilled down your cheeks.
Dunk looked entirely helpless, his hands clenching at his sides as his mind clearly raced through horror stories of internal injuries.
"But how?" he whispered, his breath coming fast and shallow. "I was gentle. I swear to you, girl, I was always careful."
"It's not from that," you sobbed, your face burning with a deep, ancient shame.
You couldn't meet his eyes. Your mother had called moon blood a private burden, a woman's secret, never to be brought before men. You had no words to explain this to a knight looking at you with such sheer, broken terror. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shaking with silent sobs.
Seeing your tears, Dunk closed the distance between you in a single stride, his massive shadow completely covering you. Before you could protest, his arms scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all. You squeaked, but he settled you securely against his chest, wrapping the fallen blanket around your shoulders.
He didn't take you back to the stained bed. He carried you straight to the heavy chair by the hearth, sinking down with you in his lap. He held you tight, one hand spreading flat across your back, pressing you into his body heat until your panicked breathing slowly matched his.
"Hush now, I've got you," he rumbled against your hair. He was still shaking from the panic of thinking he'd broken you. He pulled back slightly, his thick finger tilting your chin up. "Don't be scared of me. Just tell me what's wrong. I don't understand, but I'm here."
Your breath hitched, the dam of your shame breaking under his honesty.
"It's my moon blood," you whispered against his chest. "It comes every month. It's normal."
He blinked, his thick brow furrowing. He looked from your tear-streaked face to the dark stain on the bed, his mind working hard. "Moon blood?"
You nodded, heat crawling up your neck. "It means I'm not with child."
Understanding finally dawned. His broad shoulders slumped, the terrifying tension draining from his frame as he let out a long, shuddering breath.
"Oh," he breathed against your skin. A tentative, sheepish smile broke through his rugged features. "That's all?"
You stared, your tears momentarily forgotten. "All? Dunk, I bled all over our bed."
He snorted, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "That's what's troubling you?" He shifted you in his lap, his thick fingers sliding through your hair. "Gods be good, I thought I'd ripped you in two. I was ready to ride naked through the castle looking for a maester." He shook his head, a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. "I'm a fool. A great, stupid oaf."
A watery laugh escaped you. His relief was so plain, his panic so genuine, that the humiliation simply melted away. Warmth spread through your chest. He wasn't disgusted. He wasn't angry. He was just Dunk. Your big, protective, wonderfully clueless knight.
He leaned down, kissing your forehead, then the crooked bridge of his nose nudged against yours before he found your lips. It was a kiss full of quiet devotion.
"Are you in pain?" he asked against your mouth, his brow furrowing again. "You winced when you moved."
"Some," you admitted softly. "A dull ache low down. And..." You hesitated, feeling the heavy, sensitive weight against his chest. "Sometimes they swell. My breasts. They feel tender and sore."
Dunk’s hand went entirely still against your waist. His gaze snapped down, his eyes darkening as he tracked the heavy rise and fall of your chest beneath the shift. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening with a sudden, fierce restraint.
"Tender?" he repeated, his voice dropping an octave, rough and hesitant. He looked back up at your face, an anxious shadow crossing his eyes. "Do they hurt? Am I pressing too hard against you, girl?"
You bit your lip, a different kind of shiver running through you at the intense focus in his blue eyes. The safety of his embrace and the radiating heat of his large hands were already working a slow magic, turning the sharp, miserable cramps into a low, heavy pooling of warmth.
"A little," you admitted, tilting your chin up to look at him. "But it's... a good sort of ache, Dunk. I want you to touch them."
His breath hitched, the sudden shift from comfort to raw desire thick in the air. He shifted his weight, carefully sliding you off his lap and settling you into the deep cushion of the wooden chair.
"Stay here where it's warm," he murmured, his thumb catching a stray tear from your cheek.
He stood, his naked frame a pale, towering wall in the firelight. He walked to the bed, his long legs moving with purpose. With one massive hand, he ripped the soiled sheets from the mattress, balling them up and tossing them into the far corner of the room.
"Those can be washed," he said dismissively, looking back at you over his shoulder. "Or burned. I care not." His lips curled into a soft, reassuring smile. "You need a hot bath. There should be water warming in the kitchen still."
He turned toward the door, entirely forgetting his nakedness in his haste to care for you.
"Dunk!" you gasped, your fingers tightening on the blanket. "You cannot just walk out into the corridor like that!"
He paused, looking down at his own bare length and then back at you, a bright, sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Right. Forgot."
He walked to where his clothes lay, grabbing his breeches. The leather strained over his thick thighs as he pulled them on, followed quickly by his tunic. He paused at the threshold, looking back at you with a gaze full of fierce affection. "I'll bring the water up. And some clean cloths."
He was gone before you could protest, leaving you tucked safely by the hearth. Your heart thumped a wild, sweet rhythm against your ribs. The shame was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, blooming devotion. He hadn't flinched. He hadn't turned away. He'd seen you at your most raw, and his only instinct had been to shelter you.
True to his word, he returned moments later. A wooden bucket of steaming water hung from each of his massive hands, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the heavy effort. He set them down by the copper tub in the corner, the rising vapor softening the cool air of the room.
He straightened up and looked at you, still curled in the chair. A quiet question burned in his eyes. "Can you manage? Or would you like some help?"
The offer hung between you, heavy with intimacy. You knew exactly what he was asking. He was offering to wash you, to touch you and tend to you even when you felt undone.
You hesitated for a second, the last thread of hesitation tying your muscles tight, before you let the wool blanket fall to the hearth rug. You stood bare before him in your stained shift, the thin fabric clinging to the curve of your hips.
You saw his breath catch. His blue eyes darkened, tracing the lines of your body with a fierce, unwavering focus. There was no disgust in his gaze; instead, his eyes held that familiar, quiet awe that always made you feel cherished—as if you were something holy he had been chosen to guard. To a hedge knight who spent his life in the dirt, a little blood was nothing, but the sight of your body was everything.
"Help me," you whispered.
