scaleniusrm

[scaleniusrm]

The man next door

Pairing: Simon Riley x reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Setting: Sleeping quarters on base, late night encounters

Genre: fluff

Warnings: Slightly suggestive? Idk.

Word count: 1.6k

Military sleeping quarters were never luxurious but you made them yours despite the standard-issue bunk, faded walls and faint hum of the central vent. The only real blessing? A door that shut…mostly, and a paper-thin wall between your room and his.

You’d both pretended not to notice it for the first couple of weeks. Training rotations made sleep a privilege, not a priority and neither of you were exactly known for casual small talk, but sound traveled through that thin strip of drywall like whispers on glass.

You heard his late-night pacing first. Quiet and controlled, boots off but heavy feet. It was the kind of walking you do when you can’t sit still or lie down because your head won’t shut off.

You didn’t knock that night, just laid there, staring at the ceiling, wondering. But the next night, it was the same and so was the one after that.

Eventually, you tapped. Three soft knocks with your knuckle against the wall.

You alright?

You heard silence at first then a faint tap back. Two knocks. 

He wasn’t.

You didn’t sleep much that night either but after that, it became something of a code. Not every night, but sometimes when his pacing picked up or your breathing quickened, there’d be a soft exchange through the wall. 

Three knocks were the question. One meant ‘yes’ and two, ‘not tonight’. 

Music sometimes did the trick, just low enough to bleed into the space between you. Nothing romantic and mostly instrumental, the same stuff Soap used to tease you both for having in your libraries but somehow, it helped and centered you both. Like a pulse to match your breathing to but eventually, it escalated and the pacing started again after a few calm nights. 

Ten steps across and ten back like clockwork.

You’d counted to thirty before you gave up trying to fall asleep. With a sigh, you sat up, blinked into the low amber glow of your nightlight and tapped the wall three times, a little sharper this time and received no answer. You waited and tapped again. 

This time, his footsteps stopped and then came a voice, low and rough, too close to the other side to not be standing right next to the wall.

“I’m good.”

“Bullshit, I can hear you pacing again,” you called softly through it. “Talk to me… or punch the pillow quieter.” 

You suggested, letting him know you heard how his night had started. There was a beat of silence where you thought you’d crossed a line.

His voice was quiet and apologetic. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“You didn’t. You just make a better metronome than the AC vent.”

A faint exhale. Might’ve even been a huff of a laugh. 

You sat against the wall on your bed and let your head rest against it, closing your eyes. “Bad one?”

He sighed. “Yeah.”

You didn’t ask for details, you never did, not unless he offered. Instead, you said, “Want me to play something?”

Another pause. Then, “Nah. Just talk.”

You blinked, a little startled because he didn’t usually ask. Still, you didn’t hesitate and started describing the cafeteria incident with Soap and the tragically overcooked lasagna, which somehow ended in Kyle betting fifty bucks that Ghost could eat it without flinching and he had…barely.

Then you talked about the training drills next week, the new recruits who kept saluting Ghost wrong and the way Price rubbed his eyes like a disappointed father every time someone asked if “Ghost” was his real name. Somewhere in the middle of it, Simon spoke again.

“You always talk this much?” he asked, voice less strained now.

“Only when I think someone’s listening.”

Another small silence stretched.

“I like it.” He added.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest. You didn’t reply right away, just sat there, listening to the low, shared silence between the walls before his voice cut through it.

“Can’t remember the last time I… asked someone to stay, even just like this.”

Your fingers brushed the wall, as if you could feel the shape of him there, seated on the other side. Shoulders against the drywall, mask off and maybe leaning forward the way he did when he was tired.

“You don’t have to ask,” you said softly.

There was no reply but the silence felt warmer now, much less hollow.

Eventually, you whispered, “Still awake?”

A single tap. Yes.

You didn’t expect anything in the morning. It wasn’t a thing, what you had. Not officially, just something suspended between late-night conversations and things left unsaid but when you opened your door, there was a cup of your favorite coffee on the floor, still hot with a small folded note tucked underneath.

