#simon ghost riley is bad at feelings

[theorist-fox]

Promise rings

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Filthy. That's it. If you want some more humiliation kink I highly, highly, highly, highly recommend this by @/the-californicationist

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18+

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: Simon fingers you in the rec room and you give him a promise ring. Or two—depending on how many fingers he's used.

CW: smut (fingering, finger sucking, squirting), humiliation kink, semi-public, Simon is a little mean but you love it so it's fine, dub con if you squint and mention of safeword

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

“Don’ wan’ anyone to hear ya now, do we?” 

He hushes you, mouth to your ear. His hand is shackled to your hips by the waistband of your sweatpants, two thick fingers already slick and buried to the knuckle.

Simon holds you tightly in place, hand curled at the base of your throat as an empty threat he won’t fulfill unless you kindly ask. He has you tucked between his legs, aptly spread to accommodate your body in between, as he slowly pumps his fingers into your cunt. Your knees are conveniently hooked on each of his thighs, and they’re already trembling even if he’s just begun.

Sweat collects on your back, dampening your shirt and by extension his own too. You feel his heart rabbit in his ribcage, thrumming against your spine. Thick arms glue your back to his chest—just in case you want to make a run for it. 

As if, right?

Earlier that night, he’d caught you out of your room much past midnight, trying to sneak a cuppa in the common area. Told you something along the lines of how he should have you cleaning the toilets because you’re breaking curfew, and you bit back with a hefty dose of sarcasm about how that’s not your favorite punishment he’s ever given you.

And so, he’d grabbed you by the waist and dropped back on the couch with an arm still coiled around it. 

You’re ashamed to say it only took two fingers circling your entrance and his tongue licking wanton stripes down your neck to make you embarrassingly wet. Balaclava lifted to his nose, he’d murmured unholy things to your ear, like how he’d want to drill in your head that you can’t go and break base rules, how he can’t keep covering for you, how he’d love to teach you a lesson by splitting you in half on his cock until you can only part your lips to apologize for giving him a headache.

But alas, the location isn’t sex friendly. 

However, the notion hasn't stopped Simon from adopting a more subtle approach that would lead to a similar conclusion. Like swirling the tips of his fingers around the fluttering hole of your cunt. Or biting softly at the shell of your ear, while keeping you nice and still with a hand on your collarbones.

Doesn’t stop him now, as he curls the pads of his fingers until they press where the velvet of your walls gets rougher to the touch. 

You abandon your head back onto his shoulder, heavy puffs leave your mouth in tandem with the skilled work of his hand, one that knows every nook and cranny of you. Glossy lips start nibbling at his neck and you relish how his throat bobs each time your teeth sink a little deeper. His growing stubble scratches the tender skin of your mouth, but it’s more than fine because you like how it stings.

“Little more, please?” You breathe.

But it’s then that he stops beckoning his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still. You protest by biting the tendons of his neck a bit harder, suppressing a groan into it.

“Maybe it went over your head,” he drawls, tugging the balaclava down his chin before returning his hand at the base of your throat. “But this is a punishment, love.”

He cruelly leaves your hole to desperately flutter around nothing, but ultimately uses those same fingers to wet the rest of your sex. Keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts rubbing idle circles on your clit. He’s neglected it all this time, making it swell with blood and causing its sensitivity to peak. 

You shudder when he first brushes over it. 

As if out of habit, you search for his lips, sure to add a nice make-out session to pair with his fingers. But your mouth only meets fabric, and you frown.

“Don’t be a bastard, Riley.”

He hums, turning away to press a kiss to your cheek through the balaclava. “Only way I know.”

You pout. “Just one.”

“Behave.”

With a sigh, you relent. There’s no use in begging for something he won’t give you. You’ve learned to recognize what you can get from Simon, and what will be out of reach for the time being. If he’s decided he doesn’t want to kiss you, you will not get a kiss. 

But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a little petty about it. 

You tug at his mask with your teeth, catching his lower lip too, and sharply bite into it.

In response, Simon slaps your pussy. A wet thwack echoes in the silent rec room. It sends tingles up your spine, and you hiss and gasp against his lips. Your nerves are currently haywire, and they cannot discern whether that rush was due to pain or pleasure.

You pull back only to pout, but it's obvious to both of you that there is no animosity in your eyes. In fact, Simon’s gaze falls to your lips with lust embedded in his pupils, and he takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a little plea for him to give you what you need. Which is why he brushes his wet fingertips to your clit again, and again, until he can feel you soften in his grasp with a sequence of breathy, surrendering sighs. Only then, when you feel like molten wax in his hands, he switches to more rewarding, steady circles.

His focus leaves your lips only to take in your eyes. They’re diligently trained on him, because you know he likes to look you dead in the eye when he’s making you tremble to the bone. Eye contact is the only means he uses to communicate with you in the fog that is your relationship.

He’s more absorbed than you are, your eyes getting glassier by the minute. You want to keep it up, to hold your own against his stare that defies you to crack him open and peel the layers and understand. But you and him both know that is the last straw for you. He’s made you sensitive and supple and dull. Your head rolls back against his shoulder, and you push back, once again, the discovery of Simon Riley.

You breathe softly against his neck, trying to give yourself some containment due to the location you’re in. Nails dig in his forearms until they mark pink crescents over his tattoos, hoping that releasing tension through touch would help you keep your mouth shut.

Simon knows you still have something up your sleeve to use against him, because his weakness is to have you yearning for him as much as he does you—to have you pleading for his words, his touch, his presence, like he internally does each time you walk into his same space. 

You’ve never had a problem begging. When you’re confident enough about your person, pride doesn’t even get involved—they’re just words, and if he likes them, then so be it.

As long as he makes you come until your head spins.

“Please, Simon.” You whimper, putting up that act he knows all too well. As if he’d believe you’re truly submitting to him—but it’s fine, to be honest.

He's never wanted you to bend for him. Simon likes that fire that singes your pupils when you’re on active duty, or when you fuck him. He wouldn’t dream of snuffing it out, not when he’s more than aware that it makes him glow, too.

“Bit louder.” He rasps against your ear.

And you oblige, going as far as to wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes at him. Minx.

“Please? I’ll suck your cock after.”

Simon huffs. “Sellin’ it alrigh’.”

He loves to feel the stiffness of your clit under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets—as if he’s flipping a switch. Which he sort of is, isn’t he? You’ve turned from the snarky little minx that could make him crack a smile or two, into this soft clay molding under the warmth of his touch.

“Wanna cum,” you sigh sweetly against his skin, sucking tenderly at the exposed flesh on his neck. “Please, Simon, let’s go to my room.”

He tuts at you, slowing down with his hand only to get you annoyed.

“We’re gonna stay ‘ere,” he murmurs, softly shaking his head so that the fabric of the balaclava scratches your skin. 

Then, out of the blue, you feel fingers dig into your jaw and pulling your mouth away from his neck. He forces your eyes forward, where the door of the rec room opens to the dark hallway. 

“You’re gonna cum on my hand, yeah? Soak it nicely.” He rasps against your ear, “An’ you’re gonna be quiet ‘bout it.”

Your cunt flutters.

“Need you sharp. Tha' clear?” He says, commanding as ever. “Answer, Sergeant.”

It almost makes you unravel then and there. Your eyes roll back and your hips buck against his hand. But you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. 

He leaves the grip around your jaw and returns his hand at the base of your throat, thumb and middle finger gently pressing at its sides. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder with blissful abandon.  

“Cameras,” you mumble, sounding a little stupid and definitely on the verge of surrender. “There’re cameras.”

His response comes swiftly. “Not pointin’ at the sofa.”

Your chest stutters. He feels it under the weight of his palm. Your soft moans quiet down, too. A telltale sign of your beautiful brain whirring its cogs again. How he loves it, more than your body. Outwitting his every move. A true opponent—or ally, if only he’d allow you a little closer.

“You planned this, haven’t you?” You whisper cleverly, face still hidden in the crook of his neck and chest still heaving under his hand. Still affected by him, and yet your voice sounds steady and smooth.

And you’re so right. He knows this place by heart and could walk around it blindfolded. When he saw you in your grey sweatpants and an old white t-shirt, fumbling lazily with the electric kettle, blood had rushed so quickly to his cock he thought he could have fainted.

There is something about you invested in this almost boring, domestic light that always strikes him breathless. When the outline of the pillow fabric is imprinted in your cheek. When your hair is tousled by the bedsheets.

You look good in uniform too, all safely cradled in Kevlar and padded in neoprene. But it’s when you look drowsy and soft that sends him spiraling.

With the calculating mind of the pathological control freak he is, he’d retraced the position of the cameras in his head, and promptly decided to have you then and there.

The silence following your question must not be as subtle as he thinks. In seconds, you go from pliantly soft, into a squirming mess trying to escape him. Simon manages to hold you still only because he overpowers you in strength.

“What is it, mh?” You hiss, pushing at his forearm. “Been following me, L.T.?”

He hadn’t. Truly, he’d just stumbled upon you. It wouldn’t be too odd—he’s a sleepless ghost, after all, oftentimes found wandering around base at ungodly hours. The fact that he’d found you in his usual haunting grounds had been mere luck—true, blessed luck.

“You are-”

“Shut up.”

“-Fucking obsessed, and you-”

“Don’t.”

“-can’t even admit it.“

“Sergeant.”

“Coward.”

He plunges those two fingers back inside, punching a gasp out of you, and he gives no time for your hole to readjust to the stretch. Simply, he starts dragging against the front of your walls with a voracity that could be mistaken for hate, if you didn’t know him better.

You stiffen suddenly, arching your back off his chest. Teeth catch your bottom lip in an almost bloodthirsty grip—as much as you want to scream at him, you don’t want to get caught either.

He rams relentlessly into you until you're melting once again. His mouth is painfully pressed against your ear, and if the balaclava wasn't in the way, he would be lapping at whatever piece of flesh he could land on.

“Y’re a clever little thing, uh?” He groans huskily. “Always got the fuckin’ answer ready.”

You laugh under your breath, perhaps because you’re getting exactly what you want, or perhaps because you’ve been reading him more keenly than he thought and you've finally uncovered some new information that has been shrouded in darkness up until now.

He doesn’t care, and he gives in to you.

“Oh, you love it, you bastard,” you bite back breathlessly, which only makes his cock twitch in the tight space of his briefs.

“Smug little cunt.” He breathes in your ear, but you swear there isn’t an ounce of hostility in it.

You turn your head to meet his eyes. The playful smile on your fucked out face is straight out of his dreams—he's seen it so many times and yet it never ceases to amaze him. Nor does the way your hair bounces off your face in recoil from the frantic work of his hand. Or how your cheeks turn ruddy for him. Or how your lashes cast heavy shadows down your face.

“You love this smug little cunt, too.” You breathe, smugly.

Just proving his words, really.

“Don’t get cocky,” he hums in your ear. “Might gonna have to prove ya wrong, then.”

The heel of his hand rolls against your puffy clit in tandem with his fingers, because he wants you to come undone impossibly quick now that you’ve caught him red-handed.

It’s enough to make you forget you’re having a battle of wits with him. Your eyes roll back again, and your head falls limply onto his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wheeze, and he takes that as a sign to not stride away from the pace he’s taken.