He was at your side before the breath could fully leave your lips. His massive hands were unbelievably gentle as he gathered the hem of the soiled shift, his calloused palms brushing against your bare thighs as he lifted the fabric up and over your head. He didn't look away, his eyes taking in every inch of you as you stood entirely naked before him.
Lifting you into his arms once more, he carried you to the tub and lowered you into the steaming water. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped your lips as the heat enveloped your body, immediately sinking into your muscles and soothing the sharp ache in your belly.
Dunk sank onto his knees beside the copper tub, grabbing a soft cloth. He dipped it into the water, running it over your shoulder. His touch was soft, careful not to press too hard against your skin.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Yes," you breathed, your eyes closing, your head tilting back against the tub's rim.
He washed you with a slow, quiet devotion. The warm cloth moved along your arms, traced your collarbones, and smoothed over your skin. He took his time, washing away the stray lines of blood from your inner thighs with infinite patience, the water swirling faintly pink before settling. He focused completely on your comfort, his broad palm pausing to rest flat and heavy below your navel, sending a deep, radiating heat into your abdomen.
"Hurt here, sweet girl?" he asked, his thumb circling your belly.
"A little," you admitted, but his hand was already easing the tension, the pain dissolving into a low, heavy ache of desire.
He leaned over the tub, pressing a warm kiss to your wet shoulder, his lips burning against your skin. "Let me make it better. Let me care for you."
His hand rose from the water, droplets sliding down his thick forearm. He cupped one breast, his calloused palm creating a delicious friction against your swollen flesh. You gasped, your spine arching into his touch. He watched you, his expression intense and hungry as he felt how firmly your body responded to him.
"Like this?" he murmured, his thumb brushing the sensitive tip.
"Yes," you breathed.
He leaned closer, his face inches above the water. His other hand took your remaining breast, rolling the nipple with gentle, heavy pressure.
"Gods, Dunk," you moaned, your head falling back as pleasure shot straight to your core, completely overriding the last of your cramps.
He lowered his head, his hot breath fanning your wet skin before his lips closed around you. The heat of his mouth, the firm suction of his tongue, was exquisite. He tested you first, then grew confident, greedy. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he suckled, a heavy, wet rhythm that had you writhing beneath the water.
He released you with a soft sigh, his blue eyes meeting yours as he licked his wet mouth.
"Didn't know," he said, his voice thick with arousal. "Didn't know it could be like this." He cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. "Your man, remember? Never hide anything from me. Not this, not anything. I love all of you."
Tears welled again, but from love and desire. You surged forward, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. It was a clumsy, desperate collision of lips and tongue. His mouth was hot and demanding, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck.
You broke apart, panting for air. "Dunk, please," you begged, your hands tugging at his tunic. "I need you. In the water. Touch me. Your hands, all over me."
He didn't wait. He stood, tearing off his tunic and stripping his breeches with an urgency that made you gasp. His length sprang free, thick, hard, and beaded with desire. Magnificent, scarred flesh and sheer power, all yours.
He stepped into the tub, the water sloshing heavily over the copper sides onto the stone floor as he settled his massive frame behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His hard length nestled right against your hips, and he groaned at the tight contact.
"Tell me how," he rasped in your ear, his hands rising under the water to cup your breasts, squeezing them gently. "Tell me what you need, sweet girl."
"Just hold me," you whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder. "Just be inside me. Slowly."
He hitched your thighs over his knees, his large hands gripping your skin with a force that was heavy but profoundly careful. The broad head of his shaft pressed against your opening, slick with bathwater and your body's own wet heat. He ground forward, filling you with a slow, massive pressure that seemed to anchor the remaining ache in your belly, stretching you out in one deep, deliberate movement that forced a breathless sob from your throat.
A heavy grunt tore from his chest as he seated himself fully inside you. His muscles seized as your walls clamped tightly around his immense width. He kept up that slow, deliberate pace, his frame trembling as he fought to keep his movements steady and supportive for you. His breathing was harsh, his thighs shaking beneath you as he mastered his own driving hunger.
It wasn't a rushed pace; it was a deep, overwhelming fullness that made the bathwater slosh over the copper rim, the wet sounds cutting through the quiet room. He held you tight against his chest, his massive frame anchoring you both as he moved within you, his body heat acting as a balm to your remaining cramps.
His calloused hands slid up your wet skin, your small fingers covering them, pressing his palms against your swollen breasts.
"Dunk... gods, Dunk," you panted, your head rolling against his neck as the sheer scale of him moving inside made your core pulse. "You fill me so completely. So deep."
"You're tight, girl," Dunk groaned in your ear, his breath a ragged gasp vibrating through your spine. All soft words vanished, stripped away by raw truth. "So warm. I don't care about the sheets, I don't care about the blood. I need to be in you. You feel too damn good."
Driven by the heavy pleasure, you tilted your pelvis, grinding back against his lap to chase that deep ache.
Dunk let out a sharp roar, his hands ripping away from your breasts to slam onto your hips. He clamped his fingers into your skin, locking your pelvis in place.
"Don't—gods, sweet girl, stay still," he choked out, his voice breaking as his chest heaved against your back. He was shaking, his knuckles white as he forced you still. "Don't move like that. I'm on the edge. I can't take you rubbing against me, I swear it, I'll spill now."
He held you frozen, his shaft throbbing heavily inside you as he panted, riding out the wave.
"’m close," he grunted, his voice dropping into a murmur against your wet neck. "So close it hurts, but I want to feel you break first. Let go around me."
With one hand pinning your hip, his other slid down through the water, his fingers finding your swollen center. He didn't touch you like something fragile; his thumb moved with a heavy, rhythmic friction that had you seeing stars.
The dual sensation of his massive length stretching you from within and his hand working over your flesh pushed you over. With a broken cry, you arched against his chest, your walls clamping tight on him, rippling in waves as your climax tore through you.
He followed you a heartbeat later with a low roar that rumbled through your very bones. His hips jerked forward, burying himself to the absolute hilt as he spilled inside you. The rush of his seed filled your core, a thick, branding heat that locked you together. A final, violent shudder racked his massive frame, and he collapsed back against the tub, completely spent, hauling you back with him so you were flattened against his chest.