Didn’t sleep much, but better. Thanks. -S

It became a habit, almost like muscle memory. So naturally, one night after your shower, you couldn’t bear walking past his door and going to sleep like you weren’t aching for the possibility of more. 

The knock came late then. Not the kind of sharp, hurried knock that meant urgency, no. This one was soft, deliberate and halfway wrapped in regret.

Simon had been sitting on the edge of his bunk, elbows on knees, still half-dressed in fatigues and running his fingers through his hair like he was trying to scrub thoughts out of his skull. 

He somehow knew it was you, so there was no hesitation when he stood and crossed the room. 

He unlocked the door and when he opened it, he wasn’t wearing the mask. You both just… looked at each other for a moment. The light from the hallway spilled softly across your face and your eyes flicked up to meet his like you were bracing for rejection. You didn’t offer an explanation, surely didn’t need to.

“Can I come in?” you asked quietly, pointing inside.

His voice came even lower. “‘Course you can.”

Inside, his room was nearly identical to yours, bland and utilitarian but it felt different, lived in, like someone had shaped this little corner into something that kept them sane.

He closed the door behind you gently. No click, just the careful hush of someone who didn’t want to wake ghosts. You stood awkwardly near the foot of the bed while he scratched the back of his neck, unsure what to say.

“I’m fine,” he said first. “No pacing tonigh'.”

“I know,” you replied. “That’s why I was worried.”

That made him glance at you, eyes soft yet cautious. You crossed your arms, more for protection than posture. 

“You could’ve been dead or something.”

His lips twitched upwards before silence settled for a second, but not the heavy kind. It was gentle…tentative.

He gestured toward the bed, then. Hesitating at first. “You wanna sit?”

You nodded and climbed onto the edge, perching at the side while he sat next to you. Close, but not touching. His shoulder rolled forward slightly, like he didn’t want to take up too much space in his own room.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” you asked, voice low.

“What, our little insomnia club?”

You smirked. “No…Well yeah, I mean… this–us. Talking through walls like we’re not fully grown adults who could just–” You hesitated. “I could’ve knocked sooner.”

“Would’ve opened the door sooner,” he admitted.

Something warm twisted inside your chest.

“You’re easy to talk to,” you said, explaining why as if it had been asked of you.

He hummed low in his throat. “You don’t ask for more than I can give.”

“Maybe I still want more.” You shrugged.

Simon turned his head slightly to look at you. “Then take it. I won’t stop you.”

For a second, it felt like the world narrowed to just the air between you. Your thigh barely brushed his and his hand rested next to yours, close enough to feel the heat.

You didn’t know when you leaned in, not quite but just did and he met you halfway. With your head on his shoulder and his over yours, you didn’t notice your eyelids becoming heavier, just as eyes closed like he was exhaling something he didn’t realize he’d been holding for years.

The weight of it settled over both of you, not heavy just… quiet and true.

A whispered “stay” had been the last thing you heard and domesticity followed, with the simple shifting of bodies beneath thin sheets. He didn’t press and you didn’t pull. It was just slow breathing, legs brushing and the careful alignment of two people who had spent months orbiting something fragile and when your fingers found his under the blanket, he didn’t flinch. He just held them.

Sleep came easier than it had in a long time that night. 

In the morning, sunlight pooled through the gap in the curtains. The first thing you noticed was the warmth, not the kind from the blanket but from him. Simon, still asleep with an arm slung over your side like it belonged there, like this had happened a thousand times before.

His breath tickled the back of your neck. You hadn’t shifted once in the night and neither had he.

You blinked slowly, too content to move and he stirred. His voice, rasped and half-asleep, broke the silence. “You stayed.”

You smiled, snuggling up against him. “You told me to…might’ve mistaken it for an order.”

He let out a breathy soft chuckle, voice so deep it sent shivers down your spine. Then a long moment passed. 

“First full night I’ve slept in months.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?.”

He nudged his face slightly into your shoulder and breathed in like he was memorizing the scent. “Should’ve knocked sooner,” he murmured.

You smiled again and whispered. “Told you.”