His hand at the base of your neck tightens slightly, causing your breathy moans to lodge in your throat. Your cunt clenches right then, and your lips tug in a smile—because you love it, and he knows.

His contorted little mess. His cunning fox, strutting around the base with so much confidence in her gait, looking seemingly untamable. But when you're in his clutches, you're nothing but his pet, the one who enjoys having her leash tugged a little more firmly than socially acceptable.

“S-Simon.” Yes. Yes. C’mon, sweetheart. C’mon. “Simon – oh God –“

You’re being too loud. He doesn’t care if he gets caught with his pants down. He dares someone to confront him about it. Simon doesn’t revel in fickle things like dignity, not after life has done its goddamn worst to strip him of it.

But you? Hell, not you. He cherishes your privacy, in spite of how this whole predicament might make it look otherwise. On top of that, he selfishly likes to think he’s the only one with the delightful honor to see you so flushed and breathless, moaning his name like it’s the only one you know.

“Told ya to stay quiet.” And he stuffs two fingers in your mouth.

You groan and suck them back to your throat, until his pads graze the soft palate at the back. You gag around them, and he almost comes in his pants, wishing it was his cock instead. 

“Bite, don’t shout.” 

And you do. You bite the flesh around the base of his fingers, while his other ones are bringing you closer to the edge. An edge you’ve touched plenty of times with him, but one you’d rather not reach in such a public spot.

Granted, it’s night. It would be a fateful event for someone to walk by—rare, if not unique.

But still.

“Simon,” you moan, voice muffled around his fingers. “Fuck’s sake, no’ ‘ere.”

He chuckles, because he knows.

And you confirm it, by getting all agitated in his arms, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. Your hand curls around the wrist of his offending hand, still ramming deep into your sex.

“Simon, stop –” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “M’gonna cum—stop.”

He doesn’t. That’s not the safe word, is it? Say it, and he’ll stop stock still in less than a heartbeat. 

But you won't, right, sweet thing? No, you won’t. Because it feels too good, doesn’t it? 

“Red?” He rumbles, voice low and measured to give you the impression that he still has some semblance of control left.

You cry around his fingers until your brows touch. Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, and maybe, he thinks, you like this. The thought of getting caught. The thought of someone seeing you come for him, shaking and bucking your hips like you’re a fucking cat in heat.

His fingers don’t relent, because that tiny word still hasn’t left your lips.

“Red?” He insists, as he feels your cunt clench impossibly tight each time he speaks. “Answer.”

But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head with a sob, and Simon would bet his fucking right hand that it’s out of pleasure more than anything else.

He chuckles, low and deep. “Dirty fuckin’ slag.”

He’d recognize that fucked out look anywhere. As if you’re struggling to breathe, eyes unfocused and glassy, lustrous lips puckered right above the knuckle. He regrets refusing your kiss, because he's sure they’d look even more delectable after he’s bitten them to bits.

“You like this, uh?” He rasps against your ear. “Wan’ an audience all for ya, yeah? Wan’ the team to pop in to see you like this?”

You shake your head, muffling a cry around his fingers. 

He tuts at you. “Don’t lie to me, love.”

You squirm and moan, sniffling with your nose as tears travel down your temples and into your hairline. You nod, then, because you’re a good sergeant and you follow orders as dutifully as you hand them out—every time.

"Wan' em all to 'ave a wank as you cum 'round my fingers, don't you?" He croons, even if the thought of someone seeing you like this has his blood boiling.

Drool gathers at the corners of your mouth as you buck your hips to intensify the work of his hand. And you nod vigorously, once again, with your eyes rolled back. Heavy puffs leave your nostrils, shallow and quick.

Simon hums a groan deep from his chest. He loves to see you break, loves to see you crack so easily. Doesn’t care if your mouth is quieted by his fingers, because your cunt is so wet it’s making sounds of its own that are enough for his greedy, insatiable ears.

His forearm starts cramping but he'll be damned if he stops, keeping his ring and middle finger inside as he presses them to the front wall of your vagina, while rhythmically dragging them in and out in a dance he knows will make you shatter.

And then you tense, corded neck tilted back. A long, agonizing moan escapes your stuffed mouth, and your walls signal your orgasm before your lips do. You ripple around his fingers, initially making movements hard, if not impossible. He easily overcomes that obstacle and keeps fucking you raw with the help of your come collecting on his palm. You’re so wet he barely has to try.

He looks at your profile on his shoulder. At the fucked out look in your eyes, misty and unfocused. Keenly listens to the moans you're trying to contain, as they turn into wheezing mewls. Feels the vice grip your pulsating cunt has on his fingers, the indents left by your teeth on his other hand.

Fuck it, you're gorgeous.

You come back down from the high with a wet gasp choked by his knuckles. Your nose is stuffy and it’s probably a little hard to breathe—but he’s merciful and takes out his fingers. 

Or, at least, tries. 

Your head lunges forward before he’s fully pulled them out. You gag when the tips touch the back of your throat again.  

Simon’s eyes widen but he doesn’t waste a second.

He resumes the pace that has already made you come, watching with rapt attention how your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. There’s spit on your lips, and tears down your eyes. He’s already seen you wrecked, folded in half on his bedsheets. But there’s something even more unhinged about having you panting in the common area of a high security military base. It feeds him a great deal of power—you’re doing this for him, you’re putting yourself on the line because of him. 

That, of course, requires a reward. 

“Look at you,” he croaks. “Gimme one more, yeah? One more.”

Your legs squirm and you kick your heels against the sofa in sudden overstimulation, the hold of your hands on his arm turns into a death grip that paints your knuckles white and his flesh red. You could be skinning him alive, and he wouldn’t stop the onslaught on your pussy. 

He can hear you heaving, sees your pebbled nipples brush against the soft cotton of your t-shirt. Your teeth are sinking into his flesh, and he will most likely be sporting bruised bite marks on his fingers for a few days. He rolls his wrist to cause fluctuations in the pressure on your swollen clit and against your walls. Your hips swing together with his hand. He knows where to touch, you know how to guide him—it’s an intimate dance, and it belongs to you two only.

Simon scratches his cheek against your temple to collect the tears that are falling into your hairline.

He flattens the heel of his hand against your clit, which is once again a stiff kink of nerves—he’s shocked by how far he can push you before he wrings you dry. 

Your eyes touch his own, but you’re not even looking. Still unsated, still greedy for more—you love this, don’t you? Too much on your shoulders: responsibilities, a haunting past and an uncertain future. This job gives you very few rewards for the effort you put into it. That’s why you love it, when he brushes away every fear and uncertainty with a simple roll of his hand. 

He starts beckoning his fingers inside of you, teasing and pressing against that one overstimulated spot that has already made you come. The squelching noises coming from your pussy are enough to make his cock leak as he keeps pressing and sliding against your ass.

“Leakin’ like a fuckin’ faucet.” He rasps against your ear.

You moan around his fingers, and it vibrates through his bones. Your eyes are hooded, lushes clumped with tears, and your body is completely abandoned and at his mercy. You trust him to ruin you in the best ways, and he can only comply.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers in your ear. “Could cum just by lookin’ at ya.”

Feeding you this knowledge seems enough to tip you over the edge again.

He wishes he’d taken this to another room like you asked before, because you slip into a second orgasm with a choked “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” muffled by his digits that will haunt him forever.

A rushing flood invades his palm, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning at the sight. You come spraying liquid, tense and quivering in his arms. The soft grey marl of your sweats first darkens with tiny speckles, and then it blends into a larger spot covering the crotch of your pants.

Breath is caught in your throat, and if he wasn't witnessing the strength of your orgasm firsthand, he'd be dead worried by the look on your face. Pinched and overwhelmed.

"There it is." He murmurs, low and gravelly, "Fuck, tha's a sight. Fuckin' lovely."

He leaves your hole to flutter emptily only to skim the pruny pads of his fingers on your clit to prolong your orgasm, watching mesmerized how your squirt keeps staining the fabric.

It’s impossibly hot and it makes something in his head tick at the sight, almost like a needle puncturing his brain. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously keeps rubbing the swollen head against your plump rear, before an unexpected warmth floods through him and invades each one of his nerves. 

He tastes blood on his tongue for how hard he’s been biting his cheek. 

Fuck.

A ragged breath around his fingers tells him you’ve returned to yourself. You soften against him like a doll prettily placed on his lap. 

"Breathe," he says softly, watching keenly as you come back to your senses. "Slow n' steady, love. Deep breaths. Tha's it."

His fingers slow, guiding you down to earth. Your eyes are hooded, glossy and now apparently sated, blood collected in the apples of your cheeks. You’re looking at him too, now gently suckling on his fingers to keep quiet, nostrils flaring to breathe as he's instructing you.

You’re so beautiful he forgets he has to be a bastard around you, or you’ll come and try to steal the heart you unknowingly already own.

Simon takes his fingers out of your mouth, not without smearing the spit they collected all over your lips first. You pant and smile. And apparently, you don't care that he's wearing the mask, because you lean in and kiss where his lips would be. Just a peck. He can’t fathom giving you more, not now. Not when his head is so confused, thoughts and feelings twisted in an imprecise knot. He simply kisses you back, silently cursing the fabric separating your skin from his, but ultimately doing nothing about it. Then, he helps you stand. 

“Go on, now.” He murmurs, patting your thigh. “S’after curfew.”

You're looking a little out of it. Simon can't help but feel a brief moment of guilt for leaving you to fend for yourself, when your legs look like they're made of jelly and your head still swims in ecstasy.

You wobble to the table, flattening your hands on the faux wood to regain your balance. Head bowed and still panting, your hair falls to frame your face and hides it from his sight. You feel dizzy, blinking your eyes to center yourself. The pleasure ebbs away slowly, languid, like molten lava leaving the crater of a volcano, dripping down your quivering legs scorching hot, until it puddles at your feet.

Differently, Simon doesn’t move from the sofa. A hand comes to adjust his crotch, and he lifts his hips to get into a more comfortable angle. He stays like that, legs spread as the ghost of you still sits in between them. His thumb grazes the fabric of the sweatpants he uses as loungewear, and he looks at you. Bent at the waist, wet, messy and panting—his name is written over you with a big, fat indelible marker. 

You’re his, his, his. No matter what you say, or what he says—you’re his.

Simon’s eyes are dark and heavy with lust and a tinge of anger, and you can feel them like lasers drawing your profile as if he’s carving it into marble. Whichever thought about him was about to bloom, however, is smothered to cinders when you spot the huge wet patch between your thighs.

Your eyes widen and you turn, if possible, even more flushed. Your head snaps upward and to him in a flash. Your eyes are burning, and Simon can’t help but think he’d love for you to scorch him to the bone.

“Y-You fuckin’ bastard.” You point an accusing finger in his direction, walking awkwardly as the sodden cotton of your knickers sticks uncomfortably to your pussy.

“Go on, I said.” He murmurs in his usual, jaded way. “S’late, you’re gonna get caught.”

You’re infuriated. Incensed. He wants to fuck you all over, flatten your tits to that same table, and ram into you while you shower him with curses and come.

“How am I s’posed to walk around like I’ve pissed myself!”

