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rememberwren · 5 months ago

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Complicated Pleasures

OR: Home Videos. You (fem!reader) and Ghost have been married for years when your prodigal friend Johnny finds out that you make and post porn together. Feelings happen. 13k

About this: m/m, f/m, oral f and m receiving, anal sex, PIV, kink, pornography, sir kink, slight objectification, objectionable writing, soft!simon, very soft fic altogether, cum sharing.

((A video begins.

A bed in a tidy room. Identifying features have been hidden: pictures placed face down on the nightstands, blinds drawn tight until the room is cast in a cool glow. A woman sits amongst the nondescript bedspread and sheets, her legs tucked up against her chest and arms wrapped around her thighs, naked except for the mask that does little to truly obscure her face.

Once she knows the video has begun, it is like she blooms, arms and legs falling away to reveal the soft petals of her nakedness: the plains of her body, the angles and curves. She’s near perfect, Soap thinks, already fisting his hard cock.

She looks almost exactly like you.

Then a man walks around from the other side of the camera, and Soap’s heart leaves his body.))

“Johnny!” you say brightly, throwing open the front door. In streams the cold air and bright sunshine reflecting off the snow, and in steps Johnny with snowflakes in his hair and on the shoulders of his coat, gifts wrapped in bright shades of gold and silver tucked beneath one of his arms.

He stomps his feet, boots shedding packed snow on the doormat, and leans in to deposit the gifts a safe distance away so that he can open his arms and gather you up in them. Your fingers tangle in his jacket, holding him close. He is warm even after coming in from the snow, his scent like Christmas itself: woodsy pine and crackling fires. You feel Simon’s presence appear in the living room doorway and begin to pull away, trying not to hog his friend, even if you desperately want to.

“Lookit you, bonnie as ever,” Johnny says against your ear. He lets you go, bending down to unlace his boots and call a greeting to Simon: “I see you brooding over there, LT. Happy Christmas to yeh.”

“No titles at Christmas, Johnny.”

“Yessir.”

“You didn’t need to bring gifts,” you scold him.

“Of course I did—it’s fucking Christmas,” says Johnny with a grin as he straightens. He passes you the gifts, a small package and a larger one, each wrapped by a practiced hand that you sense must not have been Johnny’s own. You wonder if there isn’t a girl in his life now—except you and Simon had extended the invitation to one, if so. Why he wouldn’t have brought her, you couldn’t understand.

Maybe his mum wrapped the gifts.

Simon and Johnny clasp hands which turns into a hug. Watching them together makes the dust settle in some riotous part of your heart. The two of them—their friendship—just makes perfect sense in its improbability.

Simon mutters something under his breath and Johnny nods, burying his face deeper into Simon’s broad shoulder. You have the perfect vantage point of Johnny’s face: his eyes squeezed shut, long lashes resting on his cheeks.

A timer in the kitchen goes off—the roast you’ve been cooking since the early morning hours. Excusing yourself, you disappear into the kitchen, pausing just beyond the doorway to press your chilly hands to your flushed cheeks.

Wine. You needed wine.

“So,” you begin once the three of you have sat down for dinner. “Fill us in, Johnny. What have you been up to?”

The unsaid words linger between you all, What have you been up to during the three years you left? Johnny gives a wane smile, and you think that maybe the time spent apart didn’t serve him nearly as well as he’d hoped it would—however he’d hoped it would. Simon sits at the head of the table, his ankle tangled against your own beneath the oak. It’s a comforting reminder of his presence, considering he lets you and Johnny do most of the talking for now.

“Whole lot o’ nothing,” Johnny says, sipping at the wine in his glass between sentences. “Traveled abroad fer a while. Spent some time in America, some time in South Korea.”

“Sounds like a nice place to meet people,” you say, aiming for subtlety the way a sledgehammer might. “I notice you didn’t take us up on our invitation and bring a lass with you.”

“No lass to bring, hen,” he says smoothly.

Simon’s ankle stirs against your own, some silent attempt at communication. When you glance over toward him, his eyes are on his plate, face stoic, revealing nothing.

“Any lads?” you guess.

Simon’s fork squeaks against his plate. Johnny stops eating. For a moment they both stare at you in shocked silence. Then a grin spreads over Johnny’s handsome face, blooming straight into laughter. He shakes his head, like you have said something very silly.

“No, no lads,” he says.

Simon’s ankle shifts again.

You reach for your glass of wine, face hot—

—and you don’t stop drinking.

Afternoon turns into evening, and by the time night falls, the three of you have drunk your way through three bottles of wine and successfully caught each other up on your lives to date. Simon and Johnny have slipped out onto the porch twice to smoke, bringing back in the scent of tobacco and snow, one you don’t mind at all. The fire in the fireplace burns low, crackling and spitting as the log splits. The room is strewn with torn gift wrapping. Simon has already unboxed the knife Johnny had made for him, testing its weight in his palm, testing the sharpness of the blade against the pad of his thumb. (Add that to the list of things which shouldn’t arouse you about Simon but do.)

It reminds you of the idyllic Christmases that you had reached for all your life and only ever skimmed with your fingers. You should have known that the missing piece was Johnny all along.

Wine drunk, you have kicked your feet up on Johnny’s lap at one end of the couch and curled your upper half on Simon’s lap at the other end. It is easy to fall asleep to the warm lull of their voices, swapping stories from their time in the military together.

But all at once, the subject matter changes, and it drags you from the threshold of sleep into some misty gray area in between a dream and wakefulness. Eyes still closed, you listen.

“I found you both, you know.” Johnny’s voice is barely more than a whisper, difficult to hear over the crackling fire.

“Don’t know what you mean, Johnny. We’re right here.”

“I found your videos.”

Your hands tighten into fists where you are clutching Simon’s shirt, eyes cracking open as you put the pieces together in your mind. But he’s smoother than you are, always able to keep a cool head. He sounds a little bored, a little confused as he asks: “What videos?”

“Never known you to play dumb LT. You know the ones I mean. The porn.”

A lengthy silence as Simon weighs his options and likely decides that there’s no use in lying. “You did, did you?”

“Aye.”

A pause.

“So that’s why you finally came back. Three fucking years she begs you to at least come for Christmas—who knew all it would take was a little pornography to put a fire under your arse.”

“That’s not—didn’t even find it until a few days ago, after I’d already said yes—“ Johnny says, voice rising in his defense.

“Careful. We don’t want to wake her up, do we?” Simon’s hand pets against your hair, softer than a kiss from the wind. Though he must know you’re awake, you’re grateful that he lets you pretend, lets you hide away while he handles this. “If she knew that you’d seen those videos, she’d be embarrassed. That would make me upset. You understand?”

“Aye,” he says, lowering his voice a little. He rests his hand against your ankle in his lap and then decides it’s not appropriate, shifts his hand back to his own thigh. You miss his touch. You’ve always missed Johnny’s touch more than you should miss the touch of your husband’s best friend. “But if you didn’t want people to see them, I don’t understand what you were thinkin’ posting them online.”

“Three guesses. No, go on. Never known you to be shy. Guess.”

Johnny wets his lips. “You didn’t think you’d be recognized.”

“There’s one.”

“You…you like it.”

“There’s two. Give us a third.”

“She likes it.”

You groan a little in embarrassment, turning your face away from where Johnny can see its profile, burying it in Simon’s lap. He’s hard, a fact you only realize when his jean-clad cock rubs against your cheek. You go still, eyes widening as this knowledge goes straight to the warmth that’s been stoked between your legs more often than the fireplace has tonight.

Simon’s hand finds the nape of your neck and rests there, keeping you still and quiet. It reminds you of your last video, when he had taken you from behind and put his hand on the nape of your neck to urge your face into the bed, his hips snapping against your ass. Where had the camera been, then? You couldn’t remember. That was Simon’s one rule, besides the masks and never saying each other’s names: don’t look into the camera.

“So what do you plan to do with this knowledge, Johnny?” Simon asks. You hold your breath, still feigning sleep. “Who do you plan to tell? You know I don’t have anyone left who would give a fuck, but I’m sure you could find someone for her—someone who could shame her and make her feel bad for trying to feel good. Is that what you want?”

“Fuck no. I’d not tell a soul,” says Johnny fiercely. His hand comes to rest on your ankle again. This time he leaves it, thumb brushing the bone. “I swear it.”

“Then why bring it up at all?”

“I…I don’t know,” Johnny admits, head ducking. “I just had to. Spending time with yeh both, knowing what I knew—it felt dishonest.”

Simon hums. “You know what I’d like to know?”

“What’s that?”

“What our single friend was doing looking at couples porn.”

The night ends quickly after that. Simon carries you to bed—the bed where you film so much of the porn that Johnny has apparently seen—and helps you begin undressing while Johnny gets his boots on in the other room.

“I’m so embarrassed,” you breathe, quiet so that Johnny could not overhear if he happened to be standing right outside the door. Your head is spinning, and only partly from all the wine. Your face burns. Your heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Johnny has seen the videos, the ones you and Simon cheekily dub ‘home movies’! God, how you will ever face him again is beyond you.

“Give me the word and I’ll throw him out,” says Simon. “We’ll never see him again.”

That makes a sick feeling rise up in the back of your throat. You look up at Simon and take in the somber, angry-adjacent expression on his face, and you know that he is serious. Simon never says a word that he doesn’t mean. But you can hear what he didn’t say, the words unspoken: it would kill him to do it. All their years spent watching each other’s backs, it would be hard to stab Johnny’s and leave him in the cold. Especially after the bliss of just getting him back.

You don’t want that. Not for Simon, not for Johnny. Not even for you.

“I like Johnny,” you affirm. “I just don’t know how I’ll face him.”

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. He’s the pervert looking in through our window.”

“We’re the perverts fucking with the blinds wide open,” you remind him.

“I’ll see him out. Finish getting undressed,” he says, disappearing through the doorway. You hear the warm timber of his voice matched by Johnny’s and the sound of the front door opening. Two sets of boots crunch through snow, and now the voices are so far away that you can’t even make out their tone, much less their words.

Stripping the last of your clothes off, you roll onto your belly and bury your face in your pillow. Tonight had been going so well. It was hard to believe how far off course things had become. What was Johnny doing looking for couples porn anyhow?

You roll back over, staring into the darkness of the ceiling. The answer was simple: because it would get him off. It didn’t matter if it was tentacles to titjobs. He’d more than likely been looking up porn while he jerked off.

Had he realized right away that it was you and Simon and turned the video off in disgust? Or had it taken a moment for it to sink in? Had he cared at all?

Or had he jerked off instead? You realize you are rubbing your thighs together belatedly and force yourself into stillness.

The front door opens, Simon stomping inside and taking off his boots. When he joins you in bed, his cheeks are still cold, mouth minty from hastily brushing his teeth of tobacco and wine. You lean in and kiss him, looking for comfort. He kisses back, sweeping his tongue through your mouth, sucking on your lower lip.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you whisper when you both part, not necessarily out of truthfulness, but because you feel like you shouldn’t be in the mood.

“Wasn’t expecting anything.”

You lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady sound of his heart. Your embarrassment is a little lessened now, abated by the calm that Simon exudes from his pores. It’s hard to believe that anything in the world could go wrong that Simon couldn’t handle with a twist of his hand or a few choice words. After a while, you glance up to find him still awake, staring into the darkness of the room. He meets your eyes and gives you one of his rare, wane smiles.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask him.

After a moment of silence, he says: “Our next video.”

((AMATEUR COUPLE: WAKING UP MY WIFE WITH MORNING SEX. Soap knows that he shouldn’t click on the link. The first time was an honest mistake, but anything afterwards is intentional—and unforgivable. If Ghost were to find out…Soap doesn’t even want to think about it.

Except why would it be wrong for Soap to do it but right for a bunch of strangers?

He doesn’t need to look down to know his cock is hard. Against his better judgement—or any judgement at all, really—he clicks the link. The video starts with Ghost in the frame, completely naked. He’s seen LT naked often enough (it’s unavoidable in such close quarters as they have shared) but he’s never looked, not like this.

Time has barely changed him. He is still fitter than any man has the right to be, thick with muscles that are for functionality and not just for show—though the show is still impressive.

While he’d always known that Ghost would be a sight to behold, seeing it in this context cements a fact in his brain, one that had sent him running years prior: he’s attracted to his closest friend. All the bad flirting disguised as taking the piss back when they were in the 141—it wasn’t just taking the piss. Not for Soap, at least.

In the video, Ghost exits the frame and crosses to the other side of the bed. He’s not wearing a mask this time but the upper half of his face remains solidly out of frame until it is offscreen again. You are positioned closest to the camera, laying on your side facing the audience. Your face isn’t visible, but your breasts are once Ghost draws the blankets down, down, and then down far enough to reveal your closed thighs.

Fuck, Soap wants to see your cunt. He grips his cock tightly and squeezes, watching raptly as Ghost loops an arm over you and begins to softly tease your nipples. Soap slips a hand up his shirt and thumbs at a nipple of his own, wishing it was the other man’s touch. His cock leaks where it lies thickly against his belly as he watches his former lieutenant tease you, trace figures over your naked body, and at last slip a hand between your thighs, working one of your legs over back of his own. Now Soap can see just a trace of your slit, so soft. It makes his jaws ache, makes him want Ghost to hold your thighs apart so that he can lick and suck you into a frenzy.

He can tell the exact moment you wake. Your body stiffens, mouth falling open as Ghost sinks two of his fingers inside you. One of your hands reaches down to grip at your husband’s forearm as you scramble into wakefulness.

“Good morning,” Ghost says.))

The doorbell sounds, telling Simon that Johnny has arrived, but he lets his Sergeant wait out in the cold while the kettle finishes filling. A not-small part of him is still holding a grudge against Johnny for making you so embarrassed. It had taken time for you to come into your own. Courage. The videos had been your idea, whispered in the heat of the moment beneath the cover of darkness—but with time you’d been bold enough to talk about them over dinner. To read the comments with him and laugh. To watch the videos and end up in bed all over again.

Now he could see the hesitation in your eyes whenever he pulled out his phone.

Johnny’s expression is its typical one, open, friendly, when Simon opens the door. When he sees Simon, those blue eyes grow wide before he can curb the reaction. Johnny swallows, throat bobbing.

“Hey LT. Lookit you. Laswell really has yeh behind a desk now doesn’t she?” Johnny’s hand reached out like he’s going to touch the tie that still dangles from around Simon’s neck, but he thinks better of it.

Just another hunch of Simon’s proven right.

“What part of no field work confused you?” Simon asks, stepping aside to let Johnny in.

“No confusion. Just didn’t expect yeh to look so…” He trails off, eyes flittering over Simon from his combed hair to his dress shirt stretched tight across his chest to the dress slacks that cling to his thighs. “…fancy.”

“I don’t wear the tie for Laswell’s benefit. But you already knew that.”

Johnny flushes, as good an admission as any. Wisely, he says nothing, following Simon into the kitchen and taking an offered seat at the kitchen island. His eyes flicker around the room, similar to how they had on Christmas. Then, Simon had mistaken it for Johnny taking in the way things had changed—the wallpaper is new, as is the backsplash behind the oven and stove, there are new pictures on the refrigerator—but now Simon suspects that Johnny is remembering. Piecing together backdrops he has seen in their videos.

“The missus home?” Johnny asks, drumming his fingers on the granite.

“No. Work.”

Simon pours tea for two, even though Johnny hates tea, and slides it across the countertop to him. To his benefit, Johnny accepts it without complaint, warming his hands around the mug.

“I told her.”

Johnny doesn’t need to ask what or who—they’ve both been thinking about it since the moment he walked in. Simon watches as his face twists with naked regret. It tells Simon that Johnny really didn’t know that you were only feigning sleep on Christmas.

“Is she angry with me?”

“Embarrassed.”

Johnny looks outraged on your behalf. “She has no reason t’ be!”

Simon shrugs as if to say, This is what your curiosity bought her, Johnny. This is the price she’s paying. Johnny’s shoulders sag under the weight of his own guilt, elbows bracing themselves on the countertop so that he can put his face in his hands.

“Maybe,” says Simon, “it would make more of a difference if she heard it from you.”

Johnny looks up, brow furrowed. “Heard what from me? That I’ve seen her—like that?”