----

Likes, reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading :) 💛

[scaleniusrm]

ENEMIES TO LOVERS SIMON AND READER WHERE YOU HATE HIM AND HE WANTS TO KISS YOU BUT YOURE LIKE “you can on one condition”

“yeah luv, wha’s tha’?” “you get to kiss me only if you can recite the whole bible in japanese”

and he just- he does? what

what do you mean he’s- where the fuck did he learn- pause- WHY did he learn-

you’re so shocked that after he speaks for a couple minutes he grabs your waist, pulls you closer and kisses you, it’s gentle but he’s exploring your mouth, lips parting yours and licking into you slowly

when he pulls away he’s smirking, lips pulling on one side and eyes so full of satisfaction, murmuring something about ‘make it harder next time swee’hear’’ and you’re still shocked and standing there like an idiot

[scaleniusrm]

did somebody say...simon riley?

[scaleniusrm]

https://youtube.com/shorts/mciS35PRImQ?si=P5fQD67uv7exUVL7

SO GHOST IS REALLY A GIRL DAD I KNEW IT

[scaleniusrm]

simon points out the final girl getting chased by the slasher in the horror film you’re watching together and sighs out a dreamy little “that’s us” and then just doesn’t elaborate at all

[scaleniusrm]

simon riley has the worst laugh you've ever heard, sounds like you told someone to laugh and they'd only ever read about what laughter is. that deep spoken "heh heh heh" that he lets out in response to his own jokes is so insincere that you hesitate to even all it laughter but he is so clearly enjoying himself that it gives you pause. you ask around but whenever you ask gaz or soap to imitate ghost's laugh you get the same results. so you live with it. you live with the spoken word poem of laughter that spills out of him.

until you're sitting on the patio of a nice little seafood place trying to decide between the paella and the scampi and look up just in time to watch a child fall sideways off a bicycle. and simon Laughs like a lawnmower starting up. a deep revving of unused motors that climbs out of his throat with a wheeze of breath. the ugliest thing you've ever heard in your life accompanying tears that burst from simon's eyes as he struggles to find composure. there's a snort here and there, as the engine dies into silent shudders, bracketing attempts to heave in the air he's so rapidly pushing out with some sound. it isn't until he finally manages to pull himself together that he clears his throat and goes:

"kids fallin' off things," a sniff, "always funny."

"you've got a nice laugh." you tell him.

"always thought it sounded like a strangled goose."

"yeah, but it's nice." it's more sincere than he likes, and you can tell he's going to be grumbling about it later by the pink that tinges his ears. you're treated to a half mumbled "fuck off" and later, when you tell a particularly horrible joke, the same lawn mower chain rattles its way through your flat.

[scaleniusrm]

WHEN A MAN SAYS HE WANTS HIS FAVOURITE FEMALE CHARACTER TO STEP ON THEM, NO ONE BATS AN EYE, BUT WHEN I SAY I WANT TO KISS, HOLD, FUCK, SUCK AND CUDDLE A HOT DEPRESSED OLD MAN, SOCIETY CALLS ME WEIRD 💔

[scaleniusrm]

Hi hello there, if you're reading this, pls leave a comment sharing a fic of Simon riley you loved it. I kinda want longer ones, but short ones are okay too. Pls and thank you 🙏

[scaleniusrm]

i mean this from the bottom of my heart: no one is impressed by your loud ass car. actually we talked about it and we all want you dead.

[scaleniusrm]

I can't put into words how much I love this. I had so many emotions reading it. It's completely and utterly perfect. Oh my God, I loved it

Forever

✦ oneshot

Reader x Simon ‘Ghost‘ Riley | 18+ MDNI

cw: explicit sexual content, rough sex with emotional aftercare, PTSD, mentions of past abuse (non-graphic), dominant/submissive dynamics, soft angst, emotional vulnerability, military setting, light voyeuristic teasing from others, slow-burn tension turned intimacy

⸻

You’ve known Simon Riley for years.

Not well. Not enough to call it close. But long enough to know what silence means when he uses it like a shield. Long enough to know what his eyes look like when he’s about to say something devastating but doesn’t. And long enough to be the only one who knows what he looks like under the mask.

