#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

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

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 🦊 | Series 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

[bluegiragi]

work it out (part 1)

early access + nsfw on patreon

[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.”

[gomzdrawfr]

why are you rUNNING? WHY ARE YOU RUNNING??

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

[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.

[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

[nekrosmos]

AO3

Loving Simon Riley was easy. From the moment they had first met, Soap had been endeared by the man. The Halloween costume? Kind of charming. Intimidating, sure, to constantly be by someone’s side whose stare could make any recruit shit themselves, face hidden behind a patched up mask meant to remove one’s identity, separating the man from the soldier. Anyone who saw Ghost from far away assumed him to be a legend, a broken shell of a man who had gone through so much that all was left behind was the echo of what he used. He was, in some ways, but he was so much more than that. 

It was the small things that Soap quickly learned to love. The way the corner of his eyes crinkled when he told a bad joke, visible despite the black makeup. How he would turn his head before lifting his mask when they were eating together, trying to hide his face even then. How his dark eyes caught the sunrises, orange beams reflecting so perfectly in the brown hue of his irises. The horrible shirts he always wore at the gym, either with bad jokes or shitty band design on them. The way he always stood behind Soap, always watching his back, always. 

When the two of them became more than brothers in arms, it was an entirely new person that Johnny learned to love, so many more details to discover. The way Simon loved to grab Johnny from the back, his big arms wrapping themselves around his form and pulling him closer to his chest, silent, placing kisses in the back of Soap’s neck, hot breath against his skin, as if he was afraid to lose him. How he always slept with his head facing the door, his back never turned to it. The light gray hair on his temples he always sighed when spotting. How he always stared at the rest of the world like he wasn’t truly a part of it, gaze losing itself for a moment as he watched people go by their lives, only coming back to his senses when Johnny approached him. 

It was easy to love Simon Riley, but Simon Riley didn’t believe that. 

Nothing had made this more obvious than the first time he had allowed Johnny inside his apartment. A small, cheap flat in Manchester, two rooms, a bedroom, a small balcony, elderly neighbors, cracks in the walls and mold in the corners, the kind of place you would expect for him. Simon had obviously been nervous about bringing Johnny home, even if the two had been together for a while then, the entire thing being unexpected as they had found themselves more drunk than they had anticipated and in need of a place to sleep for the night.

The inside was pretty much what Soap had expected. Bare-bones. No real decorum. No pictures on the walls. Neat for the most part. 

The kitchen was small, packed with the bare minimum, the fridge full of quick meals, cans and not much more. No plants, he had tried when he was younger but kept killing them, apparently. No animals, of course, who had time to take care of them with the job they both had. There was a shelf with books in them, although most of them were coated in a thick layer of dust. No mirrors, except for the one in the bathroom, which had clearly been broken by a large fist. One toothbrush, one towel, one razor, one bottle of shampoo. 

His bedroom had been the worst offender. A single person bed in a corner of the room. “We’ll make it work” he had told him. Again, no pictures, just a few postcards up on the wall near his desk. Soap recognized a few he had mailed him when the two had been sent on different side of the world. That made him smile. 

Fitting in the bed was difficult. It already would have been complicated to fit two normal-sized people in a single person bed, but two buff guys like them was a whole other challenge. Simon kept apologizing, his tone way too close to being shameful for Johnny’s liking. They found a comfortable enough position eventually, Ghost’s back against the cold wall while he held Soap tightly in his arms, their legs intertwined as best they could. 

There was silence as soon as they went to bed, but Johnny could feel that Simon wasn’t sleeping. His breathing against the back of his neck was steady, his fingers digging into his flesh, not painfully, but purposely. It had been difficult, then, to find the right words, but Johnny eventually talked, his voice almost a whisper in the strange quiet of the night. 

“Am I the first person you ever took home?” 

He knew the answer, of course, only confirmed by a quiet “yeah” he could feel against his skin. 

Johnny wanted to ask him why, but the signs around the flat were pretty telling. Simon had never settled here, never took root. It wasn’t uncommon, for men like them, to feel at odds with their civilian lives. The man versus the soldier. Simon versus Ghost. Of course, it was different for him. Rare were the soldiers who had gone through what he had gone through. The job had taken literally everything from him. His purpose, his family, his identity. Whoever Simon had been before all of this was long gone, replaced by an echo of the man he used to be, floating through life like a ghost, never really belonging anywhere, no tether to bring him back to the living, no one to remember him. 