You’re whisper yelling. Smoke is billowing out of your ears. Your eyes turn crimson and you’re growing horns and a pointy tail.

You look beautiful.

But he simply rolls his neck and keeps his big hand draped over his groin. 

“With your legs, love.”

And you stomp to him until you’re standing once again between his thighs.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

Simon throws back his head onto the top of the couch and looks at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown into a black hole that sucks the light of his brown irises.

“Can’t kill a ghost.”

"Oh, shut your gob with that shit.” You spit with vitriol. 

“Not so smug now, uh?”

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You-you fuckin’ wanker.” You hiss, but the embarrassed stutter makes you look like a puffed up cat more than a viper. “I fuckin’ hate you.”

“Bet you do.”

“I’m a respected sergeant, I can’t go ‘round like I’ve piss-”

“That all?”

You glower at him. If he didn’t know you like the back of his hand, he would cower. Shame for you that he does, and the irate flame in your eyes only makes his hunger grow because he knows how voracious you are when you’re furious. 

“Told ya t’was a punishment, didn’t I?” He deadpans, “Jog on, now.”

Once again, you splutter. It would be such an entertaining sight, one he’d relentlessly tease you for, if he was in the mood. But he isn't, and in fact, he needs you to leave as soon as humanly possible.

You clench your fists, probably ready to strike him right in his mug. Totally deserved it, he’d let you get him straight on the nose. 

But then you huff and strike you don’t, stomping your foot on the floor like an angry child. Cleverly, you decide to put your hands to better use and tug down the hem of your oversized t-shirt instead—trying to cover, as best as you can, the wet patch on the crotch of your pants.

Scowling, you threaten him with a sizzling “I’m gonna make you pay for it, Riley.”

You turn around, marching away with ire in each one of your steps as if the soles of your feet could melt the linoleum of the floors by sheer, angry heat.

“Sure you will.” He murmurs to himself, knowing fully well he’s started a battle he’ll gladly let you win. 

Simon waits for the noise of your steps to disappear before he sinks into the couch with a defeated sigh. Tugging off the balaclava, he runs a sloppy hand across his face. He can still smell you on his fingers and something in his stomach knots.

Wearily, his eyes travel down his torso until they meet the hand covering the crotch of his sweatpants. With his thumb, he traces the purple indents left by your teeth at base of each finger. Tomorrow, he’ll wear them proudly. A weird promise ring, sure. But yours, nonetheless.

He lifts his hand slowly and scowls.

An incriminating stain stares back at him. Untouched, softening cock sensitive to the barest of movements he makes. 

Looks like you’ll meet again tomorrow in the laundry room, first thing in the morning.

[reds-skull]

Both me and price looking at that pic of them sleeping: do it for them...

(This was supposed to be like. 2 panels rip)

[hai-nae]

uno reverse

[hatsbuckets]

price | gaz | soap

Simon Riley who is tense after missions.

Simon Riley who isn’t angry, not really—just wired, just restless, just stuck.

Simon Riley who sits in the hangar, the locker room, anywhere he can finally be alone. And he clenches his hands together, tight, tight, too tight.

Simon Riley who thinks about how everything could have gone better and still hasn't cleaned the blood off his hands, his gear still on. He knows he should move, should eat, should sleep, but doesn’t.

Simon Riley who doesn’t react when a wired sergeant eases onto the crate next to him.

Simon Riley who lets himself listen to one Kyle Garrick, letting Gaz's words fill the space, slow his thoughts, pull him back down.

Simon Riley who doesn’t answer but doesn’t tell him to leave either and eventually exhales, long, steady, just once.

Simon Riley who barely nods when Gaz claps his shoulder before standing up, not looking up as he goes.

Simon Riley who stays, his eyes locked on the floor, but not so unfocused as they were before.

Simon Riley who hears the next sergeant before he sees him.

Simon Riley who doesn’t move when one John Mactavish drops into a crouch in front of him, all sharp grins and teasing nudges.

Simon Riley who glares, scowls, huffs—but doesn’t walk away and lets Johnny talk, lets Johnny pull, push, prod at him.

Simon Riley who doesn’t want to laugh. But does as he feels the tension crack, just a little. and he unclasps his hands, lets them settle on his thighs.

Simon Riley who gets lost for a moment in the baby blue eyes shining with a smile in front of him, touching that panging place deep in his heart.

Simon Riley who watches as Johnny smirks, softer now, warmer now. Then he rolls his eyes when Johnny taps his knee as he stands up.

Simon Riley who almost lets him leave without a word. Almost. but he catches Johnny's wrist at the last second. He holds, just for a moment, just long enough to say— Thanks.

Simon Riley who ignores the grin Johnny bites back as he walks off.

Simon Riley who sits alone but isn’t stuck anymore. He stays, for just a few minutes longer, then moves.

Simon Riley who ends up at his Captain’s office, where the door is unlocked.

Simon Riley who steps inside, quiet, unnoticed at first as he strips off his gloves, and his vest, and pulls his mask up to his nose and lets himself breath the cool air.

Simon Riley who sees Gaz, already lying on Price and sees Johnny, burrowed in like he belongs.

Simon Riley who exhales and doesn’t say a word and just sits down on the floor, back against the couch and lets his eyes slip shut.

Simon Riley who doesn’t flinch when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder.

Simon Riley who doesn’t let go this time—just catches it, grips it back. Simon Riley who lets his fingers curl over the rough, steady grip of one John Price.

Simon Riley who presses his lips to Price's hand, grounding, the lump that occupied his throat settling.

Simon Riley who lets the exhaustion slip in, slow and familiar.

Simon Riley who finally rests.

Simon Riley who is tense after missions,

But never too tense to be brought back by the boys.

Simon Riley who lets himself smile in the dark of Price's office when the captain snores, undeniably comforted by the sound.

price | gaz | soap

[millzinterlude]

Simon Riley who’s only ever been in love once in his life but he can no longer remember her face or voice anymore :(. It was back when he was a teenager. Early 2005 to late 2007. It was such a long time ago and so much has happened in the span of 18 years, so many memories repressed yet so many that remain engraved in his head no matter how many times he’s tried to push them back. He still thinks about her, or the idea of her. He knows she exists because he still has the ring she exchanged with him. Along with old tattered notes she used to slip into his backpack. The ink is smudged and faded, no longer visible, the paper is crumpled and torn. She wrote in cursive, and he was never good at reading cursive so he couldn’t even attempt to make out what it said even if he tried. Every-time he tries to conjure up a memory it’s blurred and eerie. Her voice is a thousand different voices but no voice at all, her face isn’t a face, it’s a concept of a face. It’s like if a blind person tried to describe what a their face was like. They broke up because he enlisted, he never heard from her again. He misses her so much, but he can’t help but feel crazy. He knows she existed, he remembers how he felt about her. Yet there’s no physical evidence of her and he’s so tattered that he can’t even remember who she is. He doesn’t have the heart to go to his childhood home, he’s sure there’s a picture in there somewhere of them but going home is a whole different box of demons that he doesn’t want to open up. He’s not sure if he’s religious or not, but on rare nights, alone in his flat, he prays for her to be sent back to him. To have a sign that she’s somewhere out there. A prayer that won’t be answered because he’s not allowed to have anything good in his life. And he knows that. So he just wallows in his misery. Thinking of what if’s and what could have been’s. Wondering if he’ll ever get to see the love of his life again.

[gomzdrawfr]

special episode: animal crossing new horizon crossover

first off, my fav guy, Blathers but it's Gaz

Then the dodo airline, featuring a very chatty Orville Johnny and Wilbur John....

Last but not least...

[frudoo]

Unsure if you’re still taking asks but I’ve got an idea and I can’t write stories for shit; the 141 boys getting drugged by gas at an enemy base, only after the exfil they figure out it’s an aphrodisiac, and the reader has to deal with these ~~needy~~ men <33

I was wondering when I'd get a sex pollen ask....

Warnings: This is kinda silly oops. SMUT, obviously. One (1) mention of murder teehee. No prep for poor fem!reader. (2) PIV, anal sex, triple penetration, blowjob, breeding/just SO much cum. MDNI.

“Get them separated from everyone else. Now!” You demand, quickly throwing on your gas mask and slipping into the room where your beloved 141 are hot, sweaty, and panting. 

     “Fucking KorTac. Did you kill the one who did this?” You ask Price specifically, but he points to Ghost and you nod in understanding. 

     “Big fuckin’ wanker, size o’two Johnnys probably,” Ghost snorts even through his agony, earning himself a slap on the arm from Soap, whose face is even redder now.

     “Who’s gonna be my guinea pig?” You ask, sighing when you see all of them rushing towards you. “Just one!”

     It’s only when they get up close that you recognize the symptoms—excess sweating, bloodshot eyes, uncontrollable flared nostrils, and the distinct aroma of rosewater that’s clear even through your mask. Fuck. Of all the gasses they could have inhaled, did it have to be sex pollen? It’s better than something deadly, you guess. When you look down, it’s confirmed—all four men have massive tents in the front of their tactical pants. You grumble and begin taking off your hazmat suit because there’s only one way to cure sex pollen. Sex, of course. 

     “No, love, what are you doin’? You can’t-” John begins, but you shut him up by pulling him into a sloppy kiss. 

     Instantly, the captain is growling and tearing at your regular uniform. You sigh in annoyance against his lips at the thought of having to replace them, but your hands occupy themselves with unzipping each of their pants anyway. Before long you find yourself completely stripped and straddling John on the couch while he slobbers all over your tits like a starved dog. With a wince, you seat yourself on the captain’s dick, whining at the painful stretch.

     Without warning, Ghost shoves in alongside Price, making you scream and dig your nails into the couch with a sob. He kisses your forehead and apologizes over and over again as he continues setting a pace with John—one pushes in, one pulls out, but both tips remain inside of you at all times. Whimpering, you lay your torso down on top of Price’s in an attempt to soothe yourself. Just when you think this will be it, two men at a time, fucking Johnny climbs on top of you and spits on your puckered hole, pushing his stupidly fat cock inside. You’re so stretched, so full, in absolute agony and yet reveling in pleasure.

     Anything for your boys, you have to remind yourself. Anything. You are their nurse, after all, the only one who can cure them of this damn sickness. That’s why you don’t complain or resist when Kyle cups your jaw in his pretty, big hand, holding your mouth open while he coaxes his dick inside. Instantly you’re hollowing your cheeks and sucking, using Gaz as a distraction from the searing pain of Soap jackhammering into your asshole and the delicious euphoria of Price and Ghost sharing your pussy—which, by the way, you did not know was so elastic. 

     Johnny is the first to come, and you’re secretly thanking the great heavens that he’s so sensitive that he can’t last very long. When he pulls out, he presses a kiss to your forehead and mutters numerous apologies and offers of thank yous—while you appreciate the gesture, it’s a little hard to acknowledge it at the moment while Kyle’s tip is hitting the deepest part of your throat. Before long, you’re sputtering on an overwhelming abundance of salty semen, listening to the sweet sounds of the pretty sergeant’s orgasm ringing throughout the air.