For a long time, neither of you moved. The quiet returned, save for the sound of his chest heaving against your back and water dripping onto the floor. You lay entwined in the cooling water, bodies still locked together in the rawest intimacy. The ache in your belly was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, satisfied soreness and absolute peace.
Dunk's chin rested heavily on your shoulder. He pressed lazy, warm kisses into your skin, his calloused hands still resting over your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles.
"Next month," he rumbled, his voice low, gravelly, and thoroughly content. You felt the curve of a smile against your neck. "We'll put a heavy fur down on the floor first. Save us the trouble of scrubbing the sheets."
A laugh bubbled out of you—full of joy and relief. He was right. It was just a sheet. Just blood. Just your body working, and there was no shame in it. As long as you had your big, clumsy, devoted knight to hold you through the dark days, nothing else in the Seven Kingdoms could touch you.
You turned around in his lap, splashing water carelessly over the copper sides, and cupped his rugged, wet face in both of your hands. You kissed him soundly, pouring every ounce of your gratitude into his mouth, knowing with absolute certainty that this was just another secret, another raw piece of your life that belonged solely to the two of you.
"I love you, Duncan the Tall," you whispered against his lips, your thumbs tracing the strong line of his jaw.
Dunk wrapped his massive arms around you, pulling you so close against his chest that you could barely breathe, his blue eyes steady and fiercely protective.
"I love you more, girl," he replied, and looking into his honest, unblinking gaze, you knew it was the absolute truth.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female!Sergeant ♡ 18+ erotica, secret military dating, oral sex (mutual), teasing/denial, high intensity, 6.5k words.
Details: third person POV, pierced nipples (Simon), face reveal, ink/scar appreciation & Si going insane for his fave girl.
Synopsis: A movie date night in Simon's bunker that instantly goes off the rails. Sneaking past Price just to eat chocolate on a military cot is high-risk enough, but once the clothes come off, all discipline goes out the window. Just Ghost getting absolutely dismantled by his sergeant (his girl) in the best, filthiest way possible.
Author's Note: You guys, I'm really, really, really happy with how this one turned out! I know the plot itself is super simple, but I am just so happy with how the execution and the vibe of it came together, I had a blast writing it. Hope you enjoy! ✨❤️🔥
The journey to Sub-Level 3 had been its own kind of combat operation. She'd navigated around Soap's prying eyes in the mess hall, slipped past Gaz's casual inspection in the hangar. But her real challenge had been Captain Price. He'd cornered her near the armory, his body blocking the doorway, that knowing smirk twisting beneath the brim of his boonie hat while he peppered her with questions about her upcoming leave, questions that felt anything but casual.
Heat had flooded her face, her tongue tripping over a flimsy excuse as she ducked past him. The memory of that close call still thrummed beneath her skin, electric and raw.
Her duffel hit Simon's metal locker with a metallic clang, her fingers trembling slightly as they released the strap. The bunker was sterile, military-order clean. Simon stood motionless by the cot, still in his tactical trousers and combat boots, but the plate carrier was gone. In its place, a black compression shirt clung to the massive expanse of his shoulders and chest, mapping every ridge of muscle.
He didn't move, didn't speak, just watched her from behind the skull-patterned balaclava, those dark eyes pinning her in place from the narrow slits.
"It was nothing," she murmured, shrugging out of her uniform jacket and letting it fall across his desk chair. "Price likes you. I like him. He was just being the Captain, making sure his favorite Lieutenant's new shadow wasn't going to get him killed on the next op."
Simon's hand stilled at the hem of his shirt before he let his arms fall to his sides. She had this way, this unsettling ability to strip away the layers between them when the door was shut. No tiptoeing, no careful wording — never needed. Just the truth, laid bare.
"Nah. He knows you're solid," Simon rumbled, his voice a low vibration in the concrete room, thick with Manchester gravel.
"Simon, I'm a sergeant he assigned to your six months ago, and now I'm sneaking into your bunk at twenty-two hundred," she countered, a shy smile playing at her lips as her gaze dropped to her boots. "For all he knows, I'm exactly the kind of distraction that gets a man like you killed."
She was sharp. Perceptive. Simon hadn't realized how tightly his jaw was clenched until she called it out. Of course Price—the man who carried the weight of their lives on his shoulders—would make it his business to keep them both in line.
"Does that piss you off?" Simon asked, closing the distance between them until his shadow swallowed hers completely.
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then dropped onto the cot with a soft thud. "That the Captain is doing his job? I figure if he really had a problem, I'd be bunking with the recruits by now."
"If he started sniffing around my business like that, I don't think I'd be so bloody forgiving," he muttered.
"Good thing it's my business then, not yours, Lt.," she said, her voice dropping to something softer, more intimate as she looked up at him through her lashes. "But let's be honest, you've got a reputation to uphold. You're the Ghost. Ghosts don't have company. You've got more at stake than some random grunt on this base."
"You're going to tell me that story someday," he said, turning toward the monitor on his desk, the hard drive blinking softly in the dim light.
"Maybe. Maybe not," she breathed, the air between them thickening as he closed the distance. "But right now, I'm off duty. Just here for whatever passes for entertainment in this concrete tomb and whatever shitty rations you've managed to hoard."
"Making out part of the entertainment package?" his voice dropped, gravelly and low, that rare humor cutting through the darkness.
Heat bloomed across her cheeks, a daring smile curling her lips despite the flutter in her chest. "Play your cards right, and if you've actually lifted those chocolate bars from the officers' mess, I might let you touch me."
Simon felt something stir behind the mask. Dark amusement mixed with something else. Good thing he'd raided the commissary that afternoon, clearing out the top shelf just for her.
"Got you covered," he rumbled, reaching into his locker and tossing the bars onto her lap. "Get comfortable, love. Let me get this sorted."
One eyebrow lifted, color still high on her cheeks, but she nodded and settled back against his pillows as the room plunged into darkness.