That wasn’t his choice. You caught a glimpse once—purely by accident—when he thought the building was cleared, years ago. You never told a soul. And now, every time you’re standing in front of him and he’s wearing that stupid, grinning balaclava, you tilt your head and say:

“Who are you now? Keegan or Riley?”

Every time, he plays along.

“Depends. Who pisses you off more?”

It’s a thing between you. The teasing. The back-and-forth that always walks the line between violent and horny. He’s big and broad and impossible to intimidate, and you’re his superior, sharp-tongued and dead-eyed from years in command. You slap his arm when he’s being smug. He tugs you by the waist when you try to walk away. He calls you “boss” with a sneer that sounds like “brat.”

Soap jokes that you two should either fuck or fight it out. You’d deck him for that, but Ghost always beats you to it with a slow, gruff, “Jealous, Johnny?”

The room is dim. Flickering with fluorescent fatigue. The mission brief drones on from the front—something about secondary exit routes, thermal blind spots, and fallback zones.

You’re listening. Mostly. But your body is turned toward the man beside you. Ghost.

He’s all black kevlar, thick arms folded, legs spread, skull mask still and unbothered. His fingers drum once against his thigh—restless, calculating. Not nervous. Never nervous.

You lean your elbow on the edge of the table, hand casually drifting over to his. And without asking, without even thinking, you tap his knuckles with two fingers. Once. Then again. He doesn’t flinch.

You start tracing slow circles on the back of his glove with your nail. Absent. Like you’re doodling. Like it means nothing. He still doesn’t move. You graze over the seam where glove meets skin. He shifts his hand, just slightly, enough to let your fingers slip lower. Onto bare skin.

Your touch softens, trails along the tendon between his thumb and index. It’s calloused. Warm. He twitches once, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he plants his boot wide, spreading out like he’s relaxed.

He always does this. He doesn’t stop you. You trace the shape of his thumb, the bone under it. You feel him breathe, steady and deep, and your mouth tilts into a smirk.

“You know,” you murmur under your breath, quiet enough for only him to hear, “if you keep letting me do this, I’m gonna start thinking you like me.” You don’t look at him. But you feel the shift. His head turns just slightly. His voice is low, near your ear. “You always think I like you. That’s the problem.”

You roll your eyes, still tracing his hand lazily. “You always let me touch you. That’s your problem.” He doesn’t answer that. But you swear you hear the faintest exhale under the mask—close to a laugh. Close to something warmer than he usually shows anyone.

And then— “Focus up,” Price says from the front. “We’ve got twenty minutes left. I want eyes forward.” You straighten. Ghost lets his arm slip away from yours, pulling his hand back to rest against his thigh.

But you feel his pinkie brushing yours. Just barely. Like he’s testing the weight of your presence. Like he doesn’t want to admit he missed your hand when you moved it away. It means a lot. And he’s letting you.

His massive frame is all stillness beside you—knees spread, arms resting. His glove shifts again as you trace the lines in his skin, nail brushing that groove near the thumb joint. You feel him flex beneath your fingers, like he’s holding back a shiver.

You keep doing it. Just because he won’t ask you to stop.

Across the room, Soap glances your way. Double-takes. Then blinks and raises a brow so high it nearly flies off his forehead.

“Am I—am I the only one seein’ this?” he mutters under his breath to Gaz. “The hell’s that then? Tactile map reading?”

Gaz snorts. “Shut up.”

You don’t look up, but your hand does shift a little higher—stroking the edge of Ghost’s wrist now. Your nails drag gently where skin meets fabric. Ghost doesn’t even twitch. He’s trained for this. For battlefield control. But you can feel the tension in him, tight and low and pulling like wire.

“You’re not subtle,” you murmur out of the corner of your mouth.

Ghost tilts his head, just a little. “Neither are you.”

Your mouth curls. “You like it.” He doesn’t deny it.