     Next to cum is Price, and holy shit, does he have a lot of it. He grabs your face and pulls you down for another kiss, uncaring of the remnants of Kyle’s spend as he shoves his tongue inside your mouth. His own semen is spilling out of you every time Ghost pushes back in, and finally, the gruff lieutenant reaches his peak. It’s the first time you’ve heard him whimper, and it makes your own orgasm that much more intense. John holds you through your spasms until you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck while all four men pet your skin and tell you how thankful they are. 

     You’ll do anything for your team, so of course you don’t protest when they all start licking up their messes off of you. Such a wonderful nurse, you are. 

[imababblekat]

Simon sees you sitting curled up in a chair, eyes peering lost at the sketchbook and computer before. He knows that look. It’s a look you often get when the team finally gets some time off, but you brain is stuck in this void of being unable to commit to any hobbies you once enjoyed. You told him about it once, it was offhandedly and you hadn’t delved much into it with due to still being fairly new and not wanting to bother the apparent cold stone lieutenant. Simon paid attention though, and this detail about yourself had been added to his mentail folder of his teammates.

A deep breath huffed out your nose, head drooping into your folded arms, when your ears picked up on the sound of light footsteps entering the kitchen area you resided.

“The usual?”, came Simons gruff voice, large hands reaching into the cabinet for your and his mugs.

“The usual.”, you mumbled in reply, staring at your phone and resisting the urge to start doom scrolling.

It was a battle you lost as you reached out to open an app and scroll mindlessly through its feed, the light clinking of Simon making you both tea behind you. You’re not sure how long he had taken, too lost in the endless information of peoples lives and other nonsensical things scrolling past your dulled eyes, not registering a thing you watched or read. At some point though, your phone had been snatched from your hands, replaced by a warm cup of your favorite tea, Simon pulling out the chair beside you to sit with his own.

You couldn’t even bother the smallest fuss at the large soldier for taking your phone, simpling taking a sip and then blindly staring into the liquid void.

“That bad today?”

You nod with a groan, putting your cup down to splay your hands out at the objects you once enjoyed before you.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I thought maybe I was bogged down by knowing I had chores to take care of, but even after finishing those I still can’t get myself to do any of my hobbies!”

Simon sipped his tea, dark eyes glancing up at your downtrodden expression. You thought nothing of his silence, having known him for a while now that his silence was him listening. If he truly wasn’t interested, he would have left, hell he wouldn’t have even bothered to make you a drink.

“I just. . .”, you hold your head in your hands, “I don’t feel myself. I finally get a break, and I can’t do anything I wanted to do. What’s the point of having hobbies if every time I try one of them, I immediately become disinterested?”

The Brit beside you stares down into his own mug now, thinking on your words, a silence filling in besides the muffled sound of Johnny bellowing songs in the shower upstairs. Before, he wouldn’t give two shits about something like this, leaving you to figure it out or not all on your own. Of course, being apart of the 141 it was only a matter of time before you became apart of this oddly dangerous family of sorts, and Simon found himself caring for you just as much as he did for the other three, even if he ever expressed it.

“Maybe doing nothin’, is what you’re suppos’d do.”

You quirked a brow at him.

“You? Telling me to do nothing?”

Simon rolled his eyes, sitting back against the creaking old dinning chair.

“Yeah, shocker I know, but trust me, after years of doing this shit, sometimes you jus’ gotta kick ya feet up and do fuck all.”

You look back to your tea before taking another sip, thinking on his words. He had a point though. As frustrating as it was, wanting to engage in activities that would normally bring you joy, it was only natural to not always be motivated to do them, especially with the grueling type of work you all did.

“Welp,” you shrug, closing your lap top shut and throwing your sketchbook atop it, “guess I’m doing fuck all today.”

A light, deep chuckle came from Simon, him always finding it kind of funny when outlandish vocabulary came from your lips. You never came off as the type to say such words, but then again you also didn’t exactly fit into the picture of the intimidating guys you were so close to.

“Good. Relax, ya earned it.”

You smile up at Simon, your eyes crinkling in the corners something that brought him some warmth.

“We earned it, Simon.”

[i-love-you-just-the-same]

thinking about the 141 being cuddlers. pulling you close, rubbing your back, kissing your forehead (and nose and neck and..), muttering a sleepy "good night, lovie" as he watches your eyelids start to droop. always has a body part touching yours, sleeps so much better when you're around.

[theorist-fox]

Humvee

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 6.8k (damn)

Summary: You do your best to heal, while Simon follows his own path—until life, in its strange way, brings you back together, with Simon stepping right back in.

18+

CW: fluff, banter, smut (fingering, p in v, car sex). you go on a bad date and simon saves you from it. he's a bit of a cunt but like in a good way.

I said I'd update on Sunday but you're getting it on Saturday!!! Though it's Sunday on this part of the globe, so...

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

"If they ever give ya any grief, you know who to call."

Simon's words have never echoed so fiercely in your head as they do now.

The dress is uncomfortable. The shoes are uncomfortable. The air… is uncomfortable.

The dinner isn’t even that great. Or—well, it is. The restaurant has its perks: the wine is a deep red Shiraz, dry and with that slight bitter aftertaste that just enough balances the salt of your fillet mignon. Rare. Side baked potatoes with a crisp crust that still sizzles with warm olive oil.

It looks great.

Would taste great too, you reckon. Thing is, you’ve been playing with your food ever since the waiter brought it to the table.

You don’t think you’ve spoken a single word, if not your name, ever since you sat down. Mouth latched onto that crystal wine glass that could never be too full.

Fuck dating.

He looked oh, so nice leaning against the bar counter last week.

Leather jacket and a tight-fitting black t-shirt underneath, a softer tummy of a man who likes to train and eat. Big arms, broad shoulders. Thighs looked awfully soft in those blue jeans.

Mediterranean features. A strong nose, high cheekbones. Perhaps Italian origins, you thought, or maybe Spain? Greece?

Olive skin and thick brown curls, messy in that calculated way that only pretends to be tousled. You call it the sex hair. But it’s fake, so it would be like—the fake sex hair.

You love the fake sex hair. Or maybe you don’t. But on him, it looks unbelievably nice.

His eyes have this hazelnut hue, mottled with gold and green speckles. Long, thick lashes, dark like his hair.

Fuck, he looks like a Greek god.

And when he winked at you from the other side of the pub, lifting his glass of whatever he was drinking your way, you thought yourself so very fortunate.

Small blessings.

If only you’d known where those plump lips and feline brown eyes would lead you.

The entrée was accompanied by his favourite way to clean the leather of his sofa. Then he switched the topic to hair gel, because somehow the same company that makes the polish for his stupid couch also makes his stupid hair gel.

And now he’s telling you how much he benches. You should’ve known, to be honest, that somehow the chat would’ve swerved to his herculean strength and raw masculinity.

He oozes testosterone from every pore, reeks of pheromones, and—judging by his character—you wouldn’t rule out the possibility that he’s splurged on one of those dodgy "scientific" perfumes supposedly designed to make women swoon at his feet.

He’s saying how you’d never have to fear a thing if he was in the house, since you’d have him by your side. The urge to roll your eyes is incommensurable: you hide behind your wine glass, taking a generous gulp of Shiraz that’s drying out your tongue.

He’s eating with his mouth open. Chewing loudly. Loud enough to give you PTSD. Fucking hell, why do the handsome ones always have to act like they never set foot outside the house?

He has a pittie, he says.

Your ears perk.

Okay, pitties are nice. Lovely dogs with their big, smiling mouths always drooling for cuddles. You find their awkward stance tenderly charming—wide front legs and wagging tail. Plus, him having a dog means he can take care of fragile things, that he can be sweet and nice and reliable.

It’s a boy.

You smile.

He says he’s trained him to fight. Defend the household and whatnot.

It falters.

Says you could take him for a run if you fancy it. That he would give you (and he makes those awful hand quotations with his fingers) “scary dog privileges.”

You drink.

Scary dog privileges. You’re fighting a scoff so loud the sous chef would hear it from the kitchens.

You have SAS training privileges.

You have gun privileges.

You have scary dog privileges. You are the scary dog.

One glance at his neck, another at the table, and you've already calculated ten different ways to end his life in under a minute—one of which involves a thumbtack pinning the fake flowers to the polyester cube in the centrepiece vase.

You imperceptibly shiver. Shake your thoughts away.

He’s still rambling about his dog and his gym sessions and how he goes for runs every morning, every night, every moment of the bleeding day. Does he work? Have hobbies that don’t include a pissing contest with other men at the gym? Fuck’s sake, that thumbtack is starting to look incredibly inviting—

“So what do you do?” You blurt out.

It comes out so awkwardly that you can only fix it with a nervous laugh. One of those that make you look cute and shy, not weird and spacey.

He seems startled by it. Follows up with an awkward laugh of his own. Ugh. Okay, it’s okay. Maybe he’s nervous too. That can be cute.

“I’m military.”

You blink.

Oh.

Unexpected.

You hadn’t considered that. Granted, he has the stance, the body. He keeps his neck taut and straight, which is something you recognise you do yourself: hard to shake off habits from early training in Pirbright.

Truthfully, you had excluded partners from your same field of work. Didn’t go particularly smoothly last time you tried.

You’d like to come home to normalcy and averageness and homecooked meals and that dog he’s going on and on about, not to more military-related drama and paperwork scattered on the kitchen table.

But this can be nice, you muse.

Maybe straying from the plan you’ve laid out for your date could lead to some unexpected surprises. Maybe you could find a common ground, some shared experiences to discuss.

Anything to divert the topic from how he removes stains from his carpeted floors.

You straighten your spine, smoothing down the creases of your dress even if they’re hidden under the tablecloth.

With your elbow resting on the table, you subtly press your arms together, accentuating your neckline. You tilt your head slightly, chin nestled in your palm and lashes fluttering away.

He sports a smug smile, perhaps recognising the reaction his job must have sparked in many more women before you.

You let it slide.

“What branch?” You ask, trying to sound as naïve as you can.

Men in the military often have great success when it comes to dating. Women in the military, not so much—something about them being stronger than their male counterparts in a relationship seems to unsettle their egos, unchub their cocks.

Which is why you’re pretending you know shite about the topic—you’re just there to look pretty, for now.

“Oh, well,” his voice drops down an octave, and he leans a little closer to the table. The front of his crisp white shirt dips into the sauce covering his pasta.

You try not to stare at the oil stain too much.

He reaches out with his hand, toying with a ring on your finger. Looks around like he’s making sure no one else is listening, and then he smiles at you knowingly.

“It’s classified.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Alright, this date is botched. Tits up. Fuck him and his beautiful eyes and perfect bone structure. He could have been the love of your life. You would’ve made perfectly beautiful babies with beautiful Mediterranean genes.

You feign surprise. You feign interest.

The least you can do is have fun.

“Oh really?” You open your mouth in a shocked oval. “And—and what is it that you do?”

He leans back in his chair, self-assured. Charming smile. Know-it-all attitude.

“You know,” he shrugs, like it’s something so common and nonchalant. “Missions, deployments. All secret, though. Can’t share, unfortunately.”

He gives you a wink.

“Not even with a pretty girl like you.”

Yuck. Ew. Ugh.

You giggle, crystalline and shy, fingers to your mouth and all.

“Are you like—” You bite your lip, “—like James Bond?”