Simon’s eyes roll to the ceiling. “No. That she doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

Johnny turns the idea over in his head. He’s clever, but too blinded by his own desire to see the manipulation for what it is. What does it matter if it’s Simon’s idea or his own? Johnny is dying to talk to you.

“You’d give me her number?”

Simon shrugs.

“Alright,” says Johnny at length, drawing the word out. “I can do that. If you think it will help.”

Simon says nothing, sipping at his tea to hide any smugness behind his cup.

((The video begins in a kitchen, one Johnny has been in many times. You are there, back mostly to the camera, pressed against the granite island countertop. Simon is on the other side of you, consuming all your attention. Steaming Jesus, he’s huge compared to you, huge compared to everyone. He’s dressed in his work attire: dress clothes, dark tie in place. The effect is jarring in contrast with the mask.

Simon reaches up and works his tie loose and off over his head. You tilt your head down a little and on it goes, easy as anything. When Simon turns you to face the camera, the tie dangles between your bare breasts. One hand on the nape of your neck, Simon bends you forward towards the granite and Soap can tell the exact moment his cock slips inside you based on the way your mouth falls open, your eyes squeezing shut behind your own mask.

Soap isn’t sure who he’s jealous of more—you or Simon.))

Simon told me that he told you what I found. I just wanted to message you myself and say how sorry I am if I embarrassed you.

You sigh reading over the text message. Flexing your fingers, you give a quick glance toward where Simon lays dozing with his head against the back of the couch, feet up on the coffee table (the knife he got for Christmas rests on his chest; he’d been toying with it absently for the last half hour) and answer: There’s no reason to apologize. It’s not your fault I’m embarrassed.

It is though, isn’t it? You don’t care that other people see. You just care that I did.

You pause and bite at your nails, thinking over his words and how to respond. He’s mostly right. There had been an aspect of embarrassment at first when you and Simon began posting the videos (and that embarrassment had gotten you off to a certain extent, though it didn’t usually). But eventually that heated shame had melted away into eagerness for the camera. You’d read the comments on the videos, countless human beings talking about the various ways they masturbate to your sex with Simon, talking about the things they wish they could do to you, with you, with Simon.

So why was it so much more embarrassing knowing that Johnny had seen? Because he knew you. Because he’d seen the parts of you that you had purposefully covered up for the camera. No one was meant to see both sides—no one was meant to have all of you. Except for Simon.

But if somebody was going to do it, a small part of you is glad it was Johnny.

You’re Simon’s friend, you message back, curious. Didn’t it feel strange to see us like that?

Honestly? He doesn’t wait for you to respond. Not as strange as I might have thought.

((AMATEUR COUPLE: WIFE PRACTICES HER BLOWJOB SKILLS, the video is aptly titled. You are on your knees, hands tied neatly at the base of your spine. Simon sits at the edge of the bed, camera positioned perpendicular to you both, with a downward angle.

You lean forward and let his hard, flushed cock disappear past your lips deeper, deeper, until you reach the limits of what you can take without preparation or practice. His hand comes down to rest softly against the back of your head as you make yourself gag and choke around the thickest part of his cock. There’s no need to hold you down; Simon doesn’t even bother.

Soap’s jaw aches, desperate for a chance to be on his knees for Ghost like that. He could take more than you—he knows he could. Not that it had to be a competition, not when you both could share a cock that size and barely notice the other was there. He strips his own cock thinking about it, eyes falling shut as he lets the background noise of the video—Simon’s gentle praises, your whines and chokes, the wet gurgles of a throat being fucked—carry him over the edge.))

New Year’s Eve.

The house is full of bodies and laughter. You feel near-delirious with your own joy, never made happier than by the happiness of the people around you. Alejandro and Rodolfo had flown in and were staying in the guest house through the New Year, arriving only yesterday with enough luggage for four between the two of them; Kyle and his girlfriend; John and his wife; Kate and her partner; even Farah and her brother had made a pit stop to spend the evening with you on their way back to Urzikstan from the Americas.

The party had been BYOB, and everyone had taken to the sentiment and more. Farrah is mixing drinks in the kitchen, strong concoctions that even John struggles to keep down. Gaz and Alejandro keep insisting on shots (which you politely decline just as often as you agree. Simon drinks nothing, his tumultuous past putting him off of hard alcohol for good).

People are well and truly drunk by the time Johnny arrives. The whoops and hollers that fill the house have you thinking that midnight has come early. A swarm of bodies surround him, and he is forced to make the rounds hugging each person and being taken to task by them for being gone for so goddamn long.

He arrives at you before Simon, and his face softens, smile going a little unsure around the edges as he opens his arms for you, the first time he’s seen you in person since Christmas. You could rebuff him, but you also can’t. It’s Johnny. Nearly tripping to toss yourself into his arms, he lifts you a few inches off the floor, nose buried in your hair.

“Bonnie as always,” he whispers into your ear after putting you back down. His hand tugs teasingly on the short hem of your dress, like he is trying to lengthen it, knuckles brushing your thighs. You swat his hand away, face flushing with warmth. It wasn’t that short.

“Johnny,” Simon calls. The two men embrace, hug lasting longer than any other. In the distance, you see Gaz elbow Price, jerking his head toward the two men.

You put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, anxious suddenly. Simon draws back, clapping Johnny on the shoulder. He orders: “Get yourself a drink.”

“Yessir.”

“None of that.”

“Games? I was told there would be games,” Gaz says, situating himself between you and Simon. He’s dressed smartly in a dress-shirt with the collar undone. Someone has put a party hat on him, cone-shaped, to celebrate the New Year. You had managed to wrestle Simon into one for thirty seconds before the first of the company arrived; the memory makes you smile.

“I have Cards Against Humanity,” you offer.

“Oh, I love that game,” Kyle’s girlfriend says to your delight.

“No—no—we aren’t in middle school here,” Johnny says. “And if we are, then I want to play truth or dare so my chances of getting kissed tonight rises exponentially.”

“Come over here and they will,” Gaz offers.

“Don’t make promises you’re not ready to keep, Garrick,” Johnny warns, grinning.

“Sounds like something a coward would say, all due respect—”

Then Johnny has a fistful of Kyle’s shirt, hauling him in for a bold though chaste kiss on the mouth. You are suddenly hyper aware of Simon beside you, standing tall and very still while everyone laughs and cheers at the men’s antics. You can’t deny it’s a pleasing sight, but a part of you feels irritated with the whole display.

“Jesus Christ,” John sighs, tipping his hat back on his head. “Soap’s right—if you’ve got a normal deck of cards, love, I know plenty of games for adults to play.”

“Not sure I want to play those kinds of games with you, John,” Kate says somberly to the laughs of everyone around her.

“We’ve got cards,” Simon mutters.

Farah calls to you from the kitchen, asking you to try her latest conglomeration of alcohol. Eager to be anywhere but there, you escape to the kitchen. You lift yourself up onto one of the stools at the island, taking the red plastic cup from her hand and sniffing it. Just the smell burns the hairs of your nose.

“Jesus, Farah, this could kill me,” you laugh.

“Pathetic,” she says with a grin to lighten her words. “I think I saw some apple juice in the refrigerator, would you like that instead?”

“Alright.”

“A warm glass of milk, perhaps?”

“You’ve made your point,” you say, eyes narrowing in good humor. Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves (and stomach), you take a generous swig of the cup. Fuck, it burns going down and it burns in your belly, like swallowing a lit flame. You cough a little, trying not to gag, and hold up your thumb to her. “It’s great—so good—“

Simon comes to sit beside you at the island. He takes the cup, smells it, and raises both brows.

“Can I tempt you, Lieutenant?” Farah asks.

“No.”

“Then I won’t try. Where’s John, he’s never afraid of a challenge.”

Unseen to her beneath the island, fingertips brush your stocking-covered thighs. Your knees clamp together on instinct as you fight not to look over at Simon. What is he doing?

He strikes up a conversation with Farah about her time spent in the Americas. When his hand doesn’t move, your thighs relax a little. He was just being intimate; often he liked to have a hand on your back or his foot resting against your own beneath the table. It wasn’t his fault you were on edge. Your head spins a little, thanks to the shots and Farah’s drink. Planting one elbow on the countertop, you try to focus on her stories when Simon’s hand moves again, slipping further between your legs. The hem of your dress has ridden up so high in your seated position that it doesn’t take much for his fingertips to graze against the heated seam between your legs.

You clamp your knees shut again. He pinches your thigh softly, just enough to get the message through to you. Staring at Farah, hearing nothing, you spread your shaking knees again and let him cup you between your legs. Fuck. You tilt your hips, making as if to adjust your position on the chair. It only serves to bring you in closer contact with Simon’s hand. A groan is born and dies in the back of your throat.

He keeps you there, holding your cunt, having a fluent conversation with Farah while your brain melts out your ears. At length, he stands. Leaning down, he says in your ear: “Outside, two minutes. Go out the back.”

Then he disappears amongst the sea of people

Three minutes later you are shivering out in the snow. Your coat only helps so much with your legs bare save for your stockings. You hadn’t even had time to lace up your boots. Shifting from one foot to the other in the spotlight of the floodlights to keep warm, you cast glances left and right wondering from which direction Simon will come, wondering what he wants that couldn’t have taken place in doors.

At last he appears, looking far warmer than you in his olive green jacket and jeans, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You smile at the sight of him. He doesn’t smile back.

“Put your hands against the wall.”

“Simon?”

He sighs, running a hand over the curve of your waist, testing its fit in his palm. “Now I’ll have to edit that part out. Let’s try again. Put your hands on the wall.”

You see then the phone placed just-so in the breast pocket of his coat. The glossy camera lens stares back at you, no flashing red light, nothing nearly so 1999. But you knew it was filming. What was it seeing now? The house in the background, the cool blue siding and brick. You, face surprised, lips chapped from the cold weather lately, your sexy little golden dress nearly obscured beneath your coat.

“The time to back out is now,” Simon prods you.

But there’s no way you’re backing out, not after the kitchen. Not after the hazy arousal you’ve been walking around in all night just at the thought of seeing Johnny again. Turning around, you reach out with shaking hands and place them against the freezing cold siding. You can see your breath like a smoky plume with each of your frantic exhales as Simon’s hands grip your ass, slipping beneath the hem of your dress and finding your stockings to tug them down around your knees.

“Got to keep quiet for me,” he says. “Can you do that?”

“Yessir,” you whisper, wishing you were close enough to the house to rest your heated cheek against it.

Simon gives a heavy exhale at your words and you grin, unseen.

Your panties join your stockings stuck around your knees. It doesn’t give you much space to spread your legs, but Simon is so lengthy that he doesn’t need the extra room. He doesn’t press against your back, ever-conscious of the camera and its angles, but you hear the sound of his belt being undone and like a Pavlovian response, it has you drooling between the legs. His cock is burning warm when it brushes against your ass, and you find yourself arching your back, seeking to put that heat inside you.

He hums, hands spreading you wide as he can for the benefit of the camera, even if the lighting isn’t the best to see your entrance.

“Pretty fucking girl,” he mutters. The position can’t be comfortable for him, but he’s never seemed to care about that. He reaches down to grip the base of his cock and guides the head inside you. It is a tight fit without any preparation, but he keeps the penetration shallow, rocking you back and forth on just the head, sometimes letting his cock slip free to brush against your aching clit. Your teeth clamp together, desperate to keep your sounds in—usually during home videos, Simon encouraged you to be noisy (“for the audience”). Now you found yourself struggling not to give in to the old habit.

All of the sudden, his hand is in your hair, turning your head, guiding it to change directions until you are looking at your footsteps in the snow leading back the way you came—

Until you are looking squarely at Johnny, standing nearly frozen in the snow at the edge of the house. He’s wearing his coat and boots, hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. The darkness makes it hard to make out the subtlety of his features, but you can tell that his mouth is dropped open in an expression of near comical disbelief.

You barely manage to keep from choking out Simon’s name, your entire body going stiff—your cunt rippling around his cock. He laughs, a low rumbling chuckle that has you squeezing your eyes shut. A whine slips free from your throat and the wind must carry it straight to Johnny, because you hear his quiet, Steamin’ Jesus.

“He’s been waiting for this all night, I bet,” Simon mutters, his hips snapping against yours. Your hands scramble to find purchase against the siding, slip down a little to grip the bricks which offer you more resistance. “Watching you flit back and forth in this dress, knowing what you look like underneath it. He wishes it was him fucking you right now.”

“No,” you gasp, scandalized.

Simon just laughs again. The sound doesn’t embarrass you, just ratchets your own dizzying arousal higher. You can’t take your eyes off of Johnny, who has stumbled two or three steps closer in the snow and now has his hand against the house very similarly to you. His other hand is in a fist at his side. Closer like this, there’s no mistaking the heated expression in his eyes. Nor the bulge in his pants.

“Oh God,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut again and turning away.

“Look at him—look at him. He wants to touch himself,” Simon says, borderline conversational as his dick makes the most heinous squelching noises inside your body. “But I don’t think he’s got the balls.”

One of your hands comes off the bricks and reaches down between your thighs—but Simon grabs it at the last moment and pins it back in its place, sending you nearly to tears.

“Cum on my cock or don’t cum at all,” he says, feeling cruel.

The both of you know that that likely means you won’t cum at all, not like this, and the knowledge threatens to undo you. He’s going to get you three-fourths of the way there and then leave you like this, edge you in front of all of your closest friends and not satisfy you until the very last one has left. Tears well in your eyes, beading up at the corners.

Behind you, his thrusts grow sloppy. You dare another glance towards Johnny and see his turned back, both his hands in his mohawk gripping at his hair like he is fighting with himself. Your eyes fall shut; you’re fighting a battle of your own, you can’t be concerned about his. Simon groans lowly, filling you with his seed. He pulls out in a wet rush of fluids, reaching down to stave off his dripping seed and save your leggings from destruction.

Gently, he fucks his cum back into you with his fingers. He wipes it across your swollen folds and in the soaked crotch of your panties before pulling them back up to rest safely on your hips. Bending down, he wipes his hands clean in the snow and then on his jacket before helping you pull your stockings up into place. The tears in your eyes have overflowed by now, dripping down your cheeks and off your chin. When you glance over, Johnny is gone.

“Okay?” Simon murmurs, fiddling with his phone. He stops the video.

“Yeah,” you sigh shakily. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Moments to midnight and you are searching for Simon. His figure should be easy to spot, but his head isn’t visible above the sea of people, nor is his baritone voice audible amongst the cacophony of others.

Someone else is notably missing as well. An itch in the back of your brain swells, one you have to follow to scratch.

Countdowns begin. You peek out the window nearest to you but see no sign of either man outside in the snow smoking. Watching couples pair off, you pad on bare feet (having kicked off your heels ages ago) toward the master bedroom, slipping into the dim hallway that forks off to the bedroom, the guest bath, and the office. That hallway is where you find them, standing in the dark toe to toe. Simon has Johnny up against the wall, clutching fistfuls of Johnny’s shirt, nearly tearing it. In the dim lighting, you can barely make out their features.

For a moment, you think they are about to come to blows. You are ready to step between them, to take either of them by the ear like an old school matriarch and remind them that they are friends and they love each other and this is no way to act amongst family—but then the others cry out for midnight and they kiss.

Oh God, do they kiss. Johnny’s shirt strains in Simon’s hands as he lifts the other man the last few inches needed to slot their mouths together comfortably. There is no chaste peck, no soft exploration of tongues, it is a frenzied open-mouthed devouring of each other, jaws flexing as if to open up and swallow the other whole.

Claps and cheers ring out in the living room, jolting Simon and Johnny apart. Before you can even string together a sentence, Johnny has brushed by you, one hand pressing at his mouth. He grabs his coat and leaves out the front door without so much as a goodbye to anyone.

The party is over. The sun is rising. Alejandro and Rodolfo have retired out to the guest house leaving you and Simon behind to clean up the mess in more ways than one. Eyes tired but brain buzzing, you come into the living room with a half-filled trash bag in your arms to find Simon sitting on the sofa by the fireplace, his head in his hands.

You drop the trash bag and go to him, climbing into his lap. He sighs and lets his head rest against your breasts, breaths slow and deep, not betraying any of the turmoil that might be going on in his mind.