Loneliness was a cruel affliction. Soap couldn’t recall how many times he had spotted Ghost back at base when he should have been gone and on leave. He asked him, then, many times, what he was doing here, and every single time, Simon would shrug, making up excuses about “catching up on some paperwork while he could”. 

Now that Johnny had seen what waited for Ghost once he got back “home”, it suddenly made a lot more sense.

Gently, Soap grabbed one of Simon’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the pale skin of his knuckles and intertwining his fingers with his, before turning around, almost falling out of the bed as he did so. 

“What are you doing?” Ghost asked, the darkness not enough to hide his puzzled expression. 

“Turn around, I want to hold ya.” 

A snort escaped Simon’s lips, almost mocking, as if he didn’t believe him. Well, he probably didn’t, and so Johnny insisted. 

“What? Don’t think I can spoon ya?” 

“The fuck you want to do this for, Johnny?” 

“Do I need a fucking reason? Jesus Christ, just turn around and let me hold you.” 

After another second of hesitation, Simon relented, turning around, face facing the wall as Johnny laid back down, his arms going around his bigger shape and getting as close to him as possible. Half of his ass was hanging from the bed but it was manageable, especially after Simon grabbed one of his arm, Johnny’s hand coming to rest on top of his heart. 

It was his turn to be able to kiss the back of Simon’s neck, lips gently meeting his cold skin while his free hands played with his hair, fingers tenderly brushing them as he felt his partner slowly relax in his arms. 

It was then that Johnny decided to offer Simon to come live with him. He would ask him, the next day, while the two would be preparing breakfast. He wouldn’t make a big deal out of it, just a casual mention. His flat was big enough for the both of them, Simon had been there already and liked the place, Johnny had a king-size bed, and a decorum that didn’t remind him of a prison cell. Hopefully, Simon would say yes, but if he didn’t, he would understand. Recovery was a slow process, and no matter what Simon decided, he would stick by his side, finding more ways every day to love the man he had fallen for. 

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

18+

CW: suggestive, non-explicit smut. kissing. smoking. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. sexual and non sexual intimacy. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

“Need to rest?”

You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.

That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.

Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.

Fucking bat.

He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.

You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?

However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.

“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.

His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.

You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.

But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.

Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.

You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.

“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.

“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”

He snorts. You smile.

“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.

“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”

You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.

"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”

After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.

You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.

It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.

Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.

“I like sleeping with you.”

His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.

“You don’t?” You venture.

No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.

You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.

But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.

If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.

“Negative.” He drawls.

You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.

But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.

Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.

“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”

You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.

Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.

You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.

A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.

“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.

You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.

But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.

You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”

Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.

He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.

His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.

Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.

It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?

Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.

But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…

…a cigarette.

You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.

“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.

“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.

You smile. “Please?”

He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.

The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.

The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.

But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.

You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.

“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.

He squeezes your shoulder. ���Easy to please.”

You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.

It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.

You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 

Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.

A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.

Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.

His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.

He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.

“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.

His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.

“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.

You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.

Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.

Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.

He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.

You do.

His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.

Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.

Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.

The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.

The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.

The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.

Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.

Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.

You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.

“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.

You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.

“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.

“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”

And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.

You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.

Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.

Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.

Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.

You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.

Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.

Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.

Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.

But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.

The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.

His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.

You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.

You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.

Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.

He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.

Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.

You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.

He does none of that.

Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.

You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.

Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.

His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.

Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.

He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.

He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.

You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.

His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.

No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.

His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.

“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.

Your lips twitch in a smile.

“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.

He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.

“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.

You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.

You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.

He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.

He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.

“Missed you,” he says.

The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.

His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.

He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.

“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”

You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.

He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 

But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.

Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.

It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.

“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”

The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 

You swallow it down. Inhale.

Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.

Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.

“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.

Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.

You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.

“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”

You nod softly. “No lies.”

"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."

You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.

He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.

You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.

He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.

Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.

You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.

Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.

[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...

[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.

[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 🫶🏻

[tojisun]

https://beta.character.ai/chat?char=M09YrfAOJ4DGmlt1HwGvVK3cQ2JonVLupAh4Xbijoek

I swear I remember you wrote something similar 💀

not even lying but this made me burst into tears :D

its not that i wrote something similar—thats exactly snippets of my drabble stolen and fed into a chatbot

thank you sweetheart for bringing this into my attention. im so conflicted with what to do bc biker!simon has always been an existing au but thats my work used to generate a biker!simon ‘fic’ in c.ai and im so?? can i even report this/contact the creator bc what??