His chuckle is low, like he wants to show how much of that testosterone is actually brewing in his balls.

“Of sorts.”

“Wow.” You say breathily. “It must be dangerous.”

“It is,” he replies, cocking a confident brow. “Not a thing for girls like you.”

Dickhead.

You smile. Taut. Someone else would’ve noticed how strained it is. Not him though, no. Too self-absorbed to catch onto it. Wouldn’t see how obvious he’s being if it slapped him in the face.

“Hear me out,” he says after a while. “One minute bathroom break, and then I’ll tell you what you want to know, yeah?”

Which is nothing, but you nod anyway.

“Or, well—” he adds, standing up and setting the napkin on the table. “—What I can tell you.”

With a wink, he leaves for the loo.

You deflate. Rub your fingers on your forehead because that man just gave you a migraine.

You pluck your phone from your handbag and thumb through the screen to contact backup.

You think of Johnny, but you two bicker too much, and the possibility of him shooting back with one of your misfortunes is impossibly high. You’d like to keep your failing dates as quiet as possible.

Kyle would be the perfect choice, but he’s not nearby—a trip to somewhere warmer with his partner now that he’s on leave.

Price is not even an option. Who would call their boss to give them a lift out of a bad date?

Which leaves Simon. You know you have to call Simon, as much as you don’t want him to witness the absolute devastation that is your current love life. Granted, you know he would help without a peep—but still, there’s that bit of pride left untouched by the ruin that’s been your "relationship" that you’d like to keep intact.

But grief’s been given. Plenty of it. And, as he said, you know who to call.

With a surrendering sigh, you stuff your pride in a pocket and zip it shut.

As soon as your text goes through, you can’t even blink that three dots are already dancing at his corner of the screen.

Your eyes roll so far back you take a peek at your brain.

The sarcasm is so tangible you almost taste it on your tongue.

Hopefully your reply will manage to convey the urgency of your tone. The absolute sizzling hatred in your eyes.

And then you wait for Mr. Classified to come back from the loo while eating a baked potato or two, even if now they’re awfully cold. Still crunchy and wonderful, though. The restaurant is stellar; it's a shame to have wasted the opportunity with such a painfully obnoxious sod.

When he comes back, he sits all grand at the table. He fixed his hair, you notice. Tried to clean the oil stain on his shirt and only managed to enlarge it—you can tell even if he’s buttoned up his dress jacket.

He tells you he’s a captain.

Yeah. Sure. Go big or go home, mh?

Recounts very generic war stories, one of which really does sound like the plot of a videogame you played with Kyle.

Your back’s to the door, so when he stumbles on his words and his eyes go wide out of the blue, you have no clue what’s got him so rattled.

That is, until you turn and look over your shoulder.

The biggest bloke’s standing at the entrance, seemingly instructing one of the waiters, who looks like he’s lost a few years off his life from how pale he’s gone.

Man dressed in black, helmet with night goggles on.

Show off.

The full shebang: tac vest layered above the bulletproof one, M4 hanging low on his front with clasps, a gun holstered on his hip. The radio pokes from one of the front pockets on his chest.

He has the goddamn skull mask on, for fuck’s sake.

Your eyes widen briefly, and then you fight tooth and nail to stifle a laugh. You wonder what Mr. “I’m military but it’s classified” thinks about “people actually in the classified part of the military”.

You turn to him. Man is shell-shocked.

You snort.

Simon points at you, and the waiter nods vigorously before scurrying over to your table.

He leans down to your level, cheeks so red they look purple, sweat on his forehead, huffing and puffing like he’s run a marathon.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to interrupt, but—” A heaving breath through his stutter. “Your presence seems to be required at-at-at the Hereford SAS headquarters.”

He lowers his voice, then. “Something about the p-passing of an officer, uhm—your husband.”

You choke. Slam a hand on your chest. Mr. Classified seems concerned and has his hands hovering your way but never touching you in the slightest.

Helpful.

“The what?” You hiss, looking behind you at Simon with straight-up murder in your eyes.

The mask hides it, but you know he’s got the biggest smirk plastered on his face.

“You’re married?” Mr. Classified asks. Fuck him too.

“No.” You bark but then realise that it’s not his fault if your lieutenant is a bastard. Gingerly, you clear your throat and add more softly. “Not… anymore.”

Gotta fake it if you want to get out of here.

You sigh.

The waiter stands there awkwardly as you apologise to your date for not telling him about your non-existent dead husband. You stand up from the table, pretending heartache, while the waiter hovers around you and right in your business.

When you feel him too much into your space, you blink at him, plastering on a polite smile.

“Yes?”

He’s sweating profusely. The Ghost effect.

“The-the soldier, there—" he gives a subtle nod to where Simon stands. “—said I have to escort you b-because you’re a suspect.”

The appalled look on your face must be a sight to swear by.

You glare at Simon.

He shifts his weight on his other foot, arms crossed in front of his chest. Smug, like he’s having the time of his life.

“Yes.” You reply with a sigh, “Please, escort me.”

You don’t bother turning around to face Mr. Classified. He must be wearing the same shock the waiter is sporting. After all, in his eyes, hasn’t he just shared a dinner with a murder suspect?

What a tale to share.

“Thank you, sir.” Simon tells the waiter when you both reach him, deep baritone heavy yet gentle.

He grabs you by the crook of your elbow.

“Gonna bring this one to justice.” He adds theatrically.

The waiter nods like his head might crack in half if he doesn’t.

“Thank you, sir.” He parrots, “Thank you for your service.”

At the statement, used and abused without any regard for its meaning, you scoff in his face.

Simon tugs you by your arm, and your heels scrape against the floor.

Finally, you find your footing and follow him out.

Simon came to pick you up in a fucking Humvee. 

He said it was in case the restaurant had those big windows that look out on the streets, so he could make an even bigger scene. All because you interrupted him while he watched the man u match even if they were painfully losing, he said.

When you asked him where the fuck did he get it since he should’ve been home on R&R and not at base, he told you that he had an IOU to cash in with one of the higher-ranking officers. 

Baffling, to say the least, that he’s used it to embarrass you. 

Yet not something you would put past him.

Still, though, as soon as you enter the car and he starts shedding layers of tac gear, mask included, the first thing he asks isif you’re alright.

You nod with a soft smile.

“McDonald’s?” He asks, then.

You cock a brow.

“I just had dinner.” 

The engine rumbles as he turns the key in the ignition.

“No ya haven’t.”

He drags the shift stick back and puts the car in reverse. His hand comes to grasp the back of your seat as he looks to the rear window.

It takes a whole lot of resolve to not gawk at the way the tendons in his forearm tighten and bulge. You manage. 

Thank fuck he can’t check if you’re salivating, because you are.

Because this car smells of him. It shouldn’t, because it isn’t his car. It’s a military vehicle, a big fat Hummer with enough space to host a task force, and from what you know someone else might have been using it all day before he got the keys. 

And still, his scent invades it, dominates it, and you realize how much you’ve missed it. Missed waking up to it, missed having it stain your clothes, sometimes your uniform too. Memories flood, and something in your chest clenches.

Control yourself, for fuck's sake.

You turn your eyes away from him. 

“How d’you know?”

He shifts into first as he finally leaves the car park. He shoots you a brief side glance, before returning his eyes on the road.

“Clocked your plate full even from afar,” he says plainly. “Bloke talked that much, uh?”

“You got no idea.” You sigh, exhausted. “Told me he’s military and then pulled the classified card.”

His lips twitch, and then his chest rumbles in a low, low chuckle you haven’t heard in a while. 

You laugh with him.

Simon takes you to a drive-through. He orders what he knows you like, because this definitely isn’t the first time you two sneak out in the middle of the night only to eat something that isn’t the slob from the mess hall.

He drives a little further to find that nice parking spot next to the motorway. Once again, not the first time you’ve been here.

Sometimes with Johnny in the back and Kyle smoking a ciggie by the car window—couldn’t have the Humvee smell of nicotine and stale cigarettes when you’d return it (not so) surreptitiously later on.

Sometimes just the two of you, when new soldiers moved in the neighbouring barracks and Simon wanted you to scream without the pressure of being found out.

You punch the straw in your Coke and bring it to your lips. The carton box of chips is precariously balanced on your bare thighs.

Simon’s already munching on his burger.

“Thank you, by the way,” you break the comfortable silence first.

He shrugs.

“He was a right pain,” you go on. “Kept going on about—”

“—His dog, how much he benches, his hair care routine.”

You choke on your coke and then your head swivels to him.

“Okay—were you spying on me?”

He levels you with a deadpan look. 

“Bloke like that’s only got one type o’ chat,” he explains, “And it’s all ‘bout him. You should’ve known, eh?”

He flicks your temple. You splutter.

“What?” He nods in your direction, swallowing a mouthful. “Went on leave an’ lost all those brains?”

You swat his hand away.

“Shut up.” You grumble, feeling your cheeks heat up.

He mercifully lets it go and returns his attention to his meal. 

Even a burger that big looks awfully small in Simon’s hands. You used to look small in Simon’s hands, somehow—skin pliant and soft. Dimpling under his fingertips, folding easily with just the press of his big palm in his desired direction.

Same hands that used to hold you still by the waist, hands that handled you until you’d turn into putty on the mattress. Fingers long and skilled when they curled around your neck, cutting your airways just enough to make your head spin. Fingers that you’ve had all over: in your hair, on your stomach, down your throat, in your cunt.

Fuck.

Some ketchup spills out of his burger and onto his thumb. He brings it to his lips and purses them on his pad to suck it off.

Fuckfuckfuck.

You turn away and stuff your mouth with chips.

“How’d you find him anyway?” He asks after a while. “Apps?”

You balance your cup on the large center console as you shake your head in negative. Your response comes muffled by a mouthful of food.

“Pub down the road,” you tell him, gesturing vaguely at the windshield. “The one close to HQ.”

“The Bell?”

You swallow. Nod your head. “Mhmh.”

“Should’ve known.” He muses, and you hear him scrunching up the paper that once held his burger. “Proper dive, that. Full o’ fucked up blokes.”

You roll your eyes.

“You’re an avid frequenter,” you say, mouth full and eyes averted to your cardboard of chips.

He doesn’t snort, nor does he laugh it off. Instead, you can only hear the rapid tap of fingernails on the leather of the wheel filling the suddenly heavy silence that settled.

“No’ anymore.” He replies after a beat.

The tone doesn’t match the flippant vibe heard in the Humvee until now. He’s serious and levelled, like he’s stating some important matter he needs to unhook from his chest.

You swallow your chips like they’re cement.

“And why’s that?” You venture.

Simon shifts uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. The leather squeaks, his jeans rustle where his thighs rub together.

“Don’t fit with the crowd is all.” He says quietly. 

“What crowd?”

“The fucked up one.”

When you turn his way, you still.

Simon’s eyes are already on you.

His gaze is tangible. Sticks to you like damp fabric. You can almost feel his fingers draw mindless circles there, where your skin is heating up under the heaviness of his eyes.

Whatever reply you had ready for him dies choked in your throat.

Your shoulders are stiff, your body’s too warm. Tongue like sandpaper stuck to your palate.

It’s been so long since Simon looked at you like he truly wanted you—like nothing else in the world mattered more. 