“He’ll be back,” you promise, stroking your fingers through his cropped hair. “He’ll come back, baby.”

You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t.

“Have you two done that before?” you ask.

Simon shifts. He turns until his ear presses against your sternum, like he is listening to your heart for the answer. He says: “No. Once—almost, I think. But you know what he’s like. So fucking persistent. And bright. Like he’s got the bloody sun inside him.”

“You never told me.”

“Wasn’t anything to tell.” He looks up at you with dark eyes, decidedly grim despite his words: “We doing this?”

“Seems so,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails just to watch how his eyes get heavy. Simon so often denies himself simple pleasures, but he deserves them. The simple ones and the complicated ones.

“He belongs to me,” Simon says at length, slow, like he is working it out for himself. “Just like you do.”

“No baby,” you remind him, leaning down to press a kiss to his mouth. “He belongs to us.”

((It becomes a degenerate ritual.

Soap gets home from work and showers. As soon as the steam hits the bathroom mirror, he’s hard, but he doesn’t touch himself; refuses to. He showers and cleans himself perfunctorily, cock aching. It is just as familiar with this ritual as he is, just as hungry for it. It knows what is coming.

After he is clean and dry, he’ll go naked into his room and bring out his laptop. He always sits at his desk—hates having the laptop on his lap, wants it somewhere stable and safe so he can have both hands free to touch himself—and then he brings up your porn page with Simon. There are more than fifty videos he can choose from. Some he has only seen once, especially those early videos when you both were still getting a feel for the process and working out your nerves. There are others that are old favorites, ones that he knows every word to, one where he could mimic your every sigh and whine if he wanted to.

And sometimes, like on nights such as this, there’s a new video. His heart jumps to his throat.

AMATEUR COUPLE: ARGUMENT TURNS INTO SEX (NO AUDIO). Fuck, just the title has mind whirling. It was just for show, surely—he couldn’t imagine you both filming one of your actual arguments for the sake of good pornography—but he was intrigued nonetheless. Some of his favorite videos featured Ghost getting a little rougher with you, and you giving back as good as you got.

He clicks the link. The video begins in the bedroom, recognizable to him now as your own. The camera is in the corner facing the bed at an angle giving a wide vantage point, like a voyeur standing at attention. Like Soap himself has snuck in and is watching. Just the thought has him gripping the base of his cock, a soft groan passing his lips.

You’re sitting on the bed, mask in place. Your arms are crossed, mouth downturned into a frown as Simon enters the screen. The first minute or so truly looks like an argument, the occasional jerky hand gesture from you coupled with Simon’s clipped responses. Soap tries to read your lips, but he’s never been very good at it; he can’t make out a single word of what the two of you might be saying. Then the aura changes, the tense energy from the argument turning into something slicker, something sexual as Simon comes around the bed and puts his hand on the center of your naked chest, pressing you back, back until you are laying down.

You fight against him, batting his hand out of the way. He pins you down easily, so much larger and stronger than you. Soap grips his cock at the thought of being in your place, being pinned to the bed with Ghost’s massive figure over him. Ghost wouldn’t need to be gentle with him either, not the way he was with you. Soap wouldn’t mind. Soap would like it, the same way he liked it in the hallway at your house when Simon gripped him by the shirt and nearly jerked him right out of his boots.

Your head comes off the bed, mouth chasing Ghost’s—but he draws away. Soap can almost hear the laugh he clearly gives, the rumbling chuckle that would be tangible in his chest. You grit your teeth together, jaw tight. Now when Simon bends down to kiss you, you turn your head away, a childish game of cat and mouse. He grips your chin and turns it back toward him, heavy on the eye contact. When you two finally kiss, it is rough, two hungry people searching for dirty secrets behind each other's teeth.

Ghost kisses his way down your body, sucking bruises wherever he can. By the time he’s in between your legs, you are writhing, hands gripping his hair and trying to guide his mouth to the place that needs it most. He tugs your thighs over his shoulders, pins you to the bed with one massive forearm, and eats you out like a starving man. The angle for the camera isn’t the best here, but Soap can’t take his eyes off of you anyway: your body tight as a bowstring, breasts pressed together from the position of your arms, tendons of your neck straining as your head tilts backwards.

Soap begins to work his cock over faster, watching your pleasure. When Ghost stops, he leaves you on the edge if your tortured expression is anything to go by, but you let him maneuver you into the position he wants—hands and knees, an old favorite for LT it seems—but this time is special, because this time you are forced to face the camera dead on.

It’s like you’re looking Soap in the eye. The brief flash of guilt this gives him only serves to ratchet his desire higher, his cock dripping precum over his knuckles as he fists it. Ghost slips his cock inside you and sets a brutal pace that you are eager to meet, your hands twisting in the bedspread as you press yourself further back against his cock.

Ghost leans down and mutters something in your ear. More than ever, Soap misses the audio. Whatever he says has your eyes flashing to meet the camera lens, and you do so with near girlish shyness, like you are seeing it for the first time, like you have only just noticed it’s been there all these months. Your eyes can’t catch on it at first, flittering away every chance you get. Ghost’s thrusts slow to deep grinds. He wraps a hand around your throat and says more, lips moving against the nape of your neck. Fuck, what Johnny wouldn’t give to be able to read lips.

This time you look back at the camera and keep your eyes there. Ghost resumes his thrusts, each one making your breasts bounce softly, but your eyes never leave the lens, always quick to return even when they briefly fall shut.

Your pleasure waxes when you slip a hand between your thighs, and you begin murmuring something repeatedly, just a discrete little movement of your lips. But at Ghost’s prodding, you begin to cry it out louder and louder until Soap is damn near sure that you are screaming, your lips forming the same syllables over and over again if only Soap were able to make them out. Your eyes roll back as you cum, arms growing weak until you dip and rest your upper body against the bed giving the camera an excellent view of Simon fucking into you from behind, the arch of your body, the curve of your waist to the width of your hips.

Soap cums when Ghost does, Ghost’s head lolling to the side as his thrusts grow sloppy and forceful, making a mess of you no doubt.

It isn’t until later when he’s in bed that he recognizes the word you were chanting for what it is.

How it took him so long to recognize his own name he’ll never know.))

He comes back.

Simon has just returned from taking Alejandro and Rodolfo to the airport. Ever since New Year’s Eve, there has been a quietness about him which breaks prior records. Neither of you say it, but if Johnny leaves this time, it will take more out of him than it had before. It will take something out of you, too. You spend the days trying to keep busy, checking your phone too often for texts that don’t come.

You’ve just taken the kettle off the stove when the doorbell rings, and both of you know. Your eyes meet across the kitchen. Simon nods his head toward the door, and you rush to answer it, feeling your heart in your throat. Johnny stands there on the step looking sheepish and cold, his boots and the bottom quarter of his jeans wet, like he has walked here from a great distance.

“May I come in?” he asks.

Simon appears behind you. Johnny gives him a wavering smile. Without a word, you hold the door open, stepping aside to let him in.

“Didn’t think you’d be back,” Simon says coolly.

“Didn’t think I’d be back either,” Johnny admits. He wets his lips. “I…I need to come clean. It’s eatin’ me up inside. Can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t fucking think without it being about the two of you. I don’t know what to do with myself except put myself at your feet and ask fer your forgiveness.”

“Johnny, that’s not—”

“No,” says Simon, stilling the words on your tongue. “I think that’s a good place to start. Get on your knees, Johnny.”

Johnny blinks once, face the picture of innocent ignorance—but then he is dropping to his knees hard enough for you to hear them crack against the hardwood underneath. He obeys without thinking, because that is something that has always been easy for him to do: obey Simon. Think later.

Simon’s hand reaches out, slow enough to give Johnny a chance to flinch away, but he doesn’t. Instead Simon threads his fingers through Johnny’s mohawk, the sides which are growing out just a little too long. Johnny’s eyes fall shut at the touch, and the whole thing goes straight to your belly, arousal making your head light.

“You liked watching so much,” Simon says, voice low and quiet. “I think it’s time we put you to good use.”

“We have rules. Don’t look at the camera, don’t say each other’s names, and do as I say. Can you handle that?” Simon asks.

“Rules of engagement. Yessir.”

Simon snorts softly at Johnny’s eagerness. “Glad to see you still know to follow directions. But let’s see how well. Strip. Everything off. You won’t need it.”

Johnny’s hands find the neckline of his shirt and tug it off over his head, revealing a body that is all smooth muscle and tan skin. The dark hair on his chest thickens just below his navel, trailing down into his jeans which he unbuttons without ceremony, feet working to step out of his shoes at the same time. He keeps his balance well, already slipping into a focused, strangely familiar headspace. You make yourself as small as possible on the bed, arms looped around your legs, eyes watching him hungrily. It’s been so long that you’ve wanted to see Johnny like this; now that it’s on the verge of becoming true, you feel shy and unsure.

Johnny keeps his eyes on yours while he pushes his pants down his thighs and steps out of them. He smiles at you, soft and understanding, and only then do you let your eyes flicker down to take in his cock: he is hard, uncut, thick as Simon even if he can’t have him beaten in length. His dexterous fingers wrap around the shaft, stroking himself, the flushed head disappearing and reappearing in his fist.

“What do you think?” Simon asks you, voice a low rumble at your side. His eyes are watching you, concerned with you first and foremost. “Is he pretty enough?”

Johnny makes an offended sound.

“I’d say so,” you answer, aiming for unaffected and landing somewhere amongst breathless. Already you can feel the tension between your legs, a deep seated ache as your pussy drools onto the sheets below you.

“You want to suck his cock,” says Simon. It’s not a question, but your head bobs anyway. “Go on, then. Crawl to him.”

Shifting onto your hands and knees, you crawl to him, focusing on the mechanics of it instead of trying to feign sexiness. At the edge of the bed, you slip off and down to the floor amongst the pile of his clothes, laying your hands on his thighs and looking up at him from beneath his cock.

He lets out a shaky breath. “You’re gonna suck my dick?”

You nod.

Johnny looks to Simon with a helpless expression as if to ask, What do I do? When you glance back over your shoulder, you see that Simon is giving him nothing to work with, face a blank slate except for his raised brows. Phone in hand, aimed at the two of you. The sight of it seems to steel Johnny’s nerves. He’s never been one to be shy.

“Go at yer own pace, lass,” he says.

Leaning in, you trace your lips against the side of his shaft, feeling the velvety softness against your mouth. He smells like he showered before he came over, though you wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t. Johnny always smells good—even on those days before he went away when he and Simon would go running together, pushing each other to their limits, returning sweaty and exhausted. Now after all this time you get to see if he tastes as good as he smells. You part your lips and leave open mouthed kisses along his length, looking up at him through your lashes when you feel his fingers sink into your hair. His mouth is parted as he watches you raptly, pupils blown wide.

Confidence mounting, you take the head past your lips and suckle, treating him just as soft and sweetly as you know Simon won’t. Above you, he groans, hips jerking until you take another inch or two past your lips. You let him, rising up on your knees to adjust the angle, sinking your way down until his head brushes the softness at the back of your throat. Taking a calming inhale, you swallow and press forward, letting him sink into your throat until your gag reflex can take no more and forces him out.

Johnny moans like he’s dying, his hands shaking as he fights not to thrust into your throat. Words stream from his mouth, filthy Scottish-tinted praises that have you wriggling in your place, desperate for a hand between your thighs.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Simon asks.

“Never seen no one like her,” Johnny gasps, one hand letting go of your hair so that he can wipe the drool from the side of your mouth. He gives a weak laugh. “And I—fuuck, fuck—I’ve looked.”

“She’ll suck you off until you tell her to stop. Doesn’t matter how long you leave her at it,” Simon says. Fabric rustles behind you, and you ache to be able to turn and see what he is doing. But you are more determined to prove your goodness to Johnny. “Sometimes when I work from home she keeps my cock warm at my desk.”

“Dunno how you get a goddamn thing done with her mouth around yeh.”

“Discipline.”

“I left mine in my other pants—fuck, I’m gonna cum. Are you one of those dirty girls that swallows?” he asks.

You nod. Simon is there suddenly, a warm presence at your shoulder as he passes Johnny the camera. Nearly wrecked, Johnny’s hands shake as he aims it down at you, looking at you through the lens. His balls draw up, cock lengthening that last little bit as he spills into your mouth.

“Don’t swallow,” Simon says at the last moment. You whine but obey. Simon pulls you up and nearly makes you dizzy with the way he kisses you, licks into your open mouth lapping Johnny’s seed from your tongue.

“Jesus, Mary, ‘n Joseph,” Johnny breathes, belatedly remembering to turn the camera onto you both. This will likely be the messiest video you’ve ever made transition wise, but you have a feeling that it will be your favorite.

When the kiss ends, you swallow and pull off to open your mouth, showing Johnny—and the audience—what they want: that you’ve swallowed your portion like a good girl.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have cum,” Johnny laughs weakly. “We’ve barely started. I don’t want this to be over.”

“You’ll cum again,” Simon says. “But it’s time to give someone else a turn. Sitrep?”

Johnny is all grins. ��All good here, sir.”

It makes you shiver to hear Johnny call him that. You’ve heard it countless times before, but never like this. The context turns the word into something foreign, something sexy. Not to mention, you know exactly what it does to Simon. Not for the first time, you wonder if his wires didn’t get a little crossed during his time enlisted, if he didn’t learn that particular kink from hearing Johnny chirp it at him every day.

“Good boy,” says Simon softly, reaching out to ruffle Johnny’s mohawk. Johnny bats his hand away, but it’s impossible to miss the way he flushes from the cheeks down his chest at those words. Simon sets the phone on the tripod in the corner, making minor adjustments, and then turns his eyes to you. “C’mere.”

He sets you up against the headboard, your back against his chest. He parts your thighs, reaching down to use his thumbs to spread your sex open for Johnny’s hungry gaze, for the camera’s lens. You hide your masked-face behind your hands, hips rising toward his touch, desperate for the stimulation.

“Pent up?” Simon asks, voice rough.

A sound slips past your lips, low and needy..

“This what you want?” His calloused fingers ghost over your swollen clit.

“Yes,” you mumble, voice muffled by your hands.

“Be a good girl and you’ll get it. You know how to be a good girl?”

“How?”

“Stay relaxed. Keep your thighs open. And don’t lie to me. Can you do that?”

You nod. Yes. Easy things. You fight to relax your body, loosening your muscles. Your hands fall to rest against Simon’s thighs, eyes cracking open to watch Johnny who has seated himself at the end of the bed out of the way of the camera’s view. When he sees you looking, he smiles, reassuring and warm. His cock, which had been soft moments ago, already looks noticeably more interested in the events taking place.

Simon drags his fingers over your clit. You tense all over, sucking in a breath before you remember his first rule and relax, going loose and soft again. He waits, patient. The next time he strokes you, you stay malleable, and he hums deep in his chest, pleased with the progress. His hand cups your whole sex, palm huge compared to you.

“When was the first time you ever wanted to fuck our boy over here?” Simon asks.

You know that he can’t use Johnny’s name, not on film, but neither you nor Johnny had expected the flashbang of this term of endearment. Johnny seems to melt, his eyes going heavy-lidded at the thought of being ‘your boy’. You can’t help but feel the incredible rightness of his words. They resonate deep in your chest like the ringing of a bell, tangible down to your fingertips and toes. Johnny is yours, and he is Simon’s.

“How long?” Simon asks again, more firmly.

“Since—since you brought him home.”

Simon slips two fingers past your entrance as a reward for your honesty. Their thickness has you gasping, fingers scrambling for purchase against his thighs. He hums something in your ear—probably a reminder about trying to relax—and you do try, but it is hard when you ache as badly as you do. You find yourself digging your heels into the bedspread, lifting your hips to try and work his fingers deeper inside of you. He feeds them to your cunt all the way to the last knuckle.

“How’s she feel, sir?” Johnny asks.

“Like the only heaven the likes of us will ever know.”

“I believe it,” Johnny sighs. “Give us a taste.”

Simon extends his fingers and Johnny takes them onto his tongue, licking and sucking the digits clean. You’re close enough to Simon to feel his inhale, to feel the way his cock jumps where it’s pressed against your lower back. He plays at being unaffected, but Simon isn’t immune to the powers of finger-sucking. He isn’t immune to Johnny.