Price calls wrap. Everyone starts moving. Ghost stands, towering like a monolith beside you, checking his gear. His mask turns toward you, and you know he’s waiting for something—an order, a comment, a tease. Something to ground him. So you rise too, slowly, walking beside him just long enough to lean in close. So close your lips brush the edge of his mask—where cloth meets cheekbone.

And you whisper: “Come back in one piece, Riley. I’m not done with you yet.” Then, just as he straightens slightly, caught in it, you lean in closer— “If you die, I’m gonna find your corpse and fuckin’ kill you again.” You palm his chest once, soft and firm, then step away.

He doesn’t move for a full beat. And you don’t look back. You just walk out of the room with your head high and a lazy swing in your hips, headed for your office like you didn’t just fry every nerve ending in this man’s body.

The door clicks shut behind you. You wait. You know something’s about to go wrong. But you also know he better come back. Because you weren’t joking. Not even a little.

Ghost didn’t move for a long time after you whispered in his ear. He heard it. Felt it. Still burned from it, your voice seared into his jaw where your lips brushed the edge of his mask.

And then the mission went to hell.

It wasn’t a full failure. Not on paper. The package got moved. The target slipped through. Civilians caught in the crossfire. Exit routes blown. Communications scrambled.

For twenty full minutes, you thought Ghost was dead. You saw his name grey out on the tracker. You saw his last position ping surrounded. And when command asked for the casualty estimate, you had to clench your fists behind your back and say—“Unknown.” When he came back, he was covered in blood that wasn’t his, panting, dragging a rookie with a busted leg over his shoulder like it was nothing. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at you. And that hurt more than you expected.

You wait thirty minutes. Then you call him into your office. Door shut. The rain pelts hard against the window now. Everything smells like stale adrenaline and gunpowder. He steps inside.

Silent. Broad. Shadowed. Still in gear. Still wearing the mask. You don’t look at him yet. You’re pacing. Arms crossed. Rage flickering behind your ribs like a dying fire you keep fanning.

“I gave you an order.”

“I ignored it.”

“Don’t be proud of that.”

“I’m not.”

You stop pacing. He stands there with that skull face tilted down toward you, unreadable. “You almost died.”

“I didn’t.”

You step forward. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point, boss?”

He spits the word like a challenge. Like he wants you to bite. So you do. “The point is that you’re reckless. You’re always reckless. And you think that makes you valuable. It doesn’t.”

Something sharp flashes in his eyes. You shove your hand against his arm, harder than usual. “You think I’m impressed?” you hiss. “You think I want your damn loyalty if it gets you killed? I don’t want martyrs on my squad. I want people who stay the fuck alive.”

His shoulders go stiff. His hand flexes. You don’t stop. You’re shaking now, the edge of something else—panic, maybe, or the rage that comes from caring too much and not knowing when it happened.

“You think this is noble? Rushing in, ignoring the plan, coming back with a bleeding rookie like you’re some goddamn hero—”

“Don’t touch me when you’re angry,” he says, suddenly.

You freeze. He says it again, quieter.

“Don’t—don’t fucking touch me when you’re angry.”

You lower your hand. “…Simon.” His jaw tightens under the mask. You’ve only said his name like that a few times. It always hits different. Always lands hard in the silence.

“I’m not angry because I hate you,” you murmur. “I’m angry because I—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. His voice cracks at the edge of it. “Don’t say it.” He takes one step back. You follow. His voice is a whisper now. “You always do this.”

You stop. “What?” He looks up slowly.

“You touch me. You joke. You say my name like it’s safe in your mouth. And then you expect me not to want more.”

Silence. Your breath catches. He adds, quieter this time: “And I can’t want more. Not from you. Not from anyone.”

Your voice breaks. “Then why do you always let me?” He looks at you with eyes full of guilt and heat and something rawer than you’ve ever seen on him. “Because I’m not strong enough to stop.”

You reach out. Slow. Just to brush your hand down his vest—gentle now. Not angry. Not demanding. His eyes close like it hurts. You step closer, chest nearly brushing his. Voice low. “Then stay alive next time. Let that be your strength.”

His hand ghosts over your hip. Just for a