For months, his eyes have wandered everywhere but to you, and until now, you thought that was a blessing. Because if he didn’t look at you this way, maybe letting him go would’ve been easier.

But now, as his eyes hold yours, you can’t fathom how you’ve managed to go so long without it.

You match his intensity, as the air in the Humvee grows heavy and thick. Cement is poured into your chest until you’re not sure how to breathe right anymore.

“Not fucked anymore, you think?” Your voice is raspy and feeble, like there’s something tying your vocal cords in a perfect knot.

You know he can’t affirm anything in that regard. Lord knows he’s fucked, and you can’t even add your two cents about it because you’d act like the pot calling the kettle black.

And yet, he replies softly. “Not as fucked, I reckon, no.”

Your brows pinch. Eyes big and languid, searching his—rich, hooded, sincere.

“And you?” He rumbles, hesitant for the first time.

You blink.

“Me?” You mouth with your lips, voice stuck somewhere in your chest.

He nods your way. “Still an avid frequenter o’ the fucked-up crowd?”

You blink. A laugh breathes out of you without you even considering it first.

Almost naturally, you reply with a whispered, “No. Not as avid, I think.”

Simon’s lips twitch upward, and then his hand lifts your way, though never reaches out enough to touch you. He lets it hover in the space in between, fingers soft and curled inwards.

It trembles. Terrible characteristic for a sniper. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever seen it happen to him. Always steady, always sure.

Your eyes fall on it. On the scars crisscrossing his knuckles, on the callouses of his pads and the raw spot on his thumb. 

When you look up again, Simon’s eyes are a pool, open wide and waiting for you to just dive in it.

He says your name. Not your rank, callsign, bullshit loves, and pets, and the pretty ensemble. He says it low, heavy, like his tongue is a cinderblock and it’s so, so hard for him to speak it. 

It’s almost a warning, you think. Your brain ponders it: the tone, the lilt, the volume. All of it, and you conclude that you are, in fact, wrong. 

It’s no warning, no threat. It’s a plea.

Your eyes fall instinctively down the curve of his nose, to his lips. Lips you’ve kissed, lips that travelled every inch of your skin. Drank every sound you’ve ever spilled. Worshipped it, made it his. Coveted it carefully, in secret, until you noticed how those same breaths, those same noises, never left your mouth again, not after him.

Lost in his features, you don’t see how his eyes are focused on your lips as well.

And when you look up, he does too.

Something’s exchanged between you. Something written in the line between his brows as he frowns in concentration, in the tremble of your lips as they struggle to form words, requests, the barrage of questions you want to ask.

The mutual, soft, and barely veiled Please, please kiss me again.

His jaw shifts. 

"Just say the word."

You gulp—fruitless. Your throat is dry, your lips unresponsive. Cursing yourself for not being ready now that you need it. Struggling to express the absolute beast that's scratching something violent in your chest.

You barely manage to break through it.

"Kiss me."

You blink and Simon’s lips are on yours.

Your stomach drops. You don’t think you can breathe.

He takes the lead when you go motionless, cupping the back of your head with both hands to pull you in. Your fingers grasp his forearms, flexing around them to make sure he’s real.

Only when your mouth opens and the kiss deepens do you unravel.

You melt in his hold, closing your eyes all the way and breathing heavily from your nose, because you’re not parting from him ever again.

Simon might think the same, because the passion with which you kiss him is thoroughly matched. His arms wrap around your waist, and you don’t spare a moment to turn on the passenger seat until you’re on your knees.

Chips spill everywhere on the floor. None of you care.

He helps you across the centre console until you’re straddling his thighs. Your knee knocks over the cup and coke spills everywhere.

And fuck, none of you care.

Humvees are big but never big enough for this. Granted, it’s not the purpose for which they were created. You hunch down when your head hits the padded roof, holding him by the sides of his face until he tips it back. 

You taste his breath as it puffs on your mouth while he kisses you fiercely.

Simon pulls back. Cradles your face in his hands and his fingers dig into your scalp at the back.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls. Low, and breathy, and with that hint of disbelief that matches the one in your eyes. He brushes your cheeks with his thumbs, and you do the same.

He lunges forward, then. Captures your mouth briefly before travelling downwards, where open kisses make goosebumps rise on your arms. Big hands envelop your hips as he pulls you down, grinding you against the hard tent of his jeans. 

And you comply, humping your sex—impossibly wet—to the seam covering the zipper. 

He grunts in your neck each time your cunt drags across his. The sound makes you vibrate, a strange sort of power in the knowledge that he’s making it because of you, and you only.

The world moves slowly around you, like it wants the night to last hours and hours more. A small favour in exchange for what you do for it, keeping it clean and all the rubbish you’re told so you can live peacefully with your actions. 

Perhaps tonight you believe them all.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this vocal with him, and it’s not even theatrics.

You just love it.

It’s overwhelming to have him hold you again, touch you, eat at your skin with the same intense desperation you’re gripping his hair with. Pressing his face into your neck as he sucks at the spot where it meets your shoulder, thundering heartbeat under his tongue. Darker spots blossom shameless in his wake, drawing a perfect mosaic of colours you’ll trace with your fingers come morning.

When Simon feels your hips do the work by themselves, he busies his hands with your dress. Rides it up your thighs until it bunches at your waist. Kneads the fat of your ass, landing a slap that makes you jolt. 

Makes you moan.

And Simon drinks it just in time, swallowing it with a kiss that takes your breath away. Then, he rapidly travels down your throat, following the line of love bites all the way to your chest. 

His teeth sink into the softer flesh there. Long fingers pull down the neckline of your dress until your tits spill out. He mouths a path to your nipple, sucking until it pebbles on his tongue. His teeth graze around it and you hiss at the perfect balance of pain and pleasure it creates.

And when his free hand comes to pinch at your other nipple, he pulls a little too hard.

You clench a fist in his hair and look down at him, hips falling still.

“Oi.” You frown.

His chest heaves. Yours matches the pants that leave your lips. 

He wrinkles his nose, in that how dare you stop me way. But this time there’s something impish in there, like he knows what he’s doing and just likes to pull your chain. Lighthearted in a way you never dared to associate with Simon Riley.

How beautiful he looks with this new light bathing his eyes.

“What.”

You scoff. Your heart goes through several different stages of frustration, exasperation, anger, tenderness and love. Familiarity. Settling on the latter, until you recognize the glint in his eyes, the same one he had all those months back, when he was on his knees.

Lust, care, love, regret. 

“Gentle.” You tell him as your chest softens, your voice still mockingly altered. “You’re not tuning the bloody radio.”

“Ha!” His lips twitch upward. “Coulda fooled me.”

Simon pinches your nipple in retaliation, but it makes you chuckle this time. When he’s sure you’re okay, he pulls your lips down in a kiss that’s starting to taste of you, and you like how the salt of your skin seems to belong so naturally on his tongue.

You kiss him through your smile as the air turns hot again. The windows slowly grow misty and opaque, creating a space around you that’s soft and insulated and safe.

Simon splays his palm on your stomach. Turns it so his fingers face downward. He inches closer to your sex, grazing the lace of your underwear, until the pad of his middle finger presses to the wet spot formed on the gusset.

There, he stops. Waits for you.

No need for words. You don’t want his lips to leave yours and you don’t fancy taking the risk of pulling away.

In fact, there’s little hesitation when your hand journeys down his shoulder to his forearm, tracing the hair growing over it and the odd bump of a scar here and there. You travel until your palm cups his knuckles, your middle finger over his, pressing it down to the swollen knot of your clit.

Simon draws a few experimental rolls, ones you encourage with the movement of your hips, with the puffs of breath all but pushed out of you and into the kiss.

A kiss he reciprocates, open and hot.

Moving your panties aside, Simon only brushes your entrance at first, finding it sodden already. And when you more than enthusiastically respond to his touch, he plunges his finger inside. 

Your breath itches, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open against his own.

Simon drags his finger slowly, in and out, not teasingly but to let you adjust, to allow you to mould around his shape. And he does so until he feels you positively drip on his palm, softer around him yet clenching at the welcomed intrusion.

He adds a second finger. The stretch is delicious, fulfilling. Scratches an itch you couldn’t quite reach on your own, nor could the scattered toys you’ve bought and abandoned.

It’s a touch you’re comfortable with, one you know and can predict but not in a way that makes it boring. You just know he’ll feed the starvation, satisfy the drought.

He buries his fingers to the knuckle, until his palm is flat to your sex, heel pressing to your clit. Simon rolls it a few times and then lets you take the lead, keeping his hand still. 

You ride his fingers by canting your hips in the way you like, stimulating both your g-spot and your clit. Simon keeps your mouth on his with a hand of steel glued to the back of your neck—unnecessary, because you have no intention of pulling away.

The first orgasm makes your head spin—you haven’t had a good one like this in quite some time. It coils around your stomach until it's knotted so tight you have no other option but to groan in his mouth to release the tension it built.

Simon’s fingers flex both at your nape and inside of you, pulling you impossibly closer, noses slotting next to each other. He breathes just as heavily as you do, as if your orgasm has somehow rattled him as well.

There are no formalities in the way he moves, in the way he leaves your still clenching cunt empty—wet fingers reaching for his belt, unbuckling in haste. 

The sound of clinking metal manages to pass through the cotton barrier in your ears. It wakes you, prickles your skin that’s already burning hot.

You help him. Yours and his fingers try to work together but somehow make it harder to achieve the same goal. You chuckle when you both reach for the zipper and he playfully swats your hand away, taking the lead instead. 

You feel him twitch a smile against your kiss.

He untucks himself from his briefs. The urge to look down is impossible to resist and so you do, catching the glint on the head of his cock as it leaks with precum, wetter than you’ve ever seen him be. 

Your stomach tightens. Now that's a mouthwatering sight that never ceases to amaze you.

Simon pats your ass as an invite to scoot forward. He languidly drags the tip along your slit to collect some of your wetness. You jolt each time he catches your swollen clit.

When he lines himself with your entrance, you start sinking on him—nails digging into the cotton of his sweatshirt on his shoulders.

Simon stretches you wonderfully. He would slide in easily considering the way you’re dripping—it’s you who wants to take it slow in order to catch each muted reaction with ears and eyes, lips brushing his own.

And then you envelop him fully, taking his cock to the hilt. 

“Fuck.” He croaks, and falls still. 

The hand on your hip grips it painfully tight. The one on your nape locks your forehead to his. His breath comes out in heavy puffs, eyes wrenched closed. 

Simon looks very vulnerable now. Much at your mercy. He doesn’t want you to move, clearly, and has full trust you won’t. For him. Maybe for you too, otherwise this will end much sooner than you both want it to.

But still, you brush the tip of your nose with his. He opens his eyes, iris swallowed whole.

“Alright?” You ask quietly.

He brushes his nose back with yours.

“Alrigh’,” he rumbles. “Been a while is all.”

You purse your lips in a wry smile.

“Has it now.”

He hums, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t fancy goin’ ‘round breakin’ any more hearts.”

“How considerate, lieutenant.”

“Aye, that’s me.”

“Not quite.”

He pinches the fat on your hip.

“Cheeky,” he says, watching your eyes smile. 