Then he says: “Put that mouth to work, Johnny.”

Johnny drops to his belly between your thighs, breath fanning across your folds. Simon has to pin your legs apart, humming when your nails dig into the skin of his forearms. They are teaming up on you, against you, and you feel so small pinned between them.

“Dreamed of this,” Johnny sighs into your pussy. He nuzzles against you, nose brushing your slit before licking a thick stripe up your folds. He laps at the honey leaking from your entrance, broad strokes of his tongue as Simon’s fingers keep you spread open for his hungry mouth.

Sometimes Johnny’s tongue laps over Simon’s fingers, and when it does, you feel his cock twitch against your back. It only serves to remind you how empty you feel. Your hands grip Johnny’s hair, guiding his soft mouth to your clit where he sucks and laps contentedly, and you beg for his fingers.

He moans against you, voice vibrating through your pussy. His hips have started a slow grind against the bedspread, desperate for friction as his blue eyes find Simon’s dark ones, silently asking for permission.

Simon nods. Johnny slips his middle-most two fingers into you, hooking them softly, searching for that spongy, textured place just inside you. It’s everything you needed, the pleasure in your belly rising to a near painful crest. Your hand scrambles to find one of Simon’s, lacing your fingers together as you burst against Johnny’s tongue, squeezing his fingers, barely remembering to keep from calling his name.

Johnny lays his head against your inner thigh, panting. His eyes are foggy, pussy-drunk as he struggles to focus on you both, his fingers still tucked softly inside you.

“Break,” Simon whispers, kissing your neck. He shifts out from behind you, the only one of you still fully dressed. Going to the tripod in the corner, he pauses the camera and then leaves the room.

“Great abrupt bastard, isn’t he?” Johnny asks, slipping his fingers out from inside you. He goes to lick them clean, but you stop him, bringing his hand to your own mouth and cleaning your slick from his fingers, tongue searching for your taste all the way to the webbing between his knuckles. His laugh is breathy. “You like that? Like the taste of pussy?”

You nod, slipping your mask off briefly.

“Need a pretty girl to play with then, not the likes of me.”

Your hand latches around his wrist as he goes to pull away, lips turning down into a frown. “That’s not what we want. We don’t play with people. People aren’t toys to us. And we’ve never had sex with anyone else like this. You should know that from the videos.”

“Aye,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to offend yeh, lass. I was only teasing.”

“Johnny…”

“Yes?”

“Why’d you go away?” you ask. You know it might ruin the moment, but the curiosity is too much, an old wound with the scab picked clean off until it aches all over again. “Things seemed so good when Simon and I first got together. You were coming around all the time. Then you just…left.”

Johnny can’t meet your eyes as he thinks back, as he remembers those days in the year after Simon first met you. When he speaks, his voice is steady. “I told yeh earlier. Couldn’t stop thinking about the two of you. Didn’t feel right to feel that way ‘bout my best mate and his best girl. And when he told me that he was gonna propose to yeh—I had two choices. Stay and watch, or run away. Maybe Simon’s right. Maybe I am a coward.”

“He told me that the two of you almost kissed once. Back during your SAS days.”

A ghost of a smile appears on Johnny’s mouth. “Outside the Barranquilla, Columbia safehouse. I remember. I thought he would break my teeth if I tried, but Jesus, how I wanted to.”

“I think your odds were 50/50,” you say, scooting back until you are seated in Simon’s old spot, reclining against the headboard. “It started back then for you, didn’t it?”

“Aye. I was a goner.”

“You love him.”

Johnny gives you a secretive smile. He presses his finger to his lips. Shh.

Simon enters the room with three water bottles and pauses, eyes flickering between you both. “The fuck were you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” you say. “Is that water? I’m so thirsty, thank you baby.”

“Her subtlety could use some work, LT,” Johnny says, watching as Simon goes and turns the camera back on. You hastily put your mask back in place.

“Not her forte,” Simon admits dryly. He cracks open one of the bottles of water after tossing the last one to Johnny and drinks half of it in just a few gulps, despite having done very little so far in the scheme of things. You figured that was about to change, watching him shrug out of his shirt.

Simon didn’t undress the way Johnny did. There wasn’t any fanfare or confidence; it was simple and efficient. You knew that Simon’s relationship with his body was a complex one. It had served him well, and he did his best to keep it healthy, but contemplating the aesthetics of it was too offensive to his palate. The scars were intense: thick punctures along his sides, the depressed, pale pucker of bullet wounds, the hard clean lines of a knife here and there. You had never minded, and judging by the way Johnny’s throat clicks when he swallows, Johnny didn’t mind either.

“I want to fuck you,” he says.

“Yes,” you agree. Fingers had been excellent, but nothing could compare to Simon’s cock.

He shakes his head. “Not you. Him.”

You turn your gaze on Johnny whose eyes are avidly watching Simon unfasten his jeans. He pushes them down over his thick thighs and reveals he’s not wearing any underwear beneath, his cock half-hard and rosy. He wraps his fist around it, jerking himself to full stiffness with a perfunctory touch, not at all interested in the show he is putting on for you both.

“Can you take him, Johnny?” you tease.

“I’ll die trying, thanks very much.”

“I hope not,” is all Simon says, going to the bench at the end of the bed and retrieving the lube. He asks: “Condom?”

“Not necessary,” Johnny says, breaths coming faster now. You put your hand on his ankle, remembering the way he had touched you there on Christmas, stroking the bone softly. He glances to you and grins, and you see that what you mistook for nerves is actually excitement. He puts his hand over your own, squeezing. “Are you going to feel left out, lass?”

“Terribly.”

“If you last the whole time,” says Simon, holding the lube up to the light to see how empty it is. “I’ll let you fuck her when I’m finished with you.”

“Jesus,” Johnny laughs weakly. “Can’t argue with that. Throw me that and I’ll get myself ready.”

“I can do it,” says Simon, seating himself on the edge of the bed. Johnny shifts into a better position, feet flat on the bed, knees toward the ceiling. For a long time, Simon just looks at him: his silly hair, the odd scar here and there, his half hard cock. Deftly, he opens the cap on the lube and slicks two fingers while you come to kneel on the other side of Johnny, eager for a show.

“Camera, love,” Simon reminds you, fingers searching between Johnny’s legs. Judging by the way Johnny’s jaw goes tight, he’s found what he’s looking for. You shift, glancing over your shoulder to make sure you are out of the camera’s point of view. Reaching down, you trail your fingertips gently over Johnny’s cock. Simon says: “Been a while?”

“You could say that,” Johnny says, mouth falling open in a silent moan as Simon works him open. You’ve been on the receiving end of Simon’s ministrations; you know his patience can be near painful. Johnny learns it the hard way when Simon pauses twice to lube his fingers, until even the soft thrusts he gives into Johnny’s ass fill the room with the sound of sex.

You play with his cock absently, enjoying being the tormentor instead of the tormented for once. Johnny’s silent breaths turn to heavy pants and then needy groans, foreskin pulling back to reveal the sensitive head as he grows in your palm thanks to Simon’s fingers playing inside him. His heels slip against the bedspread as he searches for the angles that suit him best, and he chokes when he finds them.

“Please, I’m ready,” Johnny says, fingers wrapping around Simon’s wrist. Simon lets him pull his fingers free and reaches for the lube again, this time to slick his cock.

“Any preference for how I take you?” he asks mildly, like one might ask, How do you take your tea? One sugar please and thank you.

“None, so long as your cock’s inside me,” Johnny grits out.

“This’ll do,” says Simon, bullying his way between Johnny’s spread thighs. It takes a few pillows beneath his hips before he’s at the right height for Simon’s cock to notch against his entrance, and then you watch with rapt attention as Johnny’s body seems to blossom to welcome in Simon’s cock, a surplus of lubricant easing the way.

Johnny flinches.

“Easy,” says Simon, stilling. “Relax.”

You curl up at Johnny’s side, slipping beneath one of his arms and cuddling against him. Your nervous fingers find one of his nipples and toy with it softly, kissing at his shoulder while you murmur words of encouragement to him.

Johnny laughs weakly. “Don’t need all that, lass, but thank yeh.”

“Wish I had someone cheering me on the first time I took Simon’s cock,” you admit.

Simon frowns. “I was cheering you on.”

“Less talking please, more fucking,” Johnny says, lips upturned. His body relaxes and Simon sinks the rest of the way inside him, all the way to the fucking hilt, deeper than you can ever take him in your cunt. It thrills you and makes you envious all at once. You pinch Johnny’s nipple, forcing a quiet gasp out of his throat.

Simon looks good—strong. Unaffected. But you know him better. His brow is lower than ever, eyes closed as he centers himself. His breaths come so evenly that you know he must be counting them—four seconds in, four seconds out. His fingertips have sunk into the meat of Johnny’s thighs, gripping him tightly, as if to keep him from squirming away, or to keep him from squirming at all.

“You solid?” Simon asks him.

“Affirm,” Johnny breathes. “Go slow.”

Famous last words—Simon withdraws with painstaking care, until just his head lingers inside Johnny’s body. He sinks back in at the most leisurely pace you’ve ever seen, thrusts smooth and deep as his thighs brush against Johnny’s ass. It takes no time at all for Johnny to regret those words, one of his hands laced with yours and the other twisting in the bedsheets as he begs Simon to move faster.

And Simon can only take so much teasing himself, really. He’s human too.

His hips snap into the open cradle of Johnny’s thighs. Johnny cries out, cock jerking where it lays hard and leaking against his belly. You lean up onto one elbow so that you can watch his pretty face contort: brow furrowing, mouth falling open.

“Not going to cum, right?” you ask him slyly.

He shakes his head.

You glance down at his cock doubtfully. Simon, overhearing your words, takes that as a personal challenge, drilling into Johnny with a single-mindedness that is admirable to see and terrible to be on the receiving end of all in one.

Suddenly tears overflow from Johnny’s eyes, dripping down toward his temples. You sit up in alarm as he lifts his hands but he just palms at his eyes, laughing. Simon slows, stops. He reaches down to pry Johnny’s hands away and then kisses him, something soft and sweet. Johnny’s hands shake as he reaches up to thread his fingers through Simon’s hair, tugging him closer.

Your heart feels liable to burst. You remember Johnny’s finger pressed to his lips, that universal sign. Shh.

“He’s alright,” Simon says, not unkindly. “Aren’t you?”

Johnny croaks an affirmative.

After that, it is less fucking and more making love; there’s nothing else to call in. Simon pins Johnny’s wrists to the bed just to feel like he’s still in control, but his thrusts are syrupy slow, not fully withdrawing, seeking to remain as close to Johnny as he can for as long as possible. You stroke one of Johnny’s palms and Simon lets it free so that you can hold it, your fingers lacing together in a way that is foreign yes, but comfortable.

“You’ve been a good boy for me, Johnny,” Simon says.

“Don’t say that,” Johnny groans, turning his head away, flushed pink.

“It’s true. Know how to be an even better boy?”

Johnny is intrigued. Being a good boy is suddenly beneath him; now he wants to be the best boy. Looking at Simon through his lashes, he asks: “How’s that?”

“Cum on my cock.”

“Don’t do it Johnny,” you whine. “It’s a trap.”

Simon laughs. He kneels back onto his haunches, dragging Johnny’s body along with him, and reaches for the other man’s cock, working it over in his fist. Johnny nearly howls, kept on the edge so long that to see the bottom of the cliffside is to know the promise of pain. He doesn’t know whether to grind his hips deeper against Simon’s cock or to chase the heat of his hand.

“Close,” he groans.

“Go on. Pretty abs like this—make a mess on ‘em.”

Johnny does, pearlescent seed dripping from between Simon’s fingers as he milks Johnny for every last drop. Only then does he begin thrusting again, fast and hard, searching for his own end. Not a handful of thrusts later and he goes sloppy, breath punched from his lungs as he spills inside Johnny.

“You promised me a cock to ride,” you say.

“Couldn’t be helped, lass,” Johnny says with a dopey, lovesick smile. You hum.

“We’ll just have to get you hard again, won’t we?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around his softening cock.

That night, the bed is full. Johnny and you are entwined, legs and arms wrapped around each other creating an endless feedback of heat that Simon was careful not to be swept away in, too focused on his mission to allow for any mistakes. He makes no sound as he slips out of bed. He stops by the tripod in the corner and takes his phone out into the living room, turning the sound down so low that he has to hold the speaker close to his ear to hear it, lest he wake Johnny.

He listens to you and Johnny talk while he was gone, when you believed the camera to be off. He plays it again, watching just the video. By the time he’s returned in the video, Simon’s chest feels full of pressure, like something is inside him trying to crawl its way out. Love. What does Simon Riley know about love?

Well, he knows one thing.

Except maybe now he knows two.

He deletes the video and goes back to bed.

#ghoap x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #complicated pleasures #simon riley x reader

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drgnflyteabox · 3 months ago

Text

the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

#cod x reader #cod mw2 #task force 141 #141 x reader #drgnfly writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #skyrim au #i truly don't know but i had fun writing it #hehe #cw dubcon #tw dubcon #cw murder #idk what else to tag #i love skyrim #i dont know shit about goats #genuinely this is jokes but i've been playing a ton of skyrim so here you go

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dmitriene · 9 months ago

Text

THOUGHTS ABOUT CAVEMAN SIMON AND VILLAGER READER.

synopsis: spring has come, and with it the time for sacrifices to someone, who lives far from people and scares everyone who pokes their noses into the forest, and what could be better than bribing the one you fear, so you were chosen as the one who will bear all the gifts deep into the forest.

cw: fluff, comfort, smut, possible dubcon, story set not in modern time and might be unrealistic, not based on real knowledge about cave people, possible ooc simon since he's a caveman, virgin reader, mentions of cannibalism (not in action), biting, licking, groping, simon is rough around the edges, pet names, cunnilingus with dubious consent, simon is inexperienced, male and female intimacy, many mentions of bare flesh, overstimulation, crying, aftercare, kinda kidnapping. pairing: caveman simon ghost riley x villager fem reader

author's note: this idea was born from an absolutely spontaneous conversation with @suimon, and i'm grateful to her, because without her encouragement i wouldn't decide to write such an interesting story, which is kind of new for me, but i still hope those who will read it enjoy, it's my first attempt on writing this kind of plot, that ended up being 4.5k words.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

long melted snow, allowing fresh green grass to break through the once dissipated white fluff of snow, bright flowers decorating endless meadows and forests surrounding the village exactly along the perimeter — all this brings with it spring, warm weather, fresh juicy fruits and vegetables, and after them the time for a sacrifices.

behind the forest clearing, where the trees become thicker and seem to be getting darker, lives one whose cave, the exact location of which not many people know, are afraid to approach, and you never heard the exact answer, the exact reason, but everyone was afraid of this place more than fire, but were justified by a man who was frightening to the point of trembling, as if they had seen a living ghost.

naturally, you had never seen him, and you treated his stories as if they were fairy tales — an attempt to intimidate the kids from going too far during walks, nothing more, or so it seemed to you, until you were chosen as the one who would go to him with the onset of spring with fertile gifts, an attempt to appease the so-called monster, which terrifies the entire village with its very existence, and you couldn’t understand why you should go to the one you’re afraid of, and also with gifts?

but one way or another, it was not in your authority to refuse the election of the head of the village and the people, so you were dressed up in the best dress from your meager wardrobe, the white fabric flowing to your feet seemed as soft as silk, an absolutely light linen, diluted a wreath woven from fresh, sickly sweet flowers, and in your hands a basket of the freshest fruits and vegetables, with a rope on your wrist, a thick plexus leading to the neck of a good, well-fed cow, the devil knows what he will do with the poor, as you would think, animal, but one way or another — your task is to give, even if you looked the most appetizing here.

walking through the forest is difficult, especially when, of all the attempts to navigate, you only have — “go straight ahead and stop when you see the cave„ and the only thing left to do is to listen, periodically stop when the cow bends down to nibble fresh grass, and then walk again until feeling of dull pain in the legs, due to the fact that making your way through trees and large branches with almost bare feet is uncomfortable, a little painful, and you have to pick up the white dress in your hands so as not to get it dirty, trying to maintain a festive look as possible, not drop the basket, and still get to this damned place.

more and more doubts creep into your head, maybe no one lives there at all, or does, but it’s just a wild animal, and villagers just couldn’t see it in the dark clearlier?

but it’s hard to believe that in the thicket, which every time becomes darker and denser, in which there are more and more bushes and broken branches, and somewhere where there are even tree trunks lying — someone really lives, and while thoughts are wandering around your head like a prodigal wind, and the path completely disappears under your feet, you finally reach the right place, meeting your eyes with a stone cave, assembled from stones in a stable structure, sprinkled with greenery, moss and tree trunks.

really someone’s abode, albeit open, and looking as if it could become your undoing.

even the poor animal seems to be enveloped in fear, the cow bursts into a loud moo, resting her hooves on the ground, and with all due respect, you cannot push such a weight behind you, but you will not let her escape, tying the poor thing by a rope and to a tree trunk nearby, allowing her to calm down a little, to be distracted by tufts of grass, while your gaze rushes forward into the darkness of the cave, and your legs tremble slightly.

