#simon ghost riley is bad at feelings

[theorist-fox]

Promise rings

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

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

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18+

Word count: 5.2k

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

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

Masterlist 🦊 | 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

[hatsbuckets]

price | gaz | soap

Simon Riley who is tense after missions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon Riley who finally rests.

Simon Riley who is tense after missions,

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

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

price | gaz | soap

[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

[theorist-fox]

Good Luck

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: There’s only so much you can endure for love. Simon’s avoidance takes him one step too far, and this time, there’s no turning back.

18+

CW: angst, arguments, canon typical violence (GSW, surgery, medical talk), a drop of smut.

I listened to this song while writing!

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

The treadmill runs underfoot when it shouldn't. 

You shouldn't be here—when the lights in the base are off, and curfew has clocked in. Not when your side is still aching, and your injury is still mending.

One would think that after ages in the special forces, you'd get used to gunshot wounds. 

Truth is—you never do. It's always the same burning pain that makes you piss yourself and throw up your guts. How you survived is still a big, fat question mark—sniper rifles are made to kill, not to neutralize. If that bullet had hit a little higher, you'd be six feet underground, not doing some cardio in the HQ gym.

Even now, two months after the incident, the stabbing ache in your gut still lingers. Granted, it's not fully healed, so any pain you feel is your fault. But sitting idly, twiddling your thumbs, feels far too passive for you. So, you decide to resort to the simplest training—cardio, light weightlifting—anything that might help the rage simmering in your chest subside.

Because yes—the worst thing festering in your guts, right in the broken sinews and ripped flesh, isn't the mending hole of a .308 round, but a growing anger that's making it hard for your limbs to sit still.

And it's that anger that's slowing down the healing process, it must be. 

You're running—not too fast. No headphones on, because you want to hear your breath panting and your feet thudding against the moving treadmill. You want to taste copper down your throat. 

Overexertion. Salivating tongue. The wonderful ache of sore muscles. 

Alive, strong, fast, reliable.

A friendly reminder that even though there is someone else occupying your spot in the team, you're still as fan-fucking-tastic as ever.

A friendly reminder that their role is only temporary. That when you're back on your feet, you're going to be the fifth member of that task force again. 

Breakfasts with Soap, early morning runs with Gaz, cigars in the evening with Price.

Ghost, on the other hand, can go and fuck himself. Hard. 

You don't blame him, really. Or, well, maybe a little. A smidge. 

Because that's just who he is. You can't blame someone for being who they are—and what he is, is a bastard. 

You should've known the moment you met him, the second he introduced himself as Ghost instead of Simon Riley, all those years back.

Instead of giving in, instead of acting kind, caring, and giving him your time—instead, instead, instead—you should've bit the same way he bit you. Ravaged you. Gave you hot and cold, push and pull, sunk his teeth until the bone, until you were nothing more than a rag doll in the maws of a rabid dog.

Surely, you couldn't have expected him to visit.

You couldn't have expected him to knock on your hospital room door, cuppa in hand, and have him give you his precious, precious time.

What you should've done was expect him to treat you in person like he treats you in bed. 

A whore: warm enough to fit his cock in, wet enough to stroke his ego. You being out of commission for anything remotely related to sex meant you being out of his life—plain and simple. 

A hard pill to swallow, but a true one.

And so, you run. 

You run and stare deadly holes into the wall in front of you. 

You run and ignore how the forming scar on your side tightens at each movement. 

You run and try your damned hardest to focus on yourself: on your body feeling alive even when unhooked from cables and machines, on the fog in your brain finally dissipating, on your chest filling and relaxing even without oxygen pumped in your nose.

Ten minutes turn into twenty, until you can feel your thighs chafe and your calves cramp, but still you push through. Because the alternative, the only other thing that would make your stomach finally loosen, would be to have that bastard within reach. Punch him until he hurts like you did.

Alas, God seems to have heard, for the next thing you know, is that Simon is standing, jaded as always, at the threshold of the gym to your left.