You scrunch your nose, shaking your head from side to side.

“Eh, you love it.”

And he takes you off guard.

“I do," he says firmly, like that's some fundamental truth.

His hand moves to your cheek, thumb right under your eye brushing softly where the skin is thinner.

You like having him like this, with his face to yours, his lips within reach. It’s a strange thing, not having to turn your head around to reach for a sliver of skin to press a kiss to. Not having to find cotton instead of warm flesh, instead of soft lips.

You feel like you can, now—take the chance without finding a door being shut in your face. 

In fact, your lips find his naturally, and he responds like it’s easy, like it’s something you do every time. 

He kisses you slowly as his hand descends down your back to grab your hip. Then, he guides you, initiating the movements, and you follow through.

It begins gently, with your breaths in sync, lips just close enough for either of you to share a kiss if the moment feels right. Your hands cradle the slopes of his neck, his own fit in the crease between your hips and thighs.

It’s very quiet, you think, unlike the grunts and groans of the previous times. Now there's only Simon’s pants, your own efforts to keep your voice low, breathy moans occasionally interrupted by the smacking of lips.

And then he fits his palms under the round fat of your rear, lifting you up and then guiding you down at once. Your voice cracks, shattered into broken moans that Simon matches with his own.

Suddenly, you both want more. You feel it in the grip he has on your ass, in the hungry shadows of his eyes. You feel it in yourself, the heat pooling lower and lower, starving hands clutching the hair at his nape.

You prop yourself on your knees, as comfortably as you can, and start riding Simon even if your hamstrings are aching, thighs clenched and hard to the touch.

You go on and on, one hand perched on the padded roof and the other flat on the car window, mist disappearing in the shape of dragged fingers and scratching nails.

Warm pleasure collects in your belly. So hot it drips all the way to your toes, curling in your black heels clasped around your ankles. Your pace starts getting frantic, almost clumsy in the desperation to reach that high again, expecting it to be much better than the previous one since now Simon is fully sheathed inside of you.

You hold his eyes as the air catches in your chest and you fall silent. Breaths clipped and choked, like moans that you can’t articulate. Throat tight, tight, and tighter. 

Simon seems to notice the signs, attentive as ever, and he dips three fingers in his mouth before bringing them to your clit. He swipes side to side with the same urgency of your hips, clit pebbled and raw soothed by the warm smoothness of his spit. 

You cum hard. It’s a wave that almost crushes you against him, so hot you feel like suffocating. Your body collapses on him, as you pant loud and shrill into the curve of his neck. Simon’s cock is buried all the way in, while your tired hips twitch helplessly to both prolong your high and escape it.

And so, Simon takes it upon himself. Lifts you up and drops you down until you’re whimpering in his shoulder, teeth sinking in the taut muscles of his traps and nails digging into his back. 

By then, Simon’s hanging on by thread and you know it even in your fucked-out state.

When the overstimulation hits and a rough string of curses leaves your lips right into his ear, Simon snaps.

With a grunt that rattles your chest, he pulls you down until he’s flush with you, and you swear you can feel him in your throat. His hips hump upwards as if that might somehow drive him deeper, and then he fills you with warmth, hot and liquid. Inevitably, it spills out, dripping thick down his thighs and onto the car seats.

Simon holds you like that, catching his breath as you catch yours.

He peppers your shoulder with kisses. Big hands clutch the back of your dress as it dampens with your sweat until his arms finally wrap you whole—so tight your breath leaves you in a gasp.

“Missed you,” he says, breathing your name reverently.

And why on earth should you not believe him, this time—with his face in your neck, his heart on his sleeve.

You lift your head to kiss his cheek. The cracks in your lips sting as they unexpectedly meet fine tracks of salt water.

Your heart skips a beat.

“Missed you too, Si."

[reds-skull]

Anatomy is one of the biggest thing I need to work on, so why not do it while drawing these two fuckers.

Tried to focus just on the sketch/lineart, so no shading on this one...

[tanked-up]

Ghost: I fucking hate how much I care about you

Recruit: Aww, thank-

Ghost: Behind you, shithead

(Soap behind the recruit trying to grab the cookies he burnt)

Recruit: HE BURNED YOUR-

Ghost: EXACTLY, M I N E

[tearsofastraeax]

worship me

"What a sight to behold. There were no poems, or sonnets, no paintings, or sculptures that were more beautiful than this man between your legs in that very moment..."

pairing: simon 'ghost' riley x könig x fem!reader word count: 3.2k tags: 18+, porn without plot, poly relationship, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough-ish sex, dirty talk, ghost and könig are obsessed with reader, praise kink note: please bear with me, this is my first time writing for these guys and i haven't posted any of my writing in a long ass time. ✧ check out my masterlist for more ✧

You had been waiting for three days now. The silence of your apartment overwhelming and getting more depressing by the minute. You knew they would be returning today, at least that’s what they had told you when they left. 

So, to surprise your favorite men, you had taken extra care of yourself today. Spending hours in the bathroom dolling yourself up. Rubbing sweet smelling lotion into your soft skin. Curling your hair just how Ghost liked it. And finishing it off with a skimpy white lingerie set, just how König liked it.

And now you were lying down on the couch, in direct view of the front door of your apartment. Eagerly waiting, no scratch that, impatiently waiting. Your fingertips were itching to graze over their bodies, your lips tingling to taste theirs. It was torture. And what was even more torturous was Ghost’s order to keep your fingers off yourself while they were gone. “No touching yourself till we’re back, you hear me, y/n?”

As your thoughts drifted off to your last time with the men, you nearly missed the click of the lock. Your eyes shot towards the door, and just in time you saw the doorhandle being pushed down. Your heart was beating rapidly now. Your palms becoming sweaty. Your breath caught in your throat. 

Finally, the door opened. Ghost stepped in first and your gaze immediately roamed over his body. He was wearing his usual black baclava with the skull print on the lower half of his face, his eyes the only thing you could see. You couldn’t help yourself, your eyes darting from his face down his body, to his thick legs wrapped in tight dark jeans. At the sight of his bulge your mouth nearly began to water. 

Right behind Ghost, König stepped through the door, the frame in contrast to his giant form looking like that of a doll house. At the sight of his thick arms and broad shoulders barely hidden behind a black long-sleeved shirt, you pressed your legs together in anticipation. 

“Hmm, Prinzessin, you look ravishing”, König said, slamming the door closed behind him. 

You watched as Ghost stalked toward you, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“I was waiting for you …”, you gasped. Ghost’s gaze was boring into yours, and before you knew it, he had reached you on the couch. He wasn’t a man of many words, so instead he grabbed you by the ankles and pulled you roughly towards him. “He… Hey…”, you got out before you were lifted and thrown over Ghost’s shoulder. You could barely catch your breath before you felt his large palm grabbing one of your ass checks, sinfully massaging it. 

You heard a breathy chuckle, as you saw König’s boots approaching you. You tried lifting your head to look at the man but were stopped by a hand caressing along your cheek. 

“Doesn’t she look beautiful, Ghost? All made up for us. I bet she’s already so wet for us, don’t you think?” While König spoke you noticed him stepping out of your sight, coming up behind you, now facing Ghost, who was switching between kneading your ass and slowly stroking up and down your right leg. You let out a trembling sigh, your nerves were on edge. Every touch felt like sparks cursing through your whole body. 

“I bet she is,” Ghost rumbled. In that moment you felt another hand slowly traveling up the insight of your left thigh, inching closer and closer to your midsection. Before you could gather your thoughts, you felt fingers pressing right on your cunt, your underwear long soaked through. You could only imagine the sight, the white lingerie by now see-through, merely an annoying decoration at this point.

“Scheiße, Ghost she’s so fucking soaked for us.” Your breath hitched in your throat at König’s words, your body trembling. You felt him remove his fingers from your drenched slip. The loss of contact evicting a moan from you. 

But before you could further protest, Ghost started to move, carrying you towards the bedroom. From your position on his shoulder, you could see König following behind you. 

Once in the bedroom, Ghost threw you down on the bed. You immediately missed the contact, his rough hands on your naked skin, the soft caresses he gifted you with.  

As you took in the two men standing at the foot of your bed, a whimper left your pouted lips. They looked so massive standing there in your small bedroom, so out of place and yet so fucking right. 

“Have you been a good girl, y/n?” Ghost asked, his intense gaze sending shivers down your body. You nodded eagerly, wanting to please him – oh how desperately you wanted to please him. 

“You didn’t touch yourself while we were gone?” He asked, continuing his interrogation. While he locked his gaze with yours, König started to step around the bed, slowly creeping up behind you. 

“I … - I was a good girl, I was waiting for you…”, your heart was pounding as you spoke. You thought you saw Ghost’s mask slightly hitching up at the corner of his mouth, as if he was smirking underneath. 

“Then it seems you deserve a little reward, don’t you think, mein Engel?” König was lowly grunting behind you, his voice so close to your ear. You suddenly became overwhelmingly aware of your surroundings. You felt the heat coming off the giant of a man behind you, the mattress dipping underneath his weight, as he settled down on it, leaning against the headboard. Then you felt calloused hands wrapping around your body and pulling you in, till you sat between König’s spread legs.

Ghost in the meantime had not moved, just standing there at the foot of your bed. Waiting, watching. 

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. “I’d like that,” you whispered. And as if he was waiting for your permission, Ghost started to move toward you, effortlessly stalking over the mattress, till he was kneeling in front of you. Your legs involuntarily spread apart a little further to make room for him, and while doing so pressed further into König’s legs. The touch had your skin nearly catching on fire. You could hardly contain yourself, yet they hadn’t even started. 

You looked up through your lashes at Ghost, who was watching you which such hunger in his eyes it nearly shattered you right then and there. Before you could try to recollect yourself, his hands were on your hips, wrapping around your underwear and violently ripping them off you. At the sight of you, bare and oh so wet for your boys, you heard a shaky breath in your ear and saw Ghost’s eyes widen. 

He didn’t wait long before his hands roughly wrapped around the back of your knees, and hitched them up, nearly folding you in half, while König patiently held you to his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. You’ve never felt safer, never felt more alive. Then Ghost dipped his head down, and you felt his breath ghosting over your wet cunt. A breathy moan escaped you at that, your body trembling with the sensation. 

You felt Ghost slowly pressing soft kisses through the mask to your inner thigh, so close and yet so far from where you really wanted him. Where you needed him. 

A disgruntled whimper escaped you, and you heard König chuckle behind you. “Maybe you should tell Ghost how much you want it, y/n.” 

Your gaze focused on Ghost between your legs, his face so close to your pussy. What a sight to behold, there were no poems, or sonnets, no paintings, or sculptures that were more beautiful than this man between your legs in that very moment. So, you took a deep breath and tried to find your courage. 

“Ghost, please. I need you … I need you so bad. Touch me … please.” Your words came out as a whimper, but judging from his expression he heard you well enough. His eyes swiftly met yours, and you could swear he was full-blown grinning underneath his mask. 

“Hold her for me, König.” Is all he said, before he pushed up the baclava, just above his mouth. In the meantime, König rested his hands underneath your ass, lifting your legs slightly and pushing them apart, presenting you to Ghost on a silver platter. A meal for the taking. 