— “well.. here i come, cave man, huh..„ slips from your lips encouragingly to your own self, although your voice trembles, but you cannot return to the village with the same full hands, and in any case, you will most likely be sent again after this, damn old people, so the only way is forward.

the branches crunch under your feet, it seems to you, until you notice glimpses of animal bones, and it’s as if you are tugging from the inside, your step immediately quickens, and you practically stumble, clutching the basket to your chest and swallowing nervously, saying in your mind over and over — “it doesn't belonged to someone, it doesn't belonged to someone„ but it didn’t get any easier, as if the deeper you went, the more terrible it became, there was only pitch darkness ahead, not planning to make way for you even for a second, so you walk, almost blindly, closing one eye and making your way with the other.

— “is.. is someone there? hello??„

your voice echoes against the stone walls, but it becomes clearer under your feet, and a little brighter ahead, so you continue to walk even despite the dead silence, step by meek step, getting out to the center of the cave, where the walls become wider, and your eyes get used to darkness, letting small details immediately scatter before your eyes — some kind of wooden cabinet, a small rectangular table with a single chair, and above it a shelf with plates, everything is just like in your own house in the village, however, the bed is not very similar to the usual one, full of skins, located quite low, and you hesitantly step deeper, saying

— “hey?.. i'm, uhm.. i mean no harm, hello? someone?„

your voice sounds a little quieter, patient, as you walk to the table and allow yourself to place that same basket on it, carefully adjusting it along with the vegetables and fruits mixed in it, before moving away, smiling at the more welcoming composition, besides, it decorated a small surrounding emptiness, you even forgot for a while that you were in a cave, you felt comfortable, until the moment you turned around, noticing a dark figure in the corner that turned around sharply, and you screamed uncontrollably.

a large, massive figure in the very corner of the cave turns to face you, demonstrating its immensity and body, hidden under only one piece of fabric, vaguely reminiscent of pants, but what catches you, or rather scares you, is the skull attached to his face, and the skull would be less frightening if it belonged to an animal, but the shape was human like, separated from the back and leaving only the front, somehow attached to a dark piece of fabric stretched over the man’s face, showing the world only his sunken, dark eyes.

simon overreacts to the sound, furrowing his brows and clenching his hands into fists that hang on either side of his wide hips, not liking it when someone barges in uninvited, especially like this, but watching you shake like a cornered rabbit , he softens, and at the same time resolutely begins to walk in your direction, without warning, which makes your heart jump right up to your throat and back into your chest when you calm a bit inside, but still take a couple of steps back from approaching figure.

— “uh, h-hi? i'm sorry, i must scared you.. i-i screamed pretty loud, yeah?„

you babble, the words fly out of your soft lips hastily and with an attempt to justify yourself, and he freezes, breathing somehow displeasedly through his nose and causing his bare chest to heave, but still, he grumbles somehow approvingly, tilting his head to the side, as if having mercy on you and giving the opportunity to justify yourself, and you don’t dare to miss it.

— “uh, i was sent from village, you know, not far from here! i brought you some fresh vegetables and fruits, and cow.. you know, that does moo„ the words come out in one breath, while you spin around, pointing first at the basket that suddenly appeared on his table, then towards the exit, talking about the cow, telling him about it as if you were talking to a child, as if mistaking him for a completely savage, and simon squeezes out a rough, dry laugh, crossing his burly arms over his wide, scarred chest, cutting off your explanations

— “i know what a cow is„

his voice is hoarse, tart like coffee beans on the tongue, and you stop, taking a deep breath.

simon has already realized that you are from that stupid village full of fools who take him for some terrible animal, but instead of the usual fear like in other people’s eyes, in yours he sees some doubt and sincere guilt, like in a child’s who was scolded by his parents, and this causes amusement in his gaze, a flutter in his light eyelashes

— “i'm, sorry.. it's just, the villagers acted like you are some kind of wild animal, and i.. i thought..„

the words get confused in your head and on your tongue, one way or another, you, even if not for long, believed to the words of the people living in the village, believed that he was less human than many, now trying to justify his honor and your words, standing under his gaze and trembling as if leaf in the wind, your legs shook as you squeezed them together, feeling his strange, ardent gaze where your plush thighs began behind the thin fabric, and goosebumps ran down your skin as his lips stretched into a wide, wild grin.

you stand before his eyes like a prettiest gift, a prey — you are shaking like a little rabbit, or a newborn doe, as if your legs are about to lose control of your weight and collapse on the stone floor, even though a carpet of someone’s skin lies under your feet, he wouldn’t want you to return back to the village in a deplorable state, or maybe you yourself were sent as a sacrifice?

he doesn't know, because you look incredibly attractive and alluring in that light outfit with just panties underneath, the silhouette of the fabric of which he can see on your hips before his gaze goes up to where your round, soft breasts are hiding under the finest cloth, and up to the strands of your hair, decorated with a wreath of fresh flowers, he knows it by the sweet smell and by the fact that he has already seen such in the forest, and simon has never tasted people, has not eaten human flesh — but looking at you, at the softness, at the sweetness, maybe he should give it a try?

— “i never tasted human flesh before„ words roll off his tongue in advance of rational thoughts, a rich baritone from the thin line of pale lips behind the fabric of the mask and the shape of the skull where he licks them like a predator.

and you are theprey, the one which trembles and whose eyes widen when you hear his unexpected speech, wild, causing the blood in your veins to freeze and your legs to obey the instinct of escape, and you take off from your place, turn around on the thin sole of your sandals and move your body towards the exit and impenetrable the darkness from which you came, which previously let you in — and will no longer let you go without the permission of its owner.

you can’t even hear simon’s steps behind you, because of how adrenaline is pumping in your ears and blood echoes like white noise in the background, as his figure wraps around yours like a shadow and pulls you, he clings to the light fabric with dirty fingers and squeezes with a heavy weight around your waist, first with his fingers, then with his hand, heavy bonds that drag you into the air and there’s no point in even twitching your legs, he immediately turns you around in his arms, places your soft flesh in his palms, relishing in the softness, warmth, fingers greedily kneading the soft, supple skin between his fingers on top of the now slightly stained fabric, pressing you into a cold stone wall as you close your eyes tightly.

your body is trembling, you’re waiting for the touch of someone else’s teeth on your body, a sharp flash of pain, surrendering to the clutches of creeping death in the guise of a person without resistance, having resigned yourself in advance, even on the threshold of this cave, even when the dark, densely trees swallowed you in the depths of the forest, but no pain comes, no sensation of rough, sharp teeth in the skin, just his hands that slide from your butt, where he shamelessly touched you, to your hips and thighs, tracing the skin and bones over your dress, forcing you to twitch, squeezing your legs together.

something inside you is twisting shamefully hotly, curling into a coil in your lower abdomen and setting all your nerve endings on fire, you still don’t look, your eyelashes and eyelids are trembling, and simon takes pleasure in your instinctive fear, akin to the animals he mercilessly catches in the depths of the forest, kneeling in front of you just as he once knelt in front of them, but you were distinguished from a dead animal by your vitality, sweet aroma, soft warm body which he wanted to taste until greedily accumulating saliva in his mouth.

— “pretty„

he growls low from his throat, causing you to flush with a flash of blush, your fingertips prickling nervously, it seems that he’s saying this from a sadistic point of view, not really to you, rather than to your body, to what he will eat, and you refuse to look at the eyes of your fear, even when rough, calloused hands run along your legs until he lays them on his broad shoulders, lifts up the dress that gets in the way, exposes the skin to your thighs and carelessly leaves them rumpled to dangle there, when his bare mouth pierces your skin and licks.

your eyes immediately widen following the hitching breath that flies through your parted lips, and you look at him, this beast, this man, standing in front of you on both knees, and even between your legs he seems immense, but strangely tender, when he licks and gently bites a path to your thighs along the soft flesh, pressing his nose into it, you see it’s slightly crooked form briefly, the black fabric falls to cover everything except his mouth, which greedily tastes you like no one has ever tasted.

his dark eyes meet yours fleetingly, yours are frightened, his are peaceful and satisfied, the corners of his lips rise forward and spread on his face, and you feel every movement of his lips on you in dangerous proximity as he crawls higher and higher, settling between supple thighs with his head, sticking his nose and mouth into a place that attracts him with sweetness and wetness, a small sticky spot on the thin fabric, into which he buries himself greedily, opening his mouth wide and licking the fat stripe along your panty clad pussy, burying his nose in your twitching clit and grinning at the reaction of your body, as well as at the quiet, ringing moan that arose from the depths of your throat.

the light, thin fabric gets wet from the amount of saliva in his mouth, mixing with the moisture that is released from your hot, bothered pussy, causing the gusset of your panties become almost transparent, as simon buries himself deeper, without asking, he just takes it, squeezing your thighs until there is a slight, uncomfortable pain burning on your skin, as your legs kick forward and attempt to squeeze together because of the new sensations that you don’t understand, didn’t experienced before, but he’s not going to let you escape just yet, but you squeak, a shushed, soft sound, which makes him soften nonetheless.

simon's gaze studies you through his light eyelashes, he sees the conflicting emotions on your face, how your chest is heaving, how moisture collects on your lash line, threatening to release and turn into tears, so his arms wrap around and squeeze your legs a little more carefully, stroking the soft skin with awkward, uncertain circular movements of his fingers, he hasn’t interacted with people for a long time, especially in the moments like these, when his face is buried between your thighs while he laps lightly against your panties.

fear slowly leaves your body along with rational thoughts, you lose your vigilance in the hands of a stranger, a person who shamelessly touches your private parts, but touches you so well, so carefully, igniting that warmth in the bottom of your belly more and more each time and allowing you to twitch, squirm as much as it possible while being held half in the air, thus only pushing your hips forward, towards his wet mouth, and shuddering with pleasure and new flashes when his nose nuzzles harder into your little clit, making your toes curl, and he growls.

— “so sweet„

comes out as a muffled growl, and you don’t know if he’s talking about you or your pussy, but he licks you more actively, making your folds stick to the absolutely wet fabric of your panties, while he slurps and sucks your folds and clit, his movements are messy, uncertain, he's been isolated from people and any contact with them with his own hands, but that doesn't stop him from having a taste, as his tongue runs between your folds and he continues to tease you with slow, exploring movements.

you make more and more unusual to yourself sounds, quiet moans, breathy mewls, wet squelches that he swallows whole as your hands find support on his head and you dig your fingers into his mask, as you grow more and more impatient in your movements, just in time when simon gets tired of this unnecessary, wet piece of fabric, a barrier to the sweetest fruit and nectar in his life, so he bares his teeth and clings to the waistband of your underwear, helping himself with his fingertips and tearing them away down your legs, exposing your fluttering, wet hole to his hungry eyes and mouth.

the mere sight leaves him swelling with hardness in his pants, and your gaze catches on the silhouette of his cock, leaning heavily against his meaty thigh and bulging against the thin fabric, one little sight had you swallowwing nervously before your eyes roll back from the sharp contact of his bare lips with your bare cunt, he swipes his thick tongue once, twice, licking your wet folds and slurping your juices as an endless source of quenching his thirst, he licks and licks until you begin to lose yourself in how long you've been in this position, where your folds and clit swell, and simon just presses himself unexpectedly deeper before suddenly diving in further.

a loud sigh and a whiny moan spread through the cave, his tongue curls at the tip, when he accidentally, but with pressure, pushes your folds apart and into your fluttering hole, his tongue flattens against your entrance, before licking and thrusting inside, into the warmth of your velvety walls that tighten around his muscle right there, and he growls with satisfaction, akin to a muffled purr, moving his head up and down, smearing his entire jaw and lips in your slick, surrendering fully to your softness and warmth.

every movement of his tongue inside leaves you trembling, your legs intuitively spread apart further along his broad shoulders, your hips find a natural rhythm and constantly buck forward with every lick of his fat tongue against your walls and his sucking on your clit, noticing what reaction it causes in you and trying to hear more of your absolutely innocent, wanton squeaks and moans, enjoying the knowledge that you act and feel this way because of his actions, so he presses his knees into the stone floor harder and leans forward further.

your stomach twists more and more, and you push his face away from you with sharp, broken whimpers, when his tongue touches your spongy spot again and again, your body seems to be engulfed in flames, your spine arches away from the wall, resting your entire weight on his face and curling over him, breathing loudly and shakily when the tip of his tongue thrust rapidly, abusing your sweet, spongy spot with his hungry, drooling mouth.

he only grunts as you lean your full weight on him, continuing his assault on your throbbing and clenching hole, alternating between grazing his tongue against your folds and clit, or thrusting his muscle deep inside your core in fast, albeit languid movements, just until your loud whimpers and hoarse mewls echo against his stone walls, and your stomach twists and turns as your body convulses in an unexpected feeling of sudden orgasm, cunt clenches and pulsates around his tongue, letting go of your sweet slick and milky cum for him to have, covering his chin and mouth in the huge amount of liquid that he actively drink and lap up, opening his mouth wide and licking you clean, drinking till the last drop.

simon doesn’t stop, as if not knowing the line, which he doesn’t really know, continuing to run his tongue against your slit and cling to your hole, as he sukles on your clit, your whole body is buzzing strangely, your head begins to ache from the endless pleasure and overstimulation that his actions and touches bring, making everything between your legs swell and tingle, you desperately claw his bare back with your hands, adding to the scarred canvas of his flesh, trying to push, resist, but he doesn’t care, right until a loud sob escapes your lips.

he reacts instantly, making something close to a questioning grumble before retreating slightly between your legs, licking his thin lips around the edges and all your fluids on your thighs, you hang on him like a sack of potatoes, trying to grab his back with your hands and at the same time not allowing him to move away from you normally, quietly, pitifully sobbing, which cause him to growl, and with a rough grip of his wide hands on your hips, unhook you from him.

simon holds you more carefully, more gently, his hands are still shamelessly squeezing and pawing your hips, going down to the swell of your plush ass, touching the skin and also pulling down your dress to cover you and provide you with the minimum comfort possible in your position, where your panties lie torn on the floor, and endless salty tears flow down your raw, cowered in slight blush cheeks, and he feels even more sympathy for you than all the times before, frowning his light eyebrows and pursing his lips.

— “don't cry..„

he mutters in frustration, carefully releasing one hand from under your butt to carefully wipe the wetness of tears from your cheeks, while you sniff your reddened nose, your head and body pulsating with a strange surge of fatigue, there's still an uncontrollable throb between your legs, and the very thought of this feeling makes you sad, as your eyelids gradually get heavier with a dissatisfied whine escaping from the depths of your throat.