As soon as you spot him in your periphery, you punch the big red button on the treadmill. Your run slows to a walk before you stop completely and get down. 

You don't even look at him as you collect your water bottle from the floor, grunting softly when your injury folds and aches.

You don't even lift your head when you reply with a caustic, "Look what the cat dragged in."

He snorts. How dare he.

"See you got your wit back."

It's been two months since you last heard his voice. 

When you got shot and blacked out, the last thing you registered was his voice roaring over comms—but judging by the distant behaviour he assumed right afterwards, the complete absence during your hospitalization, you convinced yourself that the anguished cry of your name you've heard was imagined altogether.

One last attempt of your brain to find some comfort in the pain.

However, a treacherous shiver still runs down your spine when he speaks. The thickness of his voice, the rasp that scratches a nice spot in your brain. 

You shake your shoulders to get rid of it.

It's only then that you clock his form with your eyes. You tongue your cheek.

"Never left," you say, uncapping your water bottle. "Not that you'd know anyway, mh?"

As you drink, the balaclava shifts at his jaw as if he's running his tongue over his teeth. Thinking which approach to take—tactical and measured or absolutely ballistic and corrosive.

"You shouldn't be 'ere." He drawls with that grating tone that makes you believe he knows something more than you do.

Measured it is.

"Got cleared."

"Doc said otherwise."

"As obsessed as ever, uh?"

How his eyes sharpen tells you you've cut deeper than any razor blade could. A smug smile blooms on your cheeks because small things feel like huge victories when there are too many losses to count.

"You're under my command." He says bluntly, "Had to keep myself updated."

"Normal people would ask."

He tilts his head. "M'sure you gathered I'm anything but."

"Right," you say with a wry grin. "What was the doctor's diagnosis, then?"

"Lucky your liver got out of it intact," he replies, "Exit wound clear, no fragments. Minimal internal dam—"

"Oh no, I know that." You cut in, sickly sweet, like poison more than honey. "I meant yours."

His eyes darken, with a warning glint that should be enough to pierce through your resolve—shame for him that you're bulletproof and sharp like a knife. You don't care if it'll hurt—let it. After all, there is little left to lose, and you're sure that whatever is left will soon be lost.

"Abandonment issues? Does it stem from your childhood? Are you projecting something on me, Simon?"

"Sergeant," he says, lower than a growl. 

"What?" You snap, tongue riddled with bitterness. "Isn't that what's happening? Takin' my life apart 'cause you couldn't sort out yours?"

Simon rolls his shoulders and straightens his neck. He often does it when he wants to appear taller, broader, scarier—though you know better.

And right now, he's just as tense as you are. 

Both of you are teetering on the edge, walking a fine line that could lead to resolution, but you're afraid it won't. Not this time.

Each step he takes bends the thin rope under his weight. You wobble—precarious, afraid, a gust of wind is all it would take for you to fall and lose it all in one breath: the earned, mutual trust, the fragile love—no matter how disjointed and uncertain at times.

Reluctantly, you know that it has been tender, too.

"I'd watch my tongue if I were you,” he says. A measured threat.

Your eyes are sharp, and you don't dare to breathe. The space between your faces is tense—a ticking time bomb, something preceding destruction.

"And I'd stay the fuck back." You scowl. "If I were you."

There's a sneer painting his face; you're sure of it, even if it's out of sight. Something heavy and dark, hidden under fabric. 

"Aye, I have," he says at length. "For two months. But looks like you didn't enjoy that much, did ya now?"

Your brows fly to your forehead. Utter disbelief at the sheer audacity of him. Apparently, today isn't one of those days in which you can take what you dish out. 

Fuck it, you'll live.

"You think this is funny?" You scowl, cocking your head.

You watch his jaw shift, perhaps trying to reply, but you don't give him time. He's had plenty of it and wasted it all.

"You think it's alright, what you did?"

Your teeth grit until your head hurts. 

"Not even a knock, Simon." Your voice rises in volume and anger alike. "Two months. Not a call, a text, a wordpassed through Johnny."