They picked a violent action flick—the kind with bullets and blood they could both dissect for its stupidity—and she fell quiet, the only sound the crinkle of chocolate wrapper and the occasional rustle of clothing as she shifted against him.
She tensed at first when his arm brushed hers, but soon enough she was melting against his side. Simon hauled her closer, anchoring her slight frame to his massive chest. She fit perfectly there, warm and soft against his hard, solid body.
When the credits rolled, blue light washed across the concrete walls. She moved with liquid grace, breath catching as she shifted to straddle his thighs, knees bracketing his hips.
"Well now," she whispered, eyes dropping briefly before meeting his through the darkness.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they found the hem of his balaclava. She just gathered the fabric at his neck, rolling it upward with deliberate slowness. She stopped just above his nose, leaving his eyes hidden in shadow but exposing the hard line of his jaw, the heavy stubble, the pale scars that webbed across his lips.
Simon remained perfectly still, his breathing turning ragged beneath the fabric.
She leaned in, heartbeat thrumming against his chest, and pressed her mouth to his. The kiss began tentative, almost shy, but when Simon hummed, heat flared between them. His hands, huge and calloused, slid up her thighs to grip her hips, anchoring her as the kiss deepened, turned demanding and raw.
Where her uniform shirt met her trousers, skin was warm and impossibly soft. Simon let his palms trace upward along her spine, feeling her shudder and arch against him, a silent invitation for more.
His thumbs climbed her spine, pausing at the bra's metal clasp. A question mark pressed against her skin. His chest rose and fell beneath her, each breath a storm contained by bone and muscle.
Blue light painted her flushed cheeks as she nodded, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. She arched backward, peeling away her shirt and bra in one fluid motion. The fabric hit his locker with a soft thud, leaving her bare, breasts rising with each shallow breath in the dim room.
Simon's breath hitched, the sound raw in the enclosed space. "Bloody hell," the words grated from his throat.
He hauled her against him, his compression shirt no barrier to the heat radiating from her skin. The friction drew a hiss from between his teeth as his hands mapped every curve of her back.
She moaned, spine bowing like a drawn bowstring, then buried her face in the curve of his neck. "Your turn, Lt. Please."
"Patience, love. I've got plans for you first."
Her shyness evaporated, replaced by raw hunger. She hooked her fingers in his shirt hem, dragging it upward. Simon lifted his arms, letting her strip him bare. His torso emerged in the blue glow—a landscape of scars across muscle and bone.
"Jesus, Simon..." Her thumb traced a jagged line below his collarbone, touch reverent.
His muscles tensed, a grunt escaping as she peppered his jaw and neck with hesitant kisses. "What's brought this on?" he rasped.
"I wanted you," she breathed, heat blooming against his skin. "And you're finally here."
"Can't argue with that."
"I like this," her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "As long as it's just us in this room, I want everything you're willing to give."
Warning bells screamed in Simon's head. He was a graveyard of secrets, and this woman shouldn't be digging around in it. Before he could form the words to push her away, she whimpered against his neck, a sound that shattered his restraint.
With a groan, his hands descended, rough thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened to peaks.
"Yes," she gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.
She was a perfect weight on his lap, pressing against his erection through tactical trousers.
"New scars," she noted, fingers tracing a fresh pink line near his ribs.
"And new ink," his voice dropped as his fingers brushed the waistband of her trousers. Even in the dimness, he made out the shape of a gun among roses, a skull peeking through thorns. "Show me properly."
Hesitation flickered across her face. "Simon..."
He claimed her mouth again, the kiss bruising, demanding. Then he rose, lifting her as if she weighed nothing and setting her on the cold concrete floor.
"Stay," he commanded, voice thick with desire. "Let me look my fill. I'm starving for what I see."
She stood in the center of the dim bunker, heat blooming across her cheeks, but her gaze remained locked on him.
Simon retreated a half-step, his eyes, still shadowed beneath the upper half of his mask — devouring her slowly. The new ink was a violent revelation against her quiet exterior. Down her right ribcage, dark roses bloomed in intricate detail, their thorny stems coiling around a service pistol's stark silhouette.
He circled her, combat boots making no sound on the concrete. Behind her now, he traced the ink's path across her lower back where a skull, shaded with grim precision, nestled among petals. It suited her; deadly and fragile in the same breath.
"Beautiful, love," he rumbled.
"Thanks," she whispered, shoulders hitching with a nervous breath. "Finished it after Mexico."
"Never guessed it was hiding under the uniform," he said, closing the distance behind her. He bent, pressing a warm kiss to the skull's center, stubble rasping against her skin.
She gasped, body trembling. "That's the point, Lt."
He kissed his way up her spine, across her shoulder blade, then turned her to face him again. His mouth hovered near hers, breath hot on her lips. "Is it, then?"
"The ink's for me," she murmured, lashes lowering. "No one else needs to see. Just you."
Simon's calloused fingers found her trousers' top button, unfastened it, then drew the zipper down with a slow, deliberate click. Beneath, dark cotton panties hugged low on her hips, framing the roses climbing her thigh.
"Caught myself watching you at the pool the other night," Simon's voice rumbled, rough as gravel, his palms branding her hips. "Almost made a move then. Almost scared you off with how badly I wanted to peel that swimwear right off your body."
His hands moved with purpose, shoving her trousers down until they pooled around her ankles. She stepped free, bare feet touching cold concrete as her hands fluttered against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through the scar tissue.
A slow turn, hips tilting just so, offering him a better view. Her fingers danced along the thorny vines climbing her thigh, tracing petals that looked too dark to be natural.
"Figured you'd want a closer look at these, Simon," she whispered, voice trembling.
When she glanced back over her shoulder with her pupils blown with hunger, that's when his military discipline shattered. Simon sank to his knees on the unforgiving floor, the sound echoing in the small space.
His calloused hands mapped the terrain of her legs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh while tracing the gun's outline and rose petals. Goosebumps erupted across her skin as his breath ghosted over the ink. A sharp intake of air when his tongue flicked against the sensitive skin beside the barrel.