— “shh„

simon whispers quietly, shamelessly moving his face closer to yours to lick your wet cheeks, making you frown and grimace, resting your hands weakly on his shoulders before he gently begins to rock you in his bulky arms and press you against his chest, changing your position so that he supports you under your knees and your back rests comfortably on his thick bicep, curling up, and you no longer care about everything that happens.

you were in a comfortable, floating state between sleep and consciousness, not struggling or scratching like most of the little preys he meet, allowing him to carry you carefully away from the far wall and to a place that vaguely resembled a human bed, full of soft animal skins and located closer to the floor, on which he lays you down and immediately wraps you in the warmth of various furs, fleetingly touching the top of your head while carefully stroking your hair, reaching to the already slightly tattered wreath with flowers and throwing it away somewhere, to which you don’t even react, on the contrary, you cuddle in response to his touch with your head and face.

this makes him chuckle hoarsely, a sound that makes your skin crawl, but he carefully lays you down more comfortably and strokes your warm cheek, going down to your shoulder and drawing the same awkward circles here with the tip of his finger until you are taken into deep sleep, first with your mind, then with your body, allowing your eyes to close and plunge into darkness in a place unfamiliar to you, going limp and burying your nose in fur that smells sharply of musk, something tartly foresty and reminiscent of him, plunging you even deeper and further in viscious sleep, following the rough whisper, that is contrasting with his careful, soft touches.

— “sleep well, my pretty sacrifice„

simon mumbles practically under his breath, his dark eyes following every flutter of your eyelashes and the sigh that slips from your parted lips, before making sure that you are in a deep sleep and getting himself up from his haunches, the movement is accompanied by a slight crunch of bones and a grumble from his lips, he looks around his own cave, a torn, damp cloth lying on the floor, a wreath with scattered petals and a basket with some sort of offerings on the table, which he will use later.

for now he rests his hands on his hips, licking his slightly dry lips and looking at the prominent weight between his legs, resting against the fabric of his pants and responding with warm, tingling arousal and slight drippling moisture, but he will take care of this later, for now, simon will collect all the unnecessary garbage from the floor and get it as far away as possible, and then take care of the cow you brought with you from the village, even if he doesn't prefer to use meat from someone else's hands, he can definitely let it pass now, because he will need to persuade you to stay with him, as soon as you wake up.

simon will not allow something like you to escape, he has denied himself contact and warmth for too long, and now, having touched the forbidden fruit, he knows one thing for sure — he will never let it go again and will not refuse it, so you are in his abode for a long time.

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frogchiro · 5 months ago

Note

I love your butcher simon/ sleazy, neighbor, Simon 💗

Remember, when you did that fic where neighbor Simon made fem reader stay with him during a snow storm?! Ahhhh it made me feral 😮‍💨😮‍💨 could you do something like that with butcher Simon? Like she’s in the shop and gets snowed in with him or he walks to her house in a snowstorm to check on her and finds her house out of power and he cuddles her the whole night? ❤️ thanks!!!!

Butcher!Simon would go insane at the opportunity of being snowed in with you. Yes he's technically a cold blooded ex-soldier and murderer, a slasher if you will, who runs a butcher shop in this remote forgotten mountain village but he can feel his heart speeding up when you start to freak out about how late it is and how much snow there is.

You visited his shop like usual, Simon giving you the best chicken he saved up specifically for you and while you talked he got the opportunity to discretely take a peek at your tits. The conversation went a little better than expected and both of you lost track of time and before you knew it, it was already dark outside, the snow storm they talked about in the weather forecast hit too and as it turned out, you were completely snowed in with Si in his shop :(

And of course Simon, as the 'gentleman' he is, offered for you to stay in his apartment above his shop; it's rather small and not very homey but it's warmer and better than staying here among frozen, raw meat.

His heart leaps when you shakily accept his offer, it's not like you had any other option; you live quite far away, and you were snowed in anyway so his apartment, while shitty and small, will probably feel like a sanctuary, and it did! You were so so cold but walking into Si's apartment was like a dream. It was way less cozy than your home, it was much more austere but it was warm, and he even offered you to shower first so you'll get the hot water!

And...he even offered you his bed to sleep in for the night but it looked so cold and it was basically freezing...so maybe he could sleep with you? His huge, thick and hairy body could definitely warm you up well, and his nice strong musk would make you sleep better too...

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #i'm going insane with this #and si is too </3 #he just wants love and to stick his cock in :((#cod x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #simon riley #butcher!simon #butcher!ghost

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comesitintheclover · 2 years ago

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“Going Off” 💥🗡🔥

AND on the subject of cosw @carry-on-sapphic-week, I made this animatic eons ago, but I’ve never shared it before. It was the first animatic I’ve ever completed :D. Something about fem!simon just transfixes me. I might even think about genderbent Simon more than canon Simon 😅. She’s so butch and intriguing and genderqueer 💞

(Picturing fem!simon and narrated by fem!baz). I really think it needs sound effects or something though- if anyone has any songs they associate with Simon Going Off TM I’d love to hear about them! oh and I’d love to hear what people’s favourite fem!simon names are! :) Mine is Sam/Samantha currently

#cosw 2023 #carry on sapphic week #fem!simon snow #simon snow #carry on #comesitintheclover’s art <3

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betweenstorms · 18 days ago

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Part Eight of Where We Part (previous chapter) (masterlist) (first chapter) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Snow fell in thick, lazy flakes as you stepped off the bus, pulling your scarf up to your face to fend off the bite of the cold air.

Simon’s message had come so suddenly, a single line on your screen: I’m back. That was all it took, warming you more than any fire could. You were out the door before your mind had fully registered it, anticipation sweeping through you, carrying you down the stairs of your building, leaving your flat a dark, empty shell in the evening.

It didn’t matter that it was the dead of night.

You would’ve gone to him any night, any hour. You would’ve crossed any distance just to be near him.

Your heart raced with each step, beating faster than the snowflakes that drifted from the ink-stained sky. As you hurried down the street, snow crunching softly beneath your boots, the streetlights casted golden pools that glimmered on the fresh powder like scattered crystals. It was as if the world itself had dressed in crystallised anticipation for this reunion, wearing precious jewels, cloaked in silver and shadows.

You were almost at his building, your breath coming in puffy clouds of white, cheeks flushed and eyes as bright as the stars. The cold had painted your skin with winter’s blush, and your hair was windswept, tousled from your hurried journey, but you barely noticed. All that really mattered was the light in his window, that faint glow that told you he was there—

—waiting for you.

You rang his doorbell, almost out of breath. Before he could even answer, you whispered, “It’s me.”

There was no response, only the faint click of the door unlocking, welcoming you in with a warm embrace. You took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the elevator entirely, unable to waste another moment. With every step, the pulse of longing, of hope and fear, grew louder, until you felt it in your throat, a hum beneath your skin.

Since that night you’d sent him the message, confessing the love you’d held silent for so long, you’d dreamed of this, the chance to look into his eyes, to see if they held the same unspoken answer you’d always hoped for. God, those eyes—dark and mesmerising, holding worlds within them, as though he carried a universe in his silence.

You longed for them, for the soft gravity that pulled you close despite never really feeling the warmth of their orbit. It was an ache full of longing, this yearning to exist in his universe that you could only glimpse from afar, a place where the planets reflected in his gaze, a shooting star that felt like home, even though you’d never really set foot there.

When you reached his door, you paused for a heartbeat, steadying yourself, feeling the swell of your own breathing. Then you knocked, and he opened the door. His gaze immediately met yours, and in that instant, you felt every mile, every moment of silence, every whispered wish converge in the space between you.

The sight of him was almost too much, like a dream finally taking shape before you.

Simon Riley stood in the light of his flat, dressed in the simplest of clothes—a worn shirt, loose at the collar, and faded jeans that seemed to soften his sharp edges. His face was still, unreadable as ever, though his eyes held a quiet promise that caught you off guard, drawing you into him. It was like looking into the depths of a calm sea, pitch black and unfathomable, but with an undercurrent that promised there was so much more below the surface.

“Made it through the snow, then,” he hummed.

You smiled nervously, fidgeting with your fingers. “Would never let a bit of snow stop me.”

Your voice was soft, almost tentative. The words felt too small for the weight of this very moment, but they held a sincerity that seemed to resonate between you.

After a seemingly endless moment, Simon stepped aside, silently inviting you in.

You crossed the threshold, letting the warmth of his flat wrap around you. It felt comforting, like slipping into an old dress. You fumbled with your scarf and coat, casting them aside with clumsy fingers, your movements a touch too quick, too eager. Everything felt heightened, the ordinary taking on a new gravity, and you couldn’t help but feel as though you were seeing his place for the first time, taking in every small detail like it was something precious.

His space, with its muted colours and sparse furnishings, had always struck you as a reflection of him—a spot of quiet endurance, stripped down to essentials, nothing unnecessary, nothing to soften the edges. You’d teased him about this countless times, saying he could pitch a tent on the street and call it a day, that he needed a woman’s touch here, a little warmth, a little life.

But tonight, as you looked around, you realised you wouldn’t change a single thing.

Every corner, every empty wall, every threadbare cushion felt distinctly, profoundly him, and that familiarity wrapped around you like a soft blanket. Here, in this bare simplicity, he was himself, and you felt the privilege of being allowed in.

You drifted into the living room, awkwardly resting your hands on the back of his grey sofa, your gaze roaming over the room as if you’d find answers tucked into the corners. You could feel his presence behind you, solid and grounding, yet somehow distant.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, you asked him, “What happened, Si?” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but the question hung heavy in the air, thick with the weight of everything you needed to know.

You wanted to believe that his absence was just the nature of his work, that it was a necessity and not a choice, but part of you feared otherwise. Part of you feared that now, just when you had finally given voice to your love, he would vanish again, leaving you without the chance to know what lay hidden in his heart.

He didn’t answer at first, his gaze shifting away from you and his expression darkening as he drew a long, tired breath.

After a few painfully long seconds, he finally exhaled, his shoulders sagging as if he carried a weight you couldn’t see.

“Work,” he stated, his voice rough, laced with a weariness that seemed to go far deeper than the past few weeks. He ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair, a gesture you recognised as his way of grounding himself, of trying to find the right words. “Things got… messy.” His jaw tightened, and you knew, there was so much he wasn’t saying, layers of meaning buried in his words, like the murmur of a story beneath the surface of a still lake.

A lake that held a monster.

“How messy?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.

Simon mirrored your posture, leaning against the wall with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn jeans, tilting his head to observe you with a strange, clinical intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes seemed to hold a quiet calculation, as though he was gauging just how much truth you could bear, assessing the weight he might lay upon you without breaking you.

Seeing the look in his gaze, you straightened, pulling yourself up, a brave front in the face of his hesitation, though you felt your facade cracking. He must’ve seen it—the slight tremble in your stance, the way your fingers twisted together to keep them from shaking.

With a sigh, he looked away, his gaze dropping to the side table where a half-empty glass of whiskey sat, a faint reflection of the dim lamplight glinting in the amber liquid.

You hadn’t noticed it until now.

At that moment, the message you’d sent him on New Year’s Eve, the confession of your love, felt impossibly insignificant and childish. Whatever you’d been waiting for, whatever words of love or promise you’d hoped for, seemed small in the shadow of the silence he wore like a second skin. You wondered if, amid everything he had faced in the past months, your feelings had become another burden for him, another layer of complexity he didn’t need.

Whatever had dragged him down into this quiet desolation felt much larger, much darker, and for the first time, you questioned whether you truly belonged in his world, whether he could let you in without burdening you with things he fought so hard to bury.

“Didn’t mean to leave you, love,” he murmured, the words barely audible, his gaze still fixed on some invisible point beyond you. The quiet roughness of his voice was like a brush of cold air, chilling and real, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. “Work went sideways.”

You shifted your weight, fingers finding your elbow in a nervous scratch.

“What d’you mean?”

He moved slowly, reaching for the glass of whisky, lifting it to his lips but pausing, as though the answer was nestled somewhere in its amber depths. He took a single, measured sip before setting it down again, exhaling heavily.

“One of my mates didn’t make it,” he murmured, his voice like sandpaper, rough and scraped thin by grief.

Your hands clenched unconsciously, fingers digging into your palms, leaving little half-moon imprints that stung. The thought of him losing someone again, of him carrying yet another loss on those already abandoned shoulders, twisted something painful in your chest. But you said nothing, sensing that he wasn’t finished.

“Happened right in front of me. Shot in the fuckin’ head. And the bastard who did it slipped away, just like that. Bloody vanished.”

His confession hit you like cold rain, each one soaking into you, settling with a heavy, aching permanence. So you looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the hollowness lingering in his gaze. In his deep voice, you could almost feel the raw injustice, the senselessness.

“Went up to Scotland after,” he murmured, his voice thick, his gaze far away. “Took his ashes with the team. No family left that wanted anythin’ to do with it. Just us. So we scattered him there, in the hills.” He paused, his hand resting on the glass, his fingers tightening around it. “You’d have liked him. Right pain in the arse, but big heart. One of the fuckin’ best.”

“Oh, God,” you whispered, words catching in your throat, useless and small in the face of something so raw, so immediate, so irreversible. You felt the painful ache in his words as though they were your own, a dull throb that settled beneath your ribs, swelling and settling like a bruise you couldn’t see.

You opened your mouth, wanting to say something, anything, to reach across the impossible gulf between his grief and your presence, but each phrase you thought of felt inadequate and hollow. Somehow, the words felt too sharp, like fragments of glass too small to piece together as a whole.

What could you say that he hadn’t already heard a hundred times, that wouldn’t sound hollow in the wake of so much loss?

The last time he’d lost someone, you’d written him a letter. You’d written to him about the tragedy of childhood, about guilt, about family, about all the things you wished you could take back. Pages upon pages of words had come to you then, spilling out with a feverish need to comfort, to connect, as you lay in a bloody hospital bed, trying to capture everything you couldn’t say to him in person. Back then, every thought had felt vital, every line a confession of all you wished he could hear.

But here, standing in front of him, faced with the raw, unhealed wound of his sorrow, you felt adrift, unable to find even a single sentence that could touch the mere vastness of his agony. You wished you could say something to soothe him, to ease the suffering he bore, but every instinct told you that this grief was too sacred, too traumatic and too deeply embedded for anything you could say to lessen it.

So you did what you always did when you were lost—

—you started to ramble.

“You’re… you’re so fuckin’ strong, Simon. I mean it. To carry all this, to keep going. I can’t even imagine—” Your words caught in your throat, and you pressed on, fumbling, “Whatever you need, I’m here, yeah? Just say the word. I mean, if there’s anythin’ I can do—”

Before you could finish, he let out a sigh.

An all too familiar reaction, cutting through your words with that weary impatience you knew so well.

That sigh had always been enough to silence you, to bring you to a halt. He looked at you with a weariness so deep it felt almost like an accusation, as though your very presence exhausted him in some strange, bittersweet way. You could feel the anxious heat blooming under your skin, your palms damp with the tension that had knotted itself in your chest. You hugged yourself tighter, as though afraid that if you let go, you’d simply fall apart.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

The command was soft, but it held that same authority that was so unmistakably him. So you blinked, his order lingering in the air, settling into your skin like a brand. Your mind struggled to process the meaning behind his words, to make sense of the kind invitation hidden beneath his blunt command. His tone was gentle, almost tender, yet there was an unspoken weight to it, as though this was more than just an instruction—

—it was a surrender.

You felt like you were being given a choice, a step across a line you’d both danced around for years, but he’d left no room for uncertainty. The moment was his, and you felt the weight of it settle around you.

When you didn’t move, when the reality of his request rooted you to the spot, he let out a quiet grunt, a sound both frustrated and resigned, and stepped closer to you himself. The distance between you disappeared in an instant, and the air felt thicker, charged with something unnameable that made your skin burn.

You felt the warmth of him even before his hand reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric of your sweater before settling on your waist. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but there was a quiet conviction in the way his fingers curled around you, pulling you just a fraction closer. He was so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the quiet hum of his breath, steady and measured.

Leaning against the sofa, you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze, your heart racing wildly as his eyes bore into yours, dark and unguarded.

You had never seen him like this.

The world narrowed, focused entirely on him, on the roughness of his calloused hand against your body and the way his gaze held yours like you were something precious, something he was trying desperately not to break. Your knees brushed against his, a subtle, almost shy touch that felt strangely intimate, like a promise you didn’t dare to speak. He loomed over you, a figure carved from all the resilience and sorrow he’d carried through his life, a force of gravity that drew you in even as he held back.

Your breath caught as he said, “This is why I’m here.”

The words sank in slowly, stirring a sense of nervousness, of realisation.