You felt ready to explode as Ghost finally leaned down and pressed a kiss to your clit. He slowly traveled further down, peppering small kisses all over, till he suddenly stopped and dragged his tongue through your folds, right back up again to your clit. A loud moan escaped you. Fuck, if this was not the best feeling in the world. 

Ghost ate you out like he was starving for weeks, and you were his life-saving meal. He swiveled his tongue around your clitoris, drawing circles around it. You started to feel one of his fingers slowly spread around your wetness, before diving into you without another warning. He was pumping his finger in and out, and in and out. His mouth devouring you. Right there, sitting on his knees, he looked like he was worshipping you, like he was praying to an old forgotten god. 

You barely registered as König’s hands slid off your legs, instead unhooking the bra behind your back and discarding it. His large hands embraced your breasts, his thumb and index finger softly twisting your nipples between them. At the overwhelming sensations all around you a breathy moan escaped your lips. 

“You’re our little whore aren’t you, Engel?” König whispered in your ear, his lips dragging along your neck. You whimpered in agreement. You would let these two do anything to you, you just wanted them around you, in you, pleasing you, worshipping you, praying to you. 

Ghost suddenly added another finger, now pumping two in and out of you. At the sensation you could hardly help the moan that burst from you. It felt so good, too good. Your body slowly contracted, you felt the whisper of an orgasm spreading over your body. But before you could even think to concentrate on the feeling, to throw your head back in extasy they stopped. König dropped his hands, a breathy laugh in your ear. Ghost sat up, a slight sheen on his chin. You whimpered, your eyes darting from the one to the other in distress. This was not what you wanted, oh no. 

A grin spread across Ghosts features as he leaned forward to capture your mouth in a kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips. He possessively licked into your mouth, and you couldn’t help but return the kiss like a starving woman. You lost yourself in the feeling, your pussy begging to be touched again. But before you knew it, he stopped once more. He shared a quick look with König behind you and pushed his baclava down. You made a disappointed sound in the back of your throat. 

But your boys certainly didn’t want to disappoint you, instead König picked you up from behind, manhandling you into the right position. You ended up on your hands and knees on the bed, your ass just hanging over the edge, perfectly positioned for Ghost to stand behind you. He gently stroked your ass, admiring it even, looking at it like someone would gaze at a painting in a museum. “So beautiful”, he mumbled behind you. 

You got distracted as König positioned himself in front of you, your eyes in direct line with his bulge that threatened to tear apart his pants. But before it could do so, he slowly opened his dark cargo pants and freed his thick length. You mouth watered and you bit your bottom lip. This never got old. And the man was beautiful, well, his massive cock was for sure. You stared up at him through your lashes, knowing that the simple gesture nearly made him internally combust. 

In response to your teasing eyes, he roughly fisted a hand around his cock and smacked it against your cheek. “Open up, y/n.” You didn’t waste a second and listened to his order, opening your mouth wide, waiting to be filled by König. He grabbed your chin with the other hand and tilted your head up slightly before he started to slowly glide the tip over your lips, further down over your tongue till it bumped against your throat. The slight pause fooled you into thinking he’d pull out again and gently consume your mouth, but oh no, instead he roughly pushed his cock even further in, making it disappear down your throat. You gaged around it, quickly trying to level your breathing. He was so deep inside you, the tip of your nose getting tickled by his pubes. You dared to look up at him again.  

“What a good pretty girl you are, mein Engel”, he sighed contently. But he didn’t leave you there for long, his gaze lifting to Ghost and you had no idea what look they exchanged, but just a moment later and you felt König start to move slowly, in and out and in and out. Constantly forcing his massive length down your throat.

You heard Ghost behind you unzipping his pants, and the anticipation in your stomach threatened to overwhelm you. You felt his hands gently roam over your ass checks and suddenly, he slapped his right hand hard on one of your ass checks. You moaned, but it was muffled by König’s cock down your throat. Then Ghost’s hands left you completely and you were about to cry out when you felt his tip slightly grazing over your slick folds. 

“Are you ready to be filled up by us, baby?” You wanted to answer Ghost, you wanted to scream yes, you wanted to nod and tell him how badly you wanted these men to split you apart. But all you could get out was a muffled groan while you tried to wiggle your ass in anticipation. You heard him faintly laugh behind you, the tip of his length slowly dragging up and down your pussy. These men sure knew how to tease you, how to drive you to madness and push you over the edge.  

Without another warning, you felt Ghost push inside of you, his whole length quickly buring inside of you, till you felt the rough fabric of his barely opened pants scraping against your sensitive naked skin. You moaned loudly, just in the same second König pushed his fat cock down your throat. Both men stilled, completely filling you up. And you felt like you might explode, like you might tear at the seams and fall apart. But your two favorite soldiers were nothing if not generous and so you felt them start to move again. First slowly, then faster and faster, till they were rutting into you so hard you nearly crashed and burned if they weren’t so perfectly in sync. 

The way these two men were fucking you made you feel like you were going into an ecstatic state of pure bliss. And then you felt Ghost wrap his arm around your hip, his fingers finding your clit with ease. He started rubbing small circles around your sensitive spot till you started to see stars. Your muffled moans filled the room, and you felt your muscles pull together, getting ready to explode. Oh, and how you exploded, it took Ghost just mere seconds of gently massaging your clit before you screamed around König’s cock in your mouth, your eyelids fluttering close, your world being shaken from its axis. The force of your orgasm nearly made your body give out, but the two men dutifully held you up, while they continued to fuck your holes relentlessly. 

You barely registered König’s moans as his thrusts became slightly erratic. You slowly came back to your senses and looked up at the giant in front of you. Your eyes met and you could see his pupils slightly dilating, his breathing becoming unsteady. And then you felt his cum shooting into your mouth, slowly running down your throat. In the next moment he was pulling out, his hand resting underneath your chin to tip your head up. He shot the rest of his thick load all over your face. You kept your mouth open, trying to catch as much as you could, slow drops already dripping down your chin. You moaned loudly as König forced his cock down your throat one more time. 

“Now clean it off, Prinzessin”, he said, and you hollowed out your cheeks slightly as you passionately sucked on his thick length. But before you could have your fun with König’s still hard cock, he pulled back, looking down at you with such wonder in his eyes. 

“You look so pretty covered in my cum, mein Engel. You should see her Ghost – she looks so perfect.” Your felt your cheeks growing warm from the pink tint that graced them. You may got fucked senseless by these two men every time you saw them, but their words affected you just as much as they did the first time. 

Meanwhile, Ghost was still fucking you hard, his hands grabbing your hips so roughly you’re sure they would leave a mark. Just how he liked it, he wanted you to remember him, not just in your mind, but he wanted your body to show it too. 

“How do you want it, babygirl? Do you want me to cum inside you? Or do you want your face covered even more?” You’re sure your cheeks were now burning even more at hearing Ghosts words. 

“I … - I want to taste you …”, you managed to get out, your voice merely a whisper. 

You nearly started to doubt that he even heard you, but then Ghost pulled out of you. The emptiness he left behind making you gasp, already missing the feeling of him inside of you. König flipped you around again, resting you against his chest, as Ghost stepped up in front of you. He roughly jerked his thick cock, before he violently grabbed your face and pushed his full length inside of your mouth. You gasped but gave yourself to him. He fucked your mouth with such ferocity you were sure he might as well be bruising your throat permanently. But you didn‘t even have time to worry about it any longer, before you tasted his cum coating your tongue, his load filling your mouth. And then Ghost pulled back too, covering your face with the last spurts he jerked out. 

When he was done you finally swallowed the load and innocently looked up at him. You could swear you saw a smile spread across his features, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Such a good girl, we’re so proud of you”, Ghost murmured, as he took his thumb and collected some of the cum dripping down your chin. You greedily opened your mouth and sucked the liquid from his finger, letting a soft moan escape you. 

“Beautiful girl, you look so good covered in our cum”, König whispered in your ear. You smiled at them, their words of praise warming you up from the inside.

[gomzdrawfr]

why are you rUNNING? WHY ARE YOU RUNNING??

this is based of @cod-dump's post about crickets, link here

[dovabunny]

GhostSoap Concept - (Not) your Whore

Ghost and Soap stay at the pub after the others left, neither ready to go back - not ready to stop the subtle flirting and innuendo, the way their thighs are pressed together.

"What's the last time you got laid, Lt?" Soap teases.

"Can't even remember," Ghost answers truthfully. He sees no reason to lie to Johnny. "The mask and my sunny disposition doesn't really help."

"Fools," Soap let slip. He coughs "You didn't consider paying for company?"

Ghost lifts an eyebrow. "You offering?"

"The company or the payment?"

"Either."

Soap leans in, whiskey on his breath and voice low but honest. "If you're interested. Yes."

...

Ghost has Soap pinned to the door the moment it closes, hips grinding and lips slow dancing.

Soap moans and presses close, wanting more.

"Even moans like a cheap whore," Ghost chuckles darkly and licks a stripe up Soap's neck like tasting his skin is an irresistible delight.

"For you, Lt, anything."

"Simon," Ghost corrects.

Ghost tugs the rest of the mask off and drops it.

Soap pulls back enough to look into his eyes, and sees the open earnesty. "Simon. Let me take care of you." His hands dragging down a strong chest to belt buckles.

"Gonna be my sweet little personal slut tonight, hm? Lucky me."

Soap softly laughs against his lips. "Lucky you."

Both expected it to be rough, stained in desperate lust and need. Both were weak to how gentle and powerful their intimacy was, the way their bodies moved together and joined, hands and lips and words worshipping.

Ghost pressed in slow and shallow at first, the heavy flushed head slipping in and out over the rim till Soap's eyes started to water in his desperation. Not to be 'fucked', but to be taken, to be filled and joined like it would make him whole.

They spend hours with eyes locked, making love in a way that was both primal need and gentle savouring. Unlike anything they've ever experienced.

Soap wakes to the early light, the aches in his body has him smiling before he opens his eyes, throbbing in the best possible way.

Reminders of what happened, of how he gave himself to Simon, and how Simon gave himself right back.

He turns to reach out... But his heart freezes over when there's no one.

He shoots up. The sheets are cold.

'Okay, Soap. It's fine. It's just Ghost. He's up early.'

Soap breathes through the initial panic. Ghost is always up first, is possibly out for a smoke. Yeah. That's it.

He sighs in relief, feeling stupid for his overreaction.

Then he sees the money on the bedside table.

Money. Payment.

For being his 'cheap whore.'

Soap has never hated himself more. Has never felt as dirty and stupid and cheap.

Like the slag, the filthy disgrace his homophobic father called him.

He can't breathe. (He doesn't want to)

Soap cries till his chest hurts.

It's noon. He gets up, showers, and pushes it down. He puts on a brave face, broken John hidden behind the mask of Soap.

[velvetlilith777]

✩*⢄⢁✧ 𝓓𝓲𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝔂 𝓫𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓭𝓪𝔂?! ✧⡈⡠*✩

i did - it's me. because i just took this photo of myself celebrating turning 25 🥳

frontal lobe (allegedly) developed! i hope not guys it has to get better than this

here's to hoping 25 is my year 🖤✨

ilysm thanks for being here and having been one of my favorite parts of 24 🫶🏻