Your chest grows tight, and those vines climb upward, closing in on your throat and head all the same. The pressure in your skull threatens tears.

You'd rather get shot again than cry now, of all times.

You thought he'd carved a path specifically for you. Instead, he was only covering your eyes in gentle kisses and cottoning your ears with sweet words—perhaps some remorse, if he could feel it at all. Treated you like a hungry dog, throwing a bone so you'd turn into a more docile pup, whimpering and asking for pets.

And still, you kept clinging with your fingernails to the scraps of tenderness he offered, even when unsure of their authenticity.

There is no trace of that naivete now embedded in your eyes. You're as hard as he's portraying himself to be.

Simon now studies the switch. He must see the sadness in there, even if it's buried under a thick layer of anger and spite. 

"Figured I'd leave ya to it," he says at last, pressing his thumb between his brows—a subtle gesture betraying his calm facade. "Give ya time to recover."

What a poor fucking excuse.

Oh, you want to make him hurt like he did you. 

Make him feel two months' worth of staring at the plain white door of the hospital room, waiting for it to open. Waiting to see him duck under the doorframe, holding a pack of Marlboros in his hand. 

Make a joke about smoking in hospital rooms and how irresponsible that would be, how insensitive, only for him to tinker with the smoke alarm and turn the orange butt of a ciggie your way. 

Bring you tea. The book you still haven't finished. Tell you about his day. 

More than sixty days spent pining, waiting, hoping like a helpless lunatic, with Johnny's pitying blues glued on the lines between your brows.

"Oh, spare me." You scoff. "At least have the decency to do that much."

His eyes narrow. You inhale, challenging him with your glare.

Fuck, he doesn't have to love you—to even like you—if that's the barrier he wants to put up.

But basic human decency doesn't seem much to demand. Especially knowing that you were so much more before this ordeal began. You were a colleague, a friend. A shag here and there doesn't cancel that. How can occasional sex erase years and years of carefully built partnerships, in and out of work?

How can he so easily change his view of you just because you parted your legs for him?

It hurts when you realize it. When it hits you right in the head like that bullet pierced your side. That you're done giving him excuses, that you're done giving him time.

That it's now or never again.

It escapes your mouth like something strangled, fighting its way out with elbows and fists. Thrashing through your throat, guided by better judgment and self-preservation, even as your heart begs for a moment more. 

"You know this doesn't work, right?" You gesture in the space between you two. "You and I."

That seems to be what wakes him. His eyes look alarmed, even if only for a moment, and it's a flash so brief you're not even sure it happened at all.

"We talked 'bout—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up." You cut in, exasperation showing in the way your voice rises. 

He jolts. Freezes.

You sigh a shaky breath. Your body burns hot, like the feelings brewing at the bottom of a much too-deep pot are finally spilling out. Skin lighting up, all too aware of everything, from the blood rushing to your cheeks to the throbbing ache of your healing wound.

"Yeah, we had that chat—no feelings, no strings attached, or whatever rubbish you tell yourself to sleep at night."

Your heart feels heavier, like someone's poured cement over it, and it's about to be tossed into deep waters.

"Doesn't mean you've got the right to treat me like this." You say in a single breath. "Like I'm not even a person. Like I don't matter unless I'm naked."

Something in him hardens like he's looking at you through his scope: squinting his eyes, steeling his shoulders. You struck a raw nerve, casting him in a light that even he wouldn't dare to face, self-critical as he may be.

Or you're just describing what you see. What he's shown you. Given you. Not who he is.

But how are you supposed to know that? Discern the mask from the man when he guards the latter so viciously.

"I'm not just someone you fuck," you say through gritted teeth. "I'm a person. I'm your sergeant—I'm your friend. I deserve your respect."

You slam a finger to his chest. The impact is not as strong as it is shocking.

Simon stumbles back.

"I had your back long before we started fucking, and when I get shot, you don't even bother knocking?" You exclaim. "You hear how fucked up that is? And you think I'll let it slide without consequences?"

You retreat your hand, trembling like a leaf. It falls at your side limply, surrendered as you are.