"Christ, you taste like sin, love," he growled, voice muffled against her thigh.
A breathy moan escaped her lips, fingers tangling in his cropped hair, holding him there as her legs threatened to give way.
His fingers hooked into her panties, dragging them down her legs. Once she'd stepped free, he spun her to face him, bare and vulnerable in the monitor's blue glow.
"Standing here completely naked while you're still half-dressed," she managed, voice thin as smoke.
"I know exactly how fucking lucky I am." He leaned in, pressing his lips to the ink on her hip, blood rushing in his ears as she cradled his head against her.
"Could be luckier if you lost those trousers too, Lieutenant," she whispered, though color stained her cheeks.
"Patience, Sergeant," he muttered against her stomach, tongue tracing circles around her navel. "You'll come first. Then we'll see about getting me out of these."
He rose, a mountain of scarred muscle and shadow, and backed her the two steps to the cot with his sheer mass. The force was absolute—his body a physical law she couldn't defy. She landed on the edge with a soft gasp as he retrieved a spare military pillow from his locker, dropping it on the cold concrete before sinking to his knees between her splayed thighs.
"Don't worry, princess" his exposed mouth twisted into something else, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. "This pillow's for later, when it's your turn to get on your fucking knees."
Her throat worked, pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. He was going to break her, piece by delicious piece.
Simon's mouth branded the tender skin behind each knee before blazing a trail upward. He shoved her thighs apart with brutal efficiency, leaving no room for modesty or hesitation. Before she could process the sudden exposure, his tongue plunged through her slick folds, dragging a choked gasp from her lungs.
"You like that, do you?" His lips vibrated against her throbbing clit, letting her feel the wicked curve of his smile. The sensation shot through her like live wire, making her spine arch off the cot.
"Simon, please..." The words were barely coherent, her fingers twisting in the rough wool blanket as her vision fractured into bursts of light.
He was merciless. His technique was pure combat discipline applied to pleasure—slow, devastating strokes with the flat of his tongue that built unbearable pressure, followed by rapid, precise flicks against her most sensitive bundle of nerves. His forearms, corded with muscle, locked her legs wide open, pinning her to the mattress with absolute control.
He drove her to the precipice of a screaming orgasm, then cruelly pulled back, leaving her trembling and desperate. Again and again he repeated the torture, until she was a sweat-soaked, writhing mess against his sheets.
"Simon, if you don't let me come, I swear to God I'll... I'll take what's mine!" she finally snarled, all traces of shyness scorched away by frustration.
He leaned back just enough to bite the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his lips glistening.
"I'd fucking love to see you try, Sergeant," his voice rumbled, dark eyes pinning hers. "But your orgasm belongs to me right now. You'll come when I decide you've earned it."
Her mouth opened and closed uselessly, chest heaving as his gravelly authority stripped away any remaining defiance.
Simon waited, a scarred brow arched in the dimness. "Mmm- Good."
He bent his head, and this time there was no teasing. He worked her with relentless, brutal precision until her climax crashed over her, stealing her breath and painting the bunker ceiling with explosions of color.
When her vision cleared, he was resting his heavy chin on her inner thigh, the exposed lower half of his mask lifted in something approaching genuine satisfaction.
A shaky laugh escaped her lips, fingers still clutching the blanket like a lifeline. "Fuck! You’re so fucking good at this, Lieutenant."
Simon's laugh was low and gravelly, a sound that vibrated through her entire body.
Simon rose to his knees. His chest heaved with each ragged breath, hands going to the tactical button of his trousers. She watched, pulse hammering against her ribs, as his fingers worked the stubborn fastening open. A soft sigh escaped her lips, any lingering shyness melting away under the heavy heat pooling in her cunt. He stood, dragging the heavy metal zipper down with a metallic hiss that made her wet, then kicked his uniform trousers aside with careless force.
He was a fucking fortress. Her gaze tracked the hard, lean muscle covering his body, a battlefield written in flesh and ink. But as her eyes roved upward, her breath caught in her throat. Catching the dim light of the bunker monitor were two silver bars running horizontally through his nipples.
"Simon..." she whispered, her eyes widening. "You've got your fucking nipples pierced?"
Simon let out a low grunt, a slight flush hitting his high cheekbones, though his exposed mouth twisted into something predatory. "Aye. A daft wager with Soap a few years back after a rough op in Belfast. Neither of us thought the other would bloody go through with it. I won, didn't I?"
"Does it hurt?" she asked, completely transfixed, her cunt clenching at the sight.
"Not anymore, love," he growled softly, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed hers completely at the edge of the cot. "But if you touch 'em right, you might get a rise out of me."
She swallowed hard, wildly flattered by the dark, hungry way he was staring down at her—like she was the only goddamn thing he'd ever wanted to devour. She shimmied to the edge of the cot and stood up, her hands coming up to rest against his broad chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through scar tissue.
"You looked at my ink, Simon. Let me look at yours," she insisted softly, her thumb lightly brushing the silver bar in his right nipple, making his chest muscle twitch violently.
Simon let out a sharp hiss through his teeth, his jaw clenching. "Hurry the fuck up, then, love. Because I'm bloody starving for you."
She stepped around him, her eyes tracing the massive, grim artwork covering his back. An enormous, tattered skeletal reaper stretched across his shoulder blades, its bony hands reaching down his spine, clutching a pair of crossed combat knives. The shading was dark, heavy, and intense. Death made beautiful.
"Jesus, Simon," she breathed, running her fingertips lightly over the ink. "This is incredible."
"The regiment call sign," he explained, dropping to a quiet, rough register. "Reminds me of who I am when the mask is on. And who I have to be to keep the lads alive."
She stepped back around to his front, her eyes dropping to his ribs. On his right side, etched in neat, small military script, was a long string of numbers and names.
"Coordinates?" she asked softly.
"A graveyard," Simon muttered, his expression flattening, a shadow of the Ghost passing over his bare face. "Every man I've lost under my command. I put 'em on my ribs so they're always close to my chest. Keeps me sharp. Reminds me not to make the same bloody mistake twice."