“Yeah, I know, but—” you replied, your voice trembling, almost inaudible. “I just… I didn’t know what you were going through. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have… I wouldn’t have made things harder for you. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologisin’,” he cut in, his hand tightening slightly on your waist, grounding you in the present, pulling you out of the spiral of guilt. “You’ve been doin’ that shit since we were kids. Fuckin’ annoying, y’know that?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I mean—”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at his bluntness, the way he could strip you down to the very core with so few words, cutting through every layer of pretence.

His tone was rough, his words clipped, but the faintest hint of amusement softened his gaze, a glimmer in his eyes that betrayed the sharpness of his voice. There was no real anger there, no frustration, only a quiet, steady warmth that held you in place, disarmed you completely.

You looked up at him, utterly captivated, feeling the way his fingers pressed against you, warm and solid, a gentle weight that made your skin prickle with hurried anticipation. He was looking at you as though you were the centre of the universe, as though you were something irreplaceable, and in that moment, every doubt, every hesitation melted away.

The world around you dissolved, leaving only him, the unspoken emotions flickering in his gaze, the faint brush of his thumb along your side—a gesture so small, so quiet, but charged with something vast, something that held years of waiting, of missed moments, of unspoken words. Your poor heart thundered, a wild beat that matched the intensity in his eyes, the silent confession that seemed to hover between you, waiting, unspoken, in the air.

“Never been good at sayin’ things, not when they matter.”

His other hand rose, stalling for a second before brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch was featherlight, a rare gentleness that felt almost out of place against the roughness of his hand, the hand of a soldier who had known only violence and destruction.

But here, with you, he softened, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if he was memorising the feel of you, storing it away like a keepsake. The closeness between you was dizzying, each breath shared, each hurried heartbeat in tandem, and the weight of his confession was enough to make your knees tremble.

He scoffed, his gaze dropping, but he didn’t release his hold on you, not even a little bit. “I’m too much of a fuckin’ coward to say it right, to say what you deserve to hear. But all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. That’s all I bloody want, alright? So I left. Left you to find some other bloke who could give you everythin’ I couldn’t.”

The words landed softly, almost lost in the stillness of the room, but they pierced you deeply, each syllable burrowing into your heart.

It was as if he was laying himself bare, offering you the fractured pieces of a man marred by grief and shadows, hoping you’d take them and see him not for what he had done, but for what he could be. The years of silence, all the glances and all the unspoken promises, all seemed to unravel in that single moment.

Simon Riley, the unbreakable, unshakable figure you’d known since childhood, stood before you now in this split second of the universe, open and exposed, offering you himself.

Your heart swelled at the sight and you felt yourself drawn even closer, like gravity binding you both together in a way that felt irreversible. You reached up, your hand steady despite the wild beat of your pulse, and let your thumb brush along his scarred lips, tracing the rough edges and feeling the warmth beneath.

“Y’know, I thought I knew what I wanted,” you whispered, each word carrying a weight you hadn’t known until this moment. “Thought I wanted a picture perfect life, the kind you dream about, that I had to meticulously fix everythin’ in my life to deserve happiness… but none of it means anythin’ if it doesn’t include you. Ever since we were kids… maybe I’ve loved you since then, without even knowin’.”

He let out a soft, almost bitter huff, a sound that was somehow both happy and sad. His gaze fell away, then he turned his head, just enough that his lips brushed the inside of your hand, a gesture so fleeting it could have been a mere accident. But it wasn’t.

You felt the warmth of his breath, the slight tremble in the touch, and it set something alight within you—a spark that had lain dormant, waiting, perhaps, for this very moment.

“You’ve got some daft ideas, love,” he murmured, voice thick with something unspoken, the quiet tremor of a man who’d spent too many years swallowing his own feelings. His words were meant to sound gruff, deflecting, yet the way he looked at you gave him away entirely, his gaze lingering on you as though he could see something he’d missed before.

His gaze lifted, and for a moment, he looked almost fragile, as though he didn’t quite believe he was worthy of your words, of your love. But then, something shifted in his eyes, a spark of hope flickering in the depths of his soul.

And just like that, he closed the last sliver of space between you, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both gentle and desperate, a silent vow that spoke of all the words he couldn’t bring himself to say, a kiss that felt like both a promise and an apology for all the years spent apart, all the words unspoken.

The kiss deepened, a slow, tender exchange that felt like a thousand promises wrapped into one. He tasted like whiskey, cigarettes and regret, like something raw and real that anchored you to him, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair as he pulled you impossibly closer. You felt his heartbeat under your palm, steady and strong, and it felt like coming home after wandering for years, lost in a world that had never made sense without him. The warmth of his lips spread through you like the quiet promise of dawn breaking over a frozen landscape, melting away the distance that had once felt insurmountable.

“Fuck,” he murmured into your lips. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

And then he whispered, barely audible, a breath against your skin, “No more partin’.”

The words cut through you, raw and piercing, like an arrow finding its mark. You understood, in that moment, that this was where the distance ended, where all those unspoken goodbyes, all the quiet departures of the heart, finally came to rest. He was offering you something more precious than any words could capture—a life in which you wouldn’t have to watch him walk away again, in which the space between you would no longer be an endless, aching divide.

You leaned into him, feeling the truth of it settle in your bones, feeling the relief that washed over you, a warmth spreading through you that felt like homecoming.

In that moment, you understood that this was the place you had both been searching for, that all the roads had somehow led here, to him, to this quiet room, to the snow falling softly outside, to the words you’d both carried with you all this time, waiting for the right moment to be spoken.

Outside, the night stretched on, blanketed in white, the world a vast, unbroken silence. But here, in his arms, in the space where all words had faded, you knew that the search had finally ended.

And so, the chapter closed, not in the place you thought it would, but in a place neither of you could have ever imagined—a place without partings, without endings, a place where you could finally be whole together.

Thank you so much to everyone who followed this story and for all the incredible support and love along the way. I’m incredibly grateful to each of you who stuck with me until the very end, and I hope you’ll join me on my next project. I’m planning a new story that will focus on Simon, Johnny, and Reader, and of course, I’ll be continuing Skin of Thunder as well. Thank you again from the bottom of my heart!

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empresskylo · 9 months ago

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'*•.¸♡ — simon 'ghost' riley' x fem!reader

you wanna kiss me so bad — part 2 (wc 1.4k)

part 1 [this can still be read w/o reading pt 1]

You had taken Ghost’s jests in stride. He clearly wanted to one-up you; wanting to show you and Soap he could be just as comical.

At least he wasn’t angry when you teased him. But still, you hadn’t expected him to respond the way he had.

You were used to playful teasing, like you would with a sibling. And normally, you could handle crude remarks, always making those with Soap. But when it came to Ghost, something about the way he said them bothered you more than it should have.

You had refrained from talking to Ghost, saving anything you had to say for a later date. Ghost found your response… odd. You went from slowly opening up, joking with the team lightheartedly, to closed off and seemingly lacking any ounce of humor.

You pulled your jacket tighter as you made it outside, spotting Soap and Ghost up ahead, loading the truck for the upcoming mission.

Ghost stopped what he was doing and stared at you. You froze, your brows furrowing at his sudden shift. Even Soap paused what he was doing to look up at Lt.

“Yes?” You asked him, a bit confused.

“You’re wearing that?” Ghost asked you exasperated, his eyes looking you up and down.

You felt your face heat. You were literally wearing the same outfit as half the men on the team. It was a uniform after all. He sounded like Soap with his stupid joke. “I guess I am,” you mumbled. You leaned over and picked up a crate to shove on the truck.

Soap smirked, clearly entertained by the awkwardness between you and Ghost.

You loaded the gear quietly for several moments before Ghost met your rhythm, walking beside you as you both carried duffel bags.

“Calling me stupid one minute, t’not having my jokes at all,” he mumbled. “Can’t seem to figure you out.”

He thought you might not answer him again. You huffed as you tossed the bag onto the truck then turned to face him. “You ever considered the fact that maybe you’re just not that good at puzzles?”

You couldn’t see, but Ghost smiled under his mask. Soap snickered in the background. Ghost turned and leaned against the truck, all the gear loaded up, and crossed his arms.

“Guess I just prefer a more hands-on approach.”

Your breath got caught in your throat. You averted his eyes, trying to act like his words weren’t flustering you. Teasing was so much more fun when it was just ludicrous jabs. Whatever this was that Ghost kept pulling, was leaving you speechless, and you hated it. You wonder if you’d respond the same if it was anyone else saying these things to you.

Soap bumped his shoulder against Ghost, finally forcing his eyes away from you. “If y’need the practice L.t., I wouldn’t mind—”

“If you finish that sentence, Johnny, I swear to god.”

Soap laughed and climbed into the back of the humvee.

You refrained from glaring at Ghost the entire ride, though it took a lot of willpower. You swear you could feel the heat of his gaze along your neck. You were determined to fluster him like he had been doing to you.

And of course, when the team split up, you were somehow stuck with Ghost. It’s like the gods enjoyed torturing you.

You clutched the sniper closer to your chest, the winter wind sending a chill down your spine. You followed Ghost in silence to the lookout point, your boots crunching the half-melted snow.

Once on target, you laid prone on your stomach, aiming your rifle into the distance. You checked down the barrel, looking out for any of the men on your team, trying to spot them. Ghost still hadn’t gotten down beside you yet.

“Squattin’ too hard on the joints, Lt.?” You teased, keeping your one eye squared through your scope.

“If you’re as good a shot as you are at runnin’ your mouth, this is a shoe in,” he muttered, a bit annoyed. You grinned, knowing he couldn’t see, with a bit of satisfaction at getting under his skin.

Ten minutes had passed and still nothing had happened. You got up onto your knees and looked over at Ghost. He was sitting in the same position, tapping on his tablet to locate the men. You noticed his fingers turning red from the cold, his gloves tucked up under his arm so he could use the screen.

“Pretty cold out here, Lt.,” you began casually.

His eyes flickered to you briefly before going right back to what he was doing.

“Should hold my hand. You know… so it doesn’t freeze.”

You heard Ghost laugh through his nose, his eyes still focused downward.

You turned back to your sniper and saw Ghost shift out of the corner of your eye. You glanced over and you bit your lip to keep from gaping. Ghost had continued what he was doing, but his free hand was nonchalantly outstretched, palm open and turned up for you to take as he concentrated on the GPS tracker.

When you didn’t take his hand he looked up. “What? That all talk, then?” He mocked.

This whole teasing thing didn’t really work when the participating party wanted all the stupid things you offered.

You decided to play things his way then. You reached out and slid your hand into his. He glared at you, almost like he was overly confident you weren’t going to call his bluff.

You wanted to show him you were just as committed to the bit as he was.

“Didn’t take you for the affectionate type, Lieutenant.” You laced your fingers together and gave him a saccharine smile.

He shook his head, shoving his tool back into his bag before tugging you towards him, his grip firm around your hand. “Affection is a weakness,” he explained.

“Oh! So is that why you haven’t kissed me yet? Afraid to be weak?”

He knew exactly what you were doing. You were intimidated when he fired remarks back at you, ones that stumped you and left you flustered. You were trying to outdo him; to make him flustered. And Ghost was more than pleased.

He tugged you so close you had to use your hand not tangled in his to catch his chest, stopping you from flying into him.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya?”

“So, what if I would?” You threw his words from the other day back at him.

“This is a game you can’t win, sergeant,” he growled out, his eyes locked on yours, unwavering as he stared you down.

“No? N’ why’s that?” You asked cooly, trying to mask the fact that your heart was racing. “You think I’m lying?” You were… weren’t you?

Ghost’s eyes narrowed, his mind reeling behind his glare. You swallowed and he traced the way your throat bobbed. Before you had the chance to say more, Ghost used his free hand to push his mask up to his nose, baring his chin and lips to you. He grabbed the front of your tactical vest, his fingers looping into the fabric, and pulled you level with him, your eyes turning to moons.

“What are ya gonna have t’say once I prove ya wrong?” He asked.

You bit your lip, steadying your rapid breaths. “You won’t.”

Ghost grinned and you were so shocked by seeing his mouth for the first time, watching his lips tip up into a smile, that you didn’t realize he had closed the distance between the two of you until it was too late.

The kiss wasn’t long, just enough to be more than a peck. You were surprised at how soft his lips were, and how his faint stubble tickled.

He broke apart, pushing you backwards and dropping both his hands.

Maybe he had taken things too far. He averted his gaze while you stared up at him dumbly. Ghost smirked, a bit too proud of himself for stumping you. And he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t actually wanted to kiss you. No, he was itching to kiss you far more than what just unfolded.

“At least that got you to finally shut your mouth.” You could hear the playful lilt in his voice and it made your chest beat rapidly. You never expected to share a kiss with your lieutenant. And you never thought you’d catch feelings for him. But here you were.

What had you gotten yourself into?

#ghost #simon riley #smut #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #cod #ghost fanfic #simon riley fanfic #ghost call of duty #ghost angst #cod mw2 #cod fic #call of duty fanfic #mw2 fanfic #mw3 #ghost mw3

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dejwrld · 1 year ago

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CHOSOIST PRESENTS....LET'S PLAY W/ DEJA #KINKTOBER

of the words of berleezy, i'm a gamer...i do this. the do in question is thirst and thinking about getting bent over by your favorite video game characters. deciding to mix this year's (technically my first every kinktober) up and step away from my animanga roots. so ladies, gents, & non-binaries angels, this year's kinktober is dedicated to some of my favorite video game characters. — TAG LIST FORM

𝐋𝐄𝐓❜𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐒

OCTOBER 2ND-OCTOBER 7TH

( F*CK JOEL MILLER, LITERALLY ) 🎮 JOEL MILLER X FIREFLIES MEMBER!READER

— after a quite interesting run in with joel and ellie, you're stuck with them through the long journey to ensure ellie get to the fireflies in one piece. through bickering and nearly getting them killed, with a bottle of old whiskey and the moonlight shining down on you—joel miller shows you just how much he hate your guts.

( cw ) ⸻ fem reader, female anatomy described, firefly!reader, power dynamic, mentions of reader technically being held hostage by joel, mean dom!joel, oral (m.receiving), profanity, reader literally has the smartest & dirtiest mouth, age gap between reader and joel but nothing too big, alcohol consumption, spit usage, takes place during 1st tlou game, reader & ellie banter

CLICK HERE TO WATCH

( DEMON TIME) 🎮 INCUBUS!SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY X READER

— game synopsis: your boyfriend has been quite neglectful when it comes to your needs. not particularly being the best book boyfriend similar to the books you've read. but the one demon that visits you in your dreams seem to give you everything you need.

( cw ) ⸻ fem reader, female anatomy described, mentions of reader having a boyfriend, doggystyle, unprotected sex, dirty talk (simon calls reader a slut), mentions of wet dreams, pillow humping, monsterfucking, mentions of simon having horns

CLICK HERE TO WATCH

OCTOBER 9TH-OCTOBER 14TH

( GUARDIAN ANGEL ) 🎮 GUARDIAN ANGEL!SEPHIROTH X READER

— game synopsis: he's been your guardian angel since you were sixteen years old. protecting you from danger you didn't see coming, but now that you're slowly wanting space from him—he makes it his mission to remind you who you belong to until you take your final breath.

( cw ) ⸻ fem reader, female anatomy described, slight enemies to fuckers, reader somewhat purposely put herself in danger, possessive!sephiroth, mentions of sephiroth having pretty white wings, mating press position, cream pies, mentions of soul ties,

CLICK HERE TO WATCH

( COLD AS ICE ) 🎮 SUB ZERO!KUAI LIANG X SIREN!READER

— being the handmaiden of the grandmaster of the lin kuei has its perks. although you feel like an odd one out in a winter storm, your bond with the cold grandmaster seems familiar. as if you've experienced it before.

( cw ) ⸻ fem reader, female anatomy described, takes place in the mortal kombat timeline where kuai liang is the lin kuei grandmaster, clit play, ice play, temperature play, mentions of reader & kuai being multi timeline lovers, reader has siren powers, fingering, edging, slight exhibitionism,

CLICK HERE TO WATCH

OCTOBER 16TH-21ST

( BIG BAD WOLF ) 🎮 BIGBY WOLF X RED RIDING HOOD!READER

— game synopsis: bigby wolf has to juggle being the sheriff holding the fables together in the busy city of new york, but now a former prey returns to the city stirring up trouble & bigby's primal past.