"You don't know me if you think that."

You gulp down something heavy stuck in your throat, but your voice remains abrasive and sharp.

"And I don't know why I ever thought otherwise."

You step back, holding his eyes a moment more—daring to bite back at your words. Daring to fabricate an excuse.

But you don't waste energy to gauge his thoughts this time. You have tried—so strenuously— to discover Simon Riley, but there are walls too thick to climb, gates too rusted and too old to be opened.

And, for once, you forgive yourself for having failed.

Simon stands stock still under the yellow lights of the gym, hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting an invisible enemy. A statue of a man, stone cold and so awfully far, far away.

You walk past him, water bottle clutched in your hand so tight you think your knuckles might snap.

The doorway's left behind you. Your steps quicken the farther you get from the gym, watching the light from the door give way to the darkness of a sleeping headquarters. 

You don't hear his steps, and you're unsure whether he's following. Hard to tell—the man's a ghost in more ways than just his name. Silent and prudent even when wrapped in tac gear up to his head.

When you reach your room, you think you're safe from further arguments. No more raising your voice, no more putting your heart through the meat grinder. It's gone and done, and you only want to get in your bed and not think about it until you wake up tomorrow. 

Still, your hands shake. You test for your keys in the tight pocket of your leggings and curse under your breath when you pluck them out and they fall from between your fingers.

When you're about to bend down, cussing further because your side still aches, a hand steals them from your sight. You follow the tattoos up to the face of the owner, even if you don't have to do so to recognize him.

He's not wearing the mask anymore. He has it tucked in a pocket of his jeans; you see the dark cloth peeking from the light blue. His shoulders are slouched, hair tousled and messy, likely due to his fingers running through it. Pale cheeks and sunken eyes, darker underneath, like he hasn't caught a wink in a while. 

A certain sadness in them, too. But that might be what your eyes want you to see—rationally, you would put all that much, much past him.

"Careful," he murmurs, handing the keys back to you.

You snatch them from his hands and practically punch them into the keyhole.

"Sarge—"

"No."

He calls your name.

"No."

You slam the door behind you once you're inside, but you don't hear the closing thud. When you look over your shoulder, you find him holding it open. Without further questions or waiting for you to rebut, he steps inside. 

You glower to deter him. It's useless.

Simon closes the door behind him and leans against it. His hand effortlessly finds the switch at the entrance and flicks it on. 

As you blink to adjust to the sudden light, your eyes naturally focus on him: a mountain of a man clad in onyx with the pale cream backdrop of your door. 

"Out," you bark.

He looks at you with eyes so horribly tired. Exhausted. Upset.

"Fuck's sake, jus' listen."

And his voice is not so different.

Then, there's nothing you can do. 

Those boots have been here without your frank permission more times than you can count. You're aware of the impossibility of redirecting them outside. 

You scowl, fingers tightening around the water bottle in your hand because his nerve could bloody well be the last straw.

But still—

You nod. Jaw locked tight.

"Make it quick."

He spares not a second more.

"Day o' the surgery, after they cut you open," he says. "I came."

He points at his neck. 

"Had a tube shoved down your throat, a thing around your chin to keep ya mouth open."

Then, to his face. 

"Beaten black an' blue, you were—swollen an' all. Reckon it was probably the fall after the shot—dunno, couldn't fuckin' think when I saw ya like that."

He licks his lips. Bows his head as if the floor might lend him the strength he needs to pull himself together.

He looks up again. Dark eyes tender unlike anything you've ever seen, and yet one corner of his mouth is downturned, like he's about to say something he's very disappointed with.

Your body is gelatin. Flaccid. Cotton ears, foggy sight, clammy palms. 

"You looked dead," he swallows something thick. "And I wished you were."

Your bottle slips from your hands and falls to the floor. A metallic thud. Water sloshes back and forth as it rolls on the linoleum until it stills.

Suddenly, you feel like a kid who's looking for her ma. 

There's a sadness so deep and suffocating you can't quite explain it if not by digging up childhood memories—a sense of loss, of being small and helpless and alone.