Her heart swelled with a fierce, protective ache. She leaned in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss right over the heavy ink of his ribs, before looking up at him through her lashes. "And what about this one?"
On his hip, wrapping around the bone, was a heavy, coiled length of barbed wire, thick and jagged.
"That one's for the days I survived when I shouldn't have," he whispered, his large hand coming down to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek. "A reminder that hell couldn't hold me."
The dangerous gravity of him completely consumed her. He was a man built from trauma and war, a walking graveyard of secrets, but here, in the quiet of his quarters, he was letting her read his history like a fucking love letter.
Simon's arm clamped around her waist, dragging her naked body against the furnace of his skin. "Got condoms in the desk drawer," he growled, his voice raw with need. "Grab one, love, and ride my cock. Here. Now."
One eyebrow arched, her eyes igniting with a dangerous spark. "Pushy today, aren't we, Lieutenant?"
"Put 'em there this morning," he rumbled, chest hitching as her nipples dragged against his. "Been thinking about this all fucking day. You and me. Just you."
A slow smile spread across her lips as she pushed against his chest, guiding him back onto the cot. She reached for the desk, fingers closing around a foil packet. But she didn't tear it open.
"Patience, Simon," she whispered, retrieving the spare pillow from the floor and positioning it between his thighs.
His exposed mouth stretched into something predatory. "Oh, that's what that was for," he rumbled, dark eyes gleaming. "Fucking brilliant. On your knees then, Sergeant."
She sank down, the scratchy wool cushioning her knees from the unforgiving concrete. Color crept up her neck, but her gaze remained locked on his as she settled between his legs. Simon mentally recited every bloody weapons manual he'd ever memorized just to keep from spilling right there at the sight of her naked and willing, framed by his scarred thighs, looking up at him with hunger.
Her tongue traced a wet path up his inner thigh, eyes never leaving his shadowed ones. Simon's breath hitched, his hands finding purchase on her shoulders as heat pooled low in his gut. She knew exactly what she was doing, which made it ten times more torturous.
This was the woman who moved through the barracks everyday, all business and precision. But here? Here she was taking what she wanted with the same precision she'd field-strip a rifle.
When her tongue finally lapped up the length of his cock, Simon huffed out a rough curse, fingers tangling in her hair. The contrast between her soft strands and his rough knuckles was maddening. And the way her mouth, hot and wet, was currently swirling around the head of his dick was pure fucking torture.
She teased him, drawing it out until he was practically vibrating with need. He'd been in such a blind rush to bury himself inside her, but this... this was slow, deliberate torture. She was giving him back exactly what he'd done to her minutes ago.
The wet sounds she made in the quiet room were obscene, driving his pulse into the stratosphere. But it was the way her pupils had swallowed the color in her eyes when he'd taken control earlier that had nearly undone him. She was always so composed, so contained; he hadn't been sure how she'd respond to his dominance, but she was blooming under it.
Her mouth was impossibly hot as she swirled her tongue around the tip, then took him so deep her nose brushed against his pubic bone. Simon let out a guttural sound, fingers tightening in her hair.
She moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight to his fucking brain.
He was torn between wanting this to last forever and the desperate need to be buried balls-deep inside her. She looked like a goddess kneeling between his knees, those dark rose tattoos stark against her pale skin as she worked her mouth magic on him. But Simon had been fantasizing about this woman for months, dreaming of the moment he could finally claim her.
When her nails lightly scraped across his balls, his military discipline shattered. His hands tightened on her shoulders, guiding her back with gentle insistence.
"Wait. Stop, love," he choked out. "I want in you. Now."
She pulled off him with a wet, obscene sound, tongue darting out to taste him on her lips. "You were in me, Lt."
"Now I can be in your cunt," he growled. "Get the fuck up here and ride me."
Simon's vision swam as he fumbled for the metal desk drawer. His knuckles were white around the foil packet, breath coming in ragged gasps. Six months of wanting this woman, and now his hands usually steady as death on a rifle, trembled like a recruit's.
"Simon, wait," she whispered.
He froze, dark eyes snapping to hers. "What's wrong, love? If you want to stop, you say the word—"
"No, I don't want to stop," she cut in, voice dropping to something desperate. Her fingers wrapped his wrist, stopping his hand. "Get rid of it. I don't want anything between us."
Simon's jaw locked. "Love, we haven't... this is our first time, innit? I need to keep you safe."
"I'm clean, Simon. Fully screened after Mexico," she rushed out, gaze fierce. "Haven't been with anyone else. I don't want a piece of plastic separating me from you. I want you raw. All of you."
Simon stared, mind fracturing under the weight of it. Her calling him Simon, demanding him unfiltered, drove him past restraint.
"I'm clean too, love. Haven't touched a soul," he growled, voice dropping to something primal. "You're right sure, then? No going back from this, Sergeant."
"I'm sure. Put it inside me."
With a guttural grunt, Simon crunched the foil in his fist and hurled it across the room, where it hit the concrete wall and vanished into shadows.
But the greed in his chest clawed at him. He couldn't stand the fabric on his face anymore. He didn't want to hide from her. Not tonight. Not when she was offering him everything.
With a rough movement, he grabbed the hem of his balaclava and hauled it off, throwing it onto the floor.
His scarred face was entirely bare in the monitor's blue glow.
She caught her breath, chest freezing as she took him in. She'd expected something grim, terrifying based on base rumors, but looking at him now... underneath the ghost was a breathtakingly handsome, intensely mature man. The heavy shadow of stubble, the sharp line of his nose, the pale silver tracks of combat scars… they didn't ruin his face. They gave it a tragic, lethal beauty.
Her hand trembled as she reached up, fingers brushing his high cheekbone. "Simon..." she whispered, voice full of awe. "You're beautiful. You're so fucking beautiful."
Simon's eyes widened, fierce vulnerability flaring in his dark gaze. He didn't pull away. He let her touch him, jaw clenching as she slid her thumb over the jagged scar splitting his lip. She leaned in, reverent, and began pressing soft, lingering kisses to his face—kissing the line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, every mark of war etched into his skin, validating the man beneath the monster.
A guttural sound tore from Simon's chest as his calloused palms framed her face. His thumbs swiped the heat from her cheeks before he claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss that tasted of desperation and want. No balaclava, just wet heat and the electric shock of skin against skin, consuming and raw.
He gave her no quarter to retreat into shyness. Those massive hands slid down her arms, muscles cording as he lifted her off the floor like she weighed nothing. His thighs spread wider, making room as he hauled her straight into his lap, positioning her over his thick arousal.
Pure possessiveness guided his movements. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips with unyielding force, lifting her just enough before impaling her in one devastating thrust that buried him to the hilt.
"Christ, fuck," Simon choked out, his head cracking against the concrete wall as his hips bucked involuntarily. The raw friction of her cunt wrapping around him sent a violent jolt straight to his balls. It was too much, too intense, too deep. Every ounce of military discipline strained against the urge to spill right there, his jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
She cried out, sharp and breathless, fingernails scoring his shoulders as her body stretched to accommodate his girth. Her face buried in the crook of his neck, tremors racking her frame as she took every inch of him.
"Simon..." she whimpered against his skin, the name a prayer on her lips as all hesitation burned away.
"I've got you, love. Fucking take it," he growled with authority. His grip on her hips tightened, setting a punishing rhythm that had the cot's metal frame screaming against concrete. "Open that sweet cunt for me. You're mine tonight, Sergeant. Every goddamn bit belongs to me."
"Yes," she gasped, leaning up to claim his bare lips again, riding him with a desperate greed that matched his own. Their mouths clashed, tongues tangling as Simon drank in her gasps, his hands roving over the dark ink of the skulls and roses on her skin.
He let go of her hip with one hand, lifting his heavy palm to cup one of her breasts, giving it a sharp, teasing tug.
Her head immediately tipped back, breaking the kiss on a ragged sigh. Her inner muscles gripped him in a sudden, tight spasm, milking him, and Simon let out a snarl.
"Fuck, you're wrapping around me so tight," he growled, his voice gravelly against her ear. "You're ruining me, love. Don't stop. Keep that rhythm."
He slid his hand down from her breast, his large, rough fingers moving between their sweating bodies until his thumb found her center, slick and rubbing friction against his groin.
She hissed, her teeth catching the skin of his bare shoulder. "Simon, I'm gonna come… I'm close, I'm so close…"
"Come then," he commanded darkly, his thumb sliding back and forth over her clit in a ruthless, steady rhythm that matched the frantic pace of his hips. "Let me feel how tight you get for me, love. Give it to me."
"Simon!" she gasped, her voice dropping into a deep, broken register, completely coming undone under his hands.
Her body suddenly seized, tightening violently around him like a vice as she spiraled into a fierce, blinding climax, her inner walls pulsing rhythmically against him.
The sensation of her coming around him raw was too much. He pulled her down hard against his chest, locking his arms around her waist as he drove deep—three more frantic, devastating thrusts—and followed her right over the edge, filling her completely as a low, undone groan echoed off the concrete walls.
He kept his massive arms locked around her waist, holding her flushed, trembling body against his bare chest until his breathing finally began to slow. The metal frame of the cot had stopped its rhythmic groaning, leaving only the sound of their ragged, synchronized breaths.
Slowly, carefully, Simon shifted his weight. He didn't want to let her go. He settled her back onto the center of the bed, his hands lingering on her hips for a fraction of a second before he pulled away.
"Be right back, love," his Manchester voice emerged as a rough whisper.
She offered no response, lost in the haze of their joining, body humming with spent satisfaction. A slow nod was all she managed before pulling his dark military poncho over her naked form. The wool fabric, smelling of him, rose to her chin as she burrowed deep into his single pillow, watching him through heavy lids.
Simon crossed the small space to the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. He twisted the cold tap, letting freezing water sluice over his calloused hands. When he glanced up at the scratched mirror, he froze.
His face was exposed. Cheeks and jaw carried a flush that had nothing to do with combat adrenaline. He traced the pale silver tracks of his scars in the reflection, but for the first time in memory, they weren't markers of torture. They felt warm where her mouth had worshiped every line.
In past brief encounters, military discipline would already be kicking in. He'd be calculating extraction; how to remove the person from his quarters, how to sanitize his space, how to return to his duties. The Ghost didn't entertain guests.
But as he splashed icy water over his face to shock himself back to protocol, his mind refused to cooperate. It remained fixed on the woman on his cot. The scent of her skin, sweet and primal, still clung to his hands.
He didn't want her to leave. The possessive thought struck his chest like a bullet, more terrifying than any ambush. She had infiltrated his defenses, slipped beneath his skin just as surely as he had buried himself inside her.
Simon dried his face with a rough towel and walked back into the dim bunker, his bare chest tightening slightly as he approached the bed.
"Hey LT,” she whispered, her voice thick with sleep, a lazy satisfaction softening her lips as she watched him loom over her from beneath his military poncho.
"Hey," he rumbled, stepping close to the cot's edge. The raw exposure of his face bypassed his military conditioning, letting words slip free. "Stay the night, love."
Color bloomed across her cheeks, head shaking slowly as her eyes found her discarded uniform. "Simon, I can't. Morning PT is 0600. Price will know the second I'm late. He's already watching."
"I'll wake you up, baby," he murmured, his drawl dropping to something persuasive as he settled on the mattress edge. His scarred hand found her shoulder, stroking the bare skin. "Armory work starts early anyway. I'll wake you at 0530. Plenty of time to sneak back and change into a fresh kit."
Her gaze traveled from his hand to his exposed face, meeting the dark honesty in his eyes. The thought of those cold concrete corridors felt like punishment compared to the furnace of his body.
With a soft sigh of surrender, she shifted against the concrete wall, carving out space on the narrow cot. "If I get caught, Lieutenant, I'm telling Price it was a direct order."