( cw ) ⸻ fem reader, female anatomy described, mentions of folklores, marking kink, blood kink, primal kink, mentions of infidelity (bigby is dating snow/snow white), takes place after first the wolf among us game (spoilers may be included), cunt slaps, witty nicknames being said during intercourse (reader calls bigby the big bad wolf), reader is new in town, slight established relationship between bigby & reader

CLICK HERE TO WATCH

OCTOBER 31ST

🎮 BONUS PLAYTHROUGHS

⸻ short game plays to savor your sweet tooth from your favorite halloween candy

— ellie williams x reader, trick n treat ( fem reader, oral [reader receiving], dirty talk, thigh marks )

— jin sakai x reader ( female reader, arranged marriage trope, virginity lost )

— leon kennedy x reader ( female reader, doggy style position, marijuana usage )

CLICK HERE TO WATCH

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bittersw33t-lotus · 2 years ago

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Foot Prints in the Snow

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem! Reader

Cw: pregnancy, fluff, ooc! Ghost, cursing? I mean It’s ghost.

An: second Ghost fic and I’ve already succumbed to having a baby fever-induced fic 😔 also this is short so let me know if you guys want a part 2. This is based off a tik tok i saw of this guy making footprints for his girlfriend in the snow so she doesn’t slip🥹

(I promise for you guys waiting for part two of great timing, I swear it’s coming out soon😭🫶🏼)

“Its just slush Sargent, you’ll be fine.”

“Nuh-uh, I’ve fallen one too many times on my ass Ghost. One more fall and I will break my tailbone.” You grip onto the railing already feeling your feet starting to slide underneath the slushy snow.

Ghost sighs and walks back over to you, he turns back around, his back facing you, before he takes a step and shimmies his foot side to side before lifting it and taking another step and repeating his actions leaving visible footprints on the ground, making the gravel more accessible to get more traction on the ground. You didn’t have to ask your lieutenant what he was doing, he was making a clear track for you to follow without walking in the slush.

You didn’t want to admit it, but your heart skipped a beat when you realized Ghost was putting in the effort to help you out instead of just leaving you to deal with not having to fall on your ass. As you began to follow him setting your foot in the tracks he left, you could see how your foot couldn’t fill his footprints entirely. You focused your eyes on the tracks below and soon enough the tracks lead right up to the passenger side of the car door and leading off to the other side where Ghost made his way to the driver side without sparing you a glance and acknowledgment for what he just did for you, like it was nothing.

“You really should get some boots or even ice cleats to walk in this weather, sneakers aren’t going to help you.” He says unlocking the car.

You smile and open the car door, “Why would I when I have you to help me out now.” You say sliding into your seat as Ghost starts to turn on the car.

You hear him huff out a laugh with but miss the way his gaze lingers on you for a second too long.

~~~~~

“You’re up late.” A deep voice booms through the darkness of the lounge room, the lights off with only the source of light coming from the fridge and moonlight seaping through the windows.

You’re squatted down as you rummaging through the fridges contents, at the sudden intrusion of silence from Ghost you gasp as you jolt and turn around. As you turn around, your eyes try adjusting in the dark, the lighting from the fridge having messed with your vision so it was hard to see Ghost in pitch black nothingness. His dark attire not helping much either. “Jesus Christ Ghost you’re gonna give everyone a heart attack if you keep going that,” You breathed out going back to rummaging in the fridge. “I got hungry and can’t sleep.” Ghost rolled his eyes, turning on the kitchen light before walking to the cupboards and pulling out a glass cup, “Why are you still up?” You ask eyeing him as he pours water into his cup.

“Bold of you to assume I even sleep.” He mumbles lifting up his mask revealing his blonde scruffy beard and soft pink lips, taking the cup up to his mouth and drinking the cold liquid, watching as the glass made contact with his soft lips. You quickly turn your attention back to the fridge deciding on a little snack that Gaz was probably saving but you couldn’t care, before you closed the fridge door. You stand back up and began to eat the food.

Once you finished chewing, you look over to your lieutenant to see the the mask was pulled back down covering his face once more, “When’s the last time you slept sir?” You asked, the silence was long as he stared into his cup.

You began to question if he even heard you until he shrugs and sets the cup down on the kitchen counter. “Probably three days now.” He says, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. He looks away upon seeing your concerned expression at his answer, dismissing your concern with the wave of a hand. “Don’t be surprised, I’ve gone longer that this without sleep.” He says.

“You really shouldn’t continue feeding into the habit Ghost.” You say, however it’s nothing but silence on Ghosts end, you can see his body becoming tense and his eyes tell you enough he’s becoming a little agitated so you back down and shift the topic of conversation . “You wanna go for a walk?”

He looks at you with a raised brow. “What for?”

You shrug and look down at the food in your hand, “I dunno, I can’t sleep and you’re obviously not going to sleep at all- so instead of just being in our rooms, I’d think going outside for a bit would seem better.”

Ghost thought on your offer, “eh,” he breaths out leaning off the counter, “why not.”

The smile that made it way to your face almost made him crack the me himself, “Okay, let me get my jacket real quick.” You say not wasting a second and heading to your room.

Ghost waits by entrance door putting on his jacket and boots when you come out of your room sporting a jacket and the new pair of snow boots you bought. Ghost opens the door letting you go out first and following you, closing the door behind him.

You both agreed to walk near the forests, his flashlight lighting the path, the snow crunching beneath your feet leaving a trail of foot prints behind.

You decided to have some fun and slowly trail behind him and tried your best to walk in his footprints, a small smile on your face as you found amusement in it. Ghost didn’t even need to see what you were doing, this was a little habit you began to pick up ever since the day he helped you. He spaces out with thoughts of you and the little moments he savors with you outside of the field. He sees how you make an effort to talk and interact with him more but he’s honestly holding back in fear of being hurt should anything happen, weather you drift apart, leave the force or join another or even worse… you die.

Ghost wishes he wasn’t so closed off as he was because now it’s back fired on him since now he struggles to break free and open up to others, and he feels bad when he sees how you attempt to conversaré with him only for him to struggle to keep up with the conversation and leave due to embarrassment. As Ghost is lost in thought you began to drift off into thoughts as well.

You felt the walk was filled with a nice silence, but you’ve noticed how Ghost hasn’t even spare you a single glance or peeped a single word to you. Your mind began to wander as your pace began to slow not noticing how ghost was watching you. As you walked you began to think about how he hardly really talked to you, he talks to Johnny, Price and Gaz more often than he did with you maybe it was because he knew them for longer, but you wondered if maybe you annoyed him or you’re just to plain and boring to be around. ‘Is he uncomfortable? Is the silence awkward for him? Should I say something? What if I end up annoying him if I do try and talk? Does he hate walking with me? But If he didn’t want to be near me he would’ve declined my offer and gone by himself or stayed back at base. Unless he didn’t want to seem rude? No he definitely would’ve declined if he wanted to..’

Ghost eventually snapped back into thoughts and took notice at how faint your footsteps grew, he sees you’re a few feet away as you stare at the ground with a blank look, like your spaced out. “You alright?” Ghost spoke, breaking your train of thoughts, you look at him with a confused look before you nod. “You seem to be more present n’ your head then here. You space out a lot when your not in the field.” He said, he didn’t turn to look at you’re dumbfounded expression and opted to keep looking up at the sky.

“How could you tell?” You say as you began to pick up your speed and catch up to him making you way back to walking beside Ghost.

“You always stare at things wit’ a blank stare, and your don’t blink for hours on end like you’ve gotta starin’ problem, and when someone talks to you, you look lost.” He says finally turning his head to look at you.

“Is it really that obvious?” You cringe at the thought.

“Very.” You groan and turn away, feeling heat rush up your face in embarrassment. “‘S alright, I used to do it a lot when I was younger…” he says, his voice faltering a bit at his last words.

You look back at Ghost, “How’d you do it?”

He looks back at you with a confused look.

“How’d you stop spacing out I mean.”

He looks at the floor now, ‘My family died and I focused my entire life and thoughts into the army so I don’t have to think about them-’ He thinks. “I joined the army and set my sights on the military, basically burying myself in work.”

“Huh, seems like I should do that then.” You chuckle at your own joke but Simon doesn’t think so.

“No, wouldn’t recommend it. You’ll end up fucked in the head like me. You won’t be human.” He says.

Silence. Ghost begins to worry that maybe he’s gone too deep.

“You’re not.” You say, Ghost cant bring himself to look at you and looks at what little scenery he can see. “You’re not entirely fucked in the head, you still show us that you’re still a human being. I’ve seen how you act Ghost, you show glimpses of the person- the man you are under that mask. Like right now.”

Ghost hears your footsteps stop, so he stops. He turns around and looks you in the eyes. Your smiling at him and his heart skips. He feels a rare feeling bubbling in his stomach, one he hasn’t felt In a while. ‘The man I am under the mask…’ He thinks.

“You noticed how I act out of work and you asked if I’m alright. When I got shot for the first time durning that mission in France, while we waited for evac, I was loosing my shit thinking I was gonna die even though the bullet was in my thigh,” You laugh at the memory. “You talked me through the pain and anxiety I was feeling and told me I was alright, you taught me the breathing techniques and proceeded to make shitty military jokes all to distract me from the chaos ensuing around us as I sat there bleeding.” Ghost remembers that time, you were on the team for almost a year, a rookie on the team but you were one of the best soldiers Price ever saw and that’s why you made it to the task force, you could handle being harmed by the hands of others, wither it be by their hands, being sliced by knives, pepper sprayed, tasered, or hit with inanimate objects you took it like a pro but you never got experienced the power of a bullet before, so when you finally got shot for the first time, the shock made you hysterical and the anxiety wasn’t helping you. It was just you and him teamed together. Despite seeing multiple things in his time in the army, seeing others shot, including himself, it wasn’t new. He was almost desensitized to it minus the pain that came with it, but when it came to you, he was almost scared. Hearing your scream in pain and fall to the ground he never felt his heart drop so hard in his life. He remembered breathing out in relief seeing the bullet was only in your thigh knowing you’d be okay, that you’d live.

“And there was also that time last year when it snowed and rained, the snow turned into slush, I didn’t have my snow shoes at the time and complained about not wanting to fall on my ass. You made a path of your foot prints from the building to the passenger side of the Jeep for me to walk in just so I wouldn’t slip. There’s times where you worry about the well being of Johnny, Gaz and Price and I during missions, especially when we got separated after the whole fiasco with Graves turning on us. Those are the moments where I don’t see a ghost of a man. I see Simon.”

Hearing you say his name made his heart skip a beat, now Simon knows for sure that he’s in love with you. “Thanks (yn).” He says with a small smile hidden behind the fabric of his balaclava.

This was the first time he’s heard you say his name, after the time in Las Almas when they were set to kill Graves, you were there when you saw his face for the first time and when Price used his real name. You got a glimpse of the real Simon for the first time. His eyes met yours and that was the first time he couldn’t tell what you were thinking but that was the day you knew you were in love with Ghost and Simon, the day you both finally gained each others trust, the day you smiled at him for the first time and made him fall even harder for you without even knowing it.

~~~~~

“Simon I can’t find my shoes again.” You call out from your bedroom you share with Simon. Looking inderneath you bed you can’t find your snow shoes to help you track through the ice.

“I think it’s still in the car with all the snow gear from last week.” He calls out from the kitchen already ready to head to the store but waiting for you to find your shoes.

You grunt and slam your head against the side of your mattress, the cushion bouncing your head. You remembered, last week you and Simon had gone snow boarding with the team, Price, Johnny, and Gaz, as a little gathering since you’re all on leave for a month. You and Simon had left all your gear including your snow clothes and shoes in the back of Simons truck. You heard footsteps thumping behind you, you turn your head around to see Simon entering your shared bedroom.

“Can you get them.” You plead. Simon chuckles before walking back out of your bedroom.

“Fine.” He agrees walking out the house.

You sit on your bed and wait for Simon to come back. After a few minutes pass, you grew confused, ‘Can he not find them? He’s been out there for a minute’ You think which makes you groan. Finally you hear the front door close and hear his footsteps approaching the room. You look back up at your boyfriend and don’t see your boots in either of his hands. “Are they not there?” You ask.

Simon shakes his head ‘No’ throwing his hands up in defeat. “It’s alright though, let’s just go.” He says as you sigh. You follow him out the door and wait beside him as he closes the door. You take a look at the truck when you notice a trail of his foot prints leading up to the passenger side of the truck. “Go on.” He says placing a hand on your lower back.

You stare at him for a few seconds until it clicks in your brain. You smile at Simon and kiss his cheek, “Thank you Si.” You say before walking into the snow, you place your feet in the tracks he’s already placed in a range wide enough for you to walk in, memories flooding back to you to that one winter, before you got your boots. You smile at the memory as Simon stands by the door watching you step in his tracks with a wide smile on his face. You finally make it to the passenger door and turn around to look at Simon and see the smile etched on his face. “Cmon doofus hurry up and unlock the door I’m freezing my ass off.” You laugh out.

Simon chortles a laugh, he presses the button allowing you to open the door and climb into the truck taking your seat on the already warmed seat, Simon opens his door. You turn around to place your bag in the back seat when a certain item caught your eye. “Heyy, my boots were back here.” You say grabbing the boots and looking at Simon, whom suspiciously acted surprised.

“Oh, I’d didn’t see them there. My bad.” He looked away and focused on buckling his seat belt.

“Uh-huh…” you squint your eyes at him before you paused. Simon was outside long enough to check the entire truck, you also remember hearing the truck doors open and close before it was silent for a minute. “You purposefully left them here just to watch me struggle to get to the car didn’t you?” You deadpanned.

You couldn’t miss the small smile that made its way to Simons face, “It’s entertaining to see you walk in my foot prints and as much as I hate saying the word, it’s kinda cute to watch.”

You roll your eyes at him before buckling yourself in, as Simon pulls out the driveway, you take off your shoes and replace them with your boots.

~~~~~~

“Simon I’m fine, I walked perfectly fine at the house.” You sat in the passenger seat of the truck with the door open as you watch your husband set out tracks for you on the snow again. The first show of winter arrived yesterday with 5 inches of snow fall over the night. You had an appointment the very next morning to get a check up, but due to the unexpected snow the snow plower trucks were delayed until late morning to arrive at the hospital and the staff couldn’t bother to shovel the gigantic parking lot only the side walks and front entrance.

So Simon ‘forced’ you to stay on the porch as he made footprints for you to follow as you bring out your phone to start recording Simon making tracks, you silently slide off the seat and onto the ground the best you could, placing your feet in his footprints you began. You try to capture your feet but your protruding belly gets in the way, it’s been difficult to see your feet for quiet some time ever since you hit 7 months into your pregnancy. You angle your camera back you to Simon and began to waddle your way towards your husband. He could hear snow crunching and snapped his head back towards you to see you a few feet away from the truck and struggling a bit.

Without a second thought, Simon quickly makes his way to you taking hold of your free hand to help steady you, “I thought I told you to stay on the truck until I’m done.”

You scrunch your face at him as you stop walking. “I told you I was fine, I’m still perfectly capable of doing things Simon. I’m not the baby here so there’s no reason to worry so much.”

He rolls his eyes and grumbles, “I’ll give plenty of good reasons; you can’t see your bloody feet which makes your balance arse, you waddle like a penguin, you walk slow,” He lists off things in a ‘matter of factly’ tone. You glare at him as he smirks and snakes an arm around your waist with the other holding your hand. “Do I need to bring up the amount of times you’ve almost tripped and missed steps on the stairs and little cracks in the sidewalks?”

“Okay, okay- I get it.” You glare at him as he began to lead you up to the entrance, “You’re a pain in my ass.” You jokingly laughed out.

Simon let’s out a chuckle, “Yea? It’s a pain in my ass having to make tracks for you just so you don’t fall on your ass.”

“You have the choice to stop but you don’t, you love me too much to stop.” You purr out giving him a kiss on his cheek.

Simon chuckled and kisses your forehead, “That I do love,” his hand on your waist shifts forward the the side of your belly, rubbing your bump covered by your jacket. “That I do.”

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon x reader #ghost x reader #cod mw2 x reader #mw2 ghost x reader #cod mw2 ghost x reader

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