You fought tears all this time, and now it feels fruitless even to try. It's written all over your face anyway. 

You taste their salt before you feel your eyes swell with them.

"Fuck. You." You tell him, voice hoarse but no less spiteful.

"Wished you were dead—"

He walks to you.

"You're disgusting—"

"Because—"

Closer.

"Don't want to see your fucking face again—"

"I didn't know wha' to do."

Until he stands with his boots bumping your trainers. Until the cold wall touches the sweat on your back.

He holds your face in his hands.

You pull back. He doesn't let go.

"'Cause I don't know, love—" He breathes tenderly, like his voice is not his, while your nails claw at his wrist so he lets go.

He doesn't.

"I don't know how to mourn the livin'," he says, "Only the dead."

He gulps. You fall still.

"You said ya wouldn't put me through that again, but you did," he croaks. "Made it worse this time. I couldn't take it."

He thumbs your tears.

"Would've been easier f'me to bury ya with the others an' let the guilt finish me off."

Simon leans in until his lips brush your forehead. When he realizes you won't fight back anymore, his hands slide to your shoulders, then down your arms.

Gingerly, his fingers twine with yours. He doesn't tighten his hold; he merely tests the thin skin of your knuckles.

You pull back a step, burning eyes drifting up at him through the tears clumping your lashes. Truthfully, you weren't expecting him to cry with you. You don't think Simon can—maybe he's already shed one too many tears.

But his cheeks are glowing red. His eyelids are heavy, eyes cast down to you. He's just as affected as you are, but he shows it differently in those subtle ways you've learned to read.

After fighting the tremble of your lips, you steady yourself. Fingers warm within his own; you don't pull them away. 

"I don't deserve what you did to me."

Your voice is so tight you hate yourself for it, but if you don't speak your mind now, you're afraid you never will.

He shakes his head slowly, never straying from your eyes. 

"You don't."

Leaning down slowly, giving you ample time to move away if you wish, Simon kisses your shoulder. 

You sigh.

"Don't deserve a ton o' the shite I put ya through," he whispers.

His ear is right next to your lips. You're sure that no matter how much you try to control yourself, he'll quickly gather your feelings by the way your pulse thunders beneath his kiss.

So why hide it at all?

"And yet you never apologized for a single one of them."

Simon gulps. A subtle sound, as subtle as the man who made it. 

He pulls back. Smooths back your hair, sliding a hand from your forehead to your scalp. 

You lean into his touch, exhaling a breath that trembles like your hands.

"Never did, did I." He breathes. 

He leans in and presses a kiss between your brows, then down the bridge of your nose, to your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You close your eyes so he can navigate this new level of intimacy he's never initiated nor shown at all.

And then he captures your lips. 

His shoulders soften.

A long, drawn-out sigh from his nose. 

He pushes forward, forcing the back of your head against the wall. His hands travel to your stomach, hesitant and curious. He skims over the thicker patch of fabric, where the surgery scar is mending under soft, fresh bandages. 

A slight hiss in your breath because it still feels sore to the touch is what makes Simon pull back. Just enough to have the tips of your noses graze.

Suddenly, he kneels at your feet. 

Big hands envelop your waist, touch gentle but still present enough to rip the air out of your lungs. His thumb brushes over the bandage, causing you to shift uncomfortably.

You look down. Your eyes touch.

The silence around you cracks when he speaks, softness in his breath.

"M'sorry."

Chest tight and sore, like he just punched it. 

He keeps his eyes on you, not to study your expression but to convey his own. The earnestness you catch in there ripples through you like a shockwave ready to shatter you whole.

He leans in and buries his nose right above your belly button, in the rougher fabric of your shirt.

His thumbs hook at the hem, lifting it up so that his face meets your stomach.

"Tell me to fuck off, an' I will," he whispers to your skin. "Know I deserve it."

He kisses your belly, carefully navigating around your bandaged injury. 

"But fuck," he sighs. "I hope you don't."