A rough chuckle vibrated through Simon's chest, his scarred mouth twisting into something like a real smile. "Fair enough, Sergeant."
He slid onto the mattress beside her. The cot forced them together, bodies flush on their sides. Simon dragged the heavy wool blanket over them both, his massive arm banding around her waist to press her naked back against his chest. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the primal scent of her skin.
For the first time in memory, Simon didn't reach for his mask. He let himself be just a man, holding his woman in the darkness, sinking into a sleep deep and void of dreams.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The sharp, metallic buzz of Simon's watch sliced through the bunker's quiet.
His eyes snapped open. 0530 glowed harsh in green digits.
The night's soft warmth evaporated, replaced by pure soldier's adrenaline. Simon sat up, bare back tense as wire. He reached down, his grip firm but gentle on her shoulder. "Hey. Up, love. Clock's ticking."
She groaned softly, blinking against the dim blue light of the monitor. Then, reality hit her like a bucket of ice water. 0530. PT in thirty minutes.
“Shit,” she whispered, her shy demeanor completely replaced by panic as she threw off the blanket and scrambled out of bed.
The bunker became a blur of frantic, hushed movement. She scrambled for her clothes on the floor, her cheeks burning as she hurriedly pulled on her panties and shoved her legs into her uniform trousers. Simon was already on his feet, but instead of getting dressed, his first instinct was the mask. He grabbed the black balaclava from the floor and pulled it down over his head, the fabric snapping into place.
Just like that, Simon was gone, and the Ghost was back. But his actions were entirely protective. He moved to the heavy blast door, pressing his ear against the cold metal, listening intently to the corridor outside.
“Guard rotation is passing sub-level two right now,” Ghost rumbled, his voice filtered through the cloth, dark and authoritative. “You’ve got a tight three-minute window to hit the southern stairwell before the crew wakes up.”
“Right,” she said, her heart hammering against her ribs as she zipped up her uniform jacket and frantically laced her combat boots. She checked her reflection in his small bathroom mirror, smoothing down her messy hair as best she could. She looked like a soldier who had slept in her uniform. A bit suspicious, but survivable if she moved fast.
She grabbed her duffel bag and stood by the door, her nerves making her breath come short.
Ghost turned away from the door, stepping into her space. He looked imposing, lethal, and entirely masked. But he reached out, his large gloved hands cupping her face gently. He leaned down, pressing his covered lips to her forehead.
“Don't run in the corridors, princess.” he murmured softly, his accent a quiet anchor through the mask. “Walk like you belong there. If anyone asks, you were dropping off the after-action reports to my desk early. Understand?”
She nodded, taking a deep breath. “Understood, Lt.”
“Go on, then,” he said, hitting the hydraulic release button.
The heavy blast door hissed open, revealing the empty, sterile concrete corridor. She gave his hand one last, tight squeeze, then slipped out into the shadows, her boots clicking softly as she moving with practiced, tactical stealth toward the barracks.
At 0600 sharp, the morning sun was just peaking over the tarmac of the SAS base.
She stood in formation on the gravel grinding pad, her chest heaving slightly as she finished the final lap of the morning run with her squad. Her muscles were aching, a beautiful, secret ache from the night before—but her face was a mask of military discipline.
“All right, gather round,” Sergeant Soap MacTavish called out, wiping sweat from his brow as the squad formed a semi-circle.
As she took her place, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Walking out of the hangar toward the armory was Captain Price, holding a steaming mug of coffee. And walking a half-step behind him, towering and dark in his full tactical gear and skull mask, was Ghost.
Her heart skipped a heavy beat. She kept her eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to look at him.
Price stopped near the edge of the training pad, taking a slow sip of his coffee. His sharp blue eyes scanned the sweaty squad, lingering on her for a fraction of a second. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of the Captain's mustache. He didn't say a word, but the knowing glint in his eye said everything. He knew. Or at least, he highly suspected.
Beside him, Ghost stood completely still, his arms crossed over his massive chest. To anyone else, the Lieutenant looked completely detached, a terrifying phantom of the 141.
But as the squad was dismissed, Ghost adjusted his stance slightly. He turned his head just a fraction of an inch in her direction, his dark eyes locking onto hers from behind the slits of his mask. He gave a single subtle nod— a silent confirmation that her secrets, her ink, and his bare face were completely safe between them.
She tucked her hands into her pockets, a small, hidden smile touching her lips as she walked toward the mess hall. They had survived the morning after. And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she’d be sneaking back down to Sub-Level 3 the very next chance she got.
I think part of getting better is complete ego death. Like you’re not above setting a timer for 5 minutes and focusing on a task. You’re not above doing a very simple 3 minute workout to start. You’re not above reading for 10 minutes a day when you first get out of your reading slump, even if you used to read for hours. You’re not above starting slow and then building up to where you want to be/where you once were. What you are above is total inertia. Doing something really is better than doing nothing. Radically accept where you are, radically accept your limits, and go from there. Don’t let your ego get in the way.
One of my favorite things about loving someone or developing a closeness or fondness towards someone is also loving and developing a fondness for the things they care about. When you learn to see the world in a new way, or you learn to appreciate the things you’ve previously overlooked, or they become your excuse to get into an interest you always thought was cool but thought you didn’t have time for. When a connection makes your world bigger and warmer and fuller and more beautiful.
omg did you really get DMs about the reader's weight? low-key understand mean anon-asks, like people will sometimes jump at the option to just ruin someone's day but DMS??? crazy. really crazy, hope you don't take it to yourself too much!
Yeah, literally! It’s a bit crazy. Honestly though, I’m not losing any sleep over it. I write these stories for me, so it's not that deep to begin with.🩷
It’s just wild because the people in my inbox and dms are mad about misrepresentation but then they tell me that because I’m 140 lbs, I can’t use the word curvy, can’t call myself that. They’re doing the exact type of body-shaming and gatekeeping they claim to hate!
Thanks for checking in on me, anon! definitely not letting this ruin the vibes. 🤗🌸