His lips travel lower, where the waistband of your legging cinches your hips. His kisses turn open but unhurried, like he just wants to savour what he's denied himself for too long.

You roll your lips between your teeth, unsure of how to behave.

"Fuckin' hope you don't," he murmurs.

Your hands land on his head, then, hesitant and trembling, fingers threaded through his hair. Simon sighs like you took the weight off his shoulders and got rid of it entirely.

His fingers curl at the hem of your leggings. 

Slowly, he rolls them down, and he follows their trail, drawing his tongue and his lips down your thighs to your knee. His hand slips to your shoe, and he helps you take it off. Then to the other. Your socks, your pants, until your legs are bare, fabric tossed aside in a heap on the floor.

Simon never stands up.

He holds you by your hips with a covetous grip, but still soft enough to not hurt, almost mimicking the way his mouth moves over you: with smothered hunger, with gentle greed, one that feels somehow oppositely selfless.

Like he's doing it because it feels good for you and not because he desires to have it.

Simon's nose dips in the crease of your thighs. A kiss there, one to the seam of your labia, one on your mound.

His eyes flicker to you.

The lights in your room are a soft yellow, casting a gentle glow on his kneeling body that feels somewhat wrong, like there's too much being shown under the sun when only the two of you should witness it.

Gingerly, you slide your hand along the wall until you find the bump of the switch. With a flick of your finger, the lights go off.

The room is pitch dark now. Moonlight laps at the lines of Simon's face like it's trying to make him glow despite how dim everything around him is. 

It takes a while to adjust to the darkness, but you finally see him when you do. The downturn of his eyes, the telltale signs of sleepless nights, wrinkles of exhaustion and endless battles fought within himself.

Utter, devastating regret. 

You wonder if he can spot the heaviness in your eyes. The uncertainty, the fear of falling right back into the cycle, a trap of yours and his making. 

He's going to tell you the nicest things, pull you in until you can only stick to him like glue, and then he's going to vanish from your life. Treat you like you're strangers until you'll somehow find yourself wrapped around his finger again.

And then it'll all start over. Again, and again, and again.

You brush your thumb on his temple.

Simon leans into it like a dog starving for attention.

He hooks his fingers at the thin straps hugging your hipbones. Slowly pulls your knickers down to your ankles as he holds your eyes.

Gently, he coaxes your knee to bend, lifting your leg off the floor. He kisses the side of your foot, your calf and upward, until your knee is draped over his shoulder. 

Slowly, his nose nudges your clit. The muscles in your thighs twitch.

You're not wet; you're not aroused. He isn't either, you can tell. Otherwise, you'd have had his face buried between your legs hours ago.

The tip of his tongue draws a stroke there. Like waves, it reaches the base of your skull. Tips you off balance, almost. Makes your head spin.

Another tentative lick. The tender fingers in his hair turn into claws, and you grip it tighter. 

Another, another, until you're breathless and inevitably dripping. Simon collects it with his fingers, drawing circles at your entrance.

The flat of his tongue meets your clit in a tortuously slow dance, holding you still with an arm encircling your thigh. And then his finger slides in. You're forced to bite your cheek, muffling a moan that only manages to break free as a sigh.

But when you look down, even in the darkness, you see his eyes, glossy and charged. But still so very tired. 

Like yours.

Because maybe he's navigating through this exactly like you, and you hadn't considered it—too absorbed in your own heartache to notice his. And maybe he's even more afraid because when you have nothing to lose, and something's suddenly given to you, you don't know how to behave.

And maybe Simon thinks that doing this is the only way to keep you.

You exchange a look that holds more pain than lust, shaking your head at him so, so softly it’s almost imperceptible. And Simon sighs, surrendered—he takes back his hand, his tongue, and sits back on his heels.

Carefully, you unhook your knee from his shoulder. He doesn't put up a fight, doesn't tighten the hold on your leg. Instead, he drops his arm limp on his thigh. 

You slide down the wall behind you until your knees bump against his. Simon's fingers reach out, almost shy, and trace mindless patterns on your skin. 

He's hunched over, head bowed in what you venture might be shame, or perhaps that grief he said he doesn't know how to carry. 

Your hand touches his cheek. Dark eyes look at you through paler lashes with reluctant understanding.

That it's over, isn't it?

"Doesn't feel right anymore, does it?" You offer gently.

His chest swells. Shoulders taut and suddenly straight, like something's hit his spine and forced it upright. 

He tongues his cheek. Looks away.

"Don't think so, no."

Your lips quiver. It's okay, it was bound to happen. 

It should've happened so long ago. You should've taken the leap and pulled away from him much, much earlier—when your heart wasn't woven to his yet.

"Maybe one day," you say in the darkness, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "When we're not so��"

With your free hand, you gesture at yourselves. 

"…Fucked." You finish with a hint of a breathy laugh in between. 

Simon huffs too, and then deflates.

It's long before his hand comes to cup yours on his cheek. He keeps it there momentarily, while finally giving you the privilege of meeting your eyes.

And he looks so tender, even when he gently brings your hand down, away from his face. He holds it as it lands on his knees.

"Eloquent." He remarks.

You scoff. Roll your eyes with a pathetic sniffle. "Obviously."

He shakes his head softly. A big hand reaches up, and he flicks your nose. You scrunch it up, smiling in a way that doesn't feel forced for the first time since you met tonight.

Simon's thumb brushes your knuckles.

"One day," he repeats. "When we're not fucked."

Your smile feels wet and shaky. Tears are staining your cheek, but it's freeing instead of reluctant, this time.

His eyes are gentle, allowing you to peek through the curtain for the first time. Perhaps it's too dark now to see, but you're hopeful one day you will.

"Good luck to us, then." You say softly.

Simon breathes a chuckle. Brings your knuckles to his lips and holds your hand there.

"Good luck, love."

Biggest thanks to @/void-my-warranty for helping me out, you're a gem 🧡

[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...

[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. 

[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.

[dreaminguponlilypads]

you guys are getting miserable blurbs because i had a shit week

this was written while listening to mascara by deftones

There’s something about the way Ghost looks at you—like he sees straight through every lie you tell yourself, every excuse you make for why this doesn’t matter. Like he knows exactly why you keep coming back, why you let him into your space, your bed, your body, even when you know better. Even when you know this isn’t love.

Because it isn’t.

It’s a habit, a ritual, a silent agreement built on tension and unspoken rules. It’s the way his hands find your waist in the dark, the way his lips skim over your throat, the way he fits against you like he was carved to be there. It’s sweat and heat and the sound of your name slipping from his mouth in the quietest moments, almost like a confession or prayer.

But then the sun rises, and it’s nothing.

Ghost doesn’t linger. He doesn’t stay. He leaves like a shadow, like a dream that dissolves the moment you open your eyes. And you tell yourself you don’t care, that this is what you signed up for. No attachments. No expectations. Just the burn of his fingers on your skin and the ghost of his breath against your neck, fading with the dawn.

You try to play it cool. Pretend it doesn’t sting when he walks past you in the hall like nothing happened. When he barely meets your eyes in the middle of a mission, when he calls you Sergeant instead of your name, like it’s a reminder, a boundary neither of you should cross.

But then there are the moments in between, the cracks in the façade. The way he watches you when he thinks you aren’t looking. The way his touch lingers just a second too long when he hands you your gear, his fingers brushing yours like a silent apology.

And then there are the nights when he stays. When he doesn’t leave as soon as it’s over. When his hand ghosts over your bare shoulder like he wants to say something but never does. When he watches you in the dark, quiet and unreadable, and you wonder if he’s just as fucked up over this as you are.

You never ask. He never tells.

And maybe that’s for the best.

Because this was never supposed to be anything more than bodies chasing relief in the dark. Never supposed to be anything close to real.

But lying next to him in the quiet, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, you wonder if maybe you’ve already gone too far. If maybe you’ve already lost.

Because Ghost is a man who doesn’t stay.

And you’re the idiot who wishes he would.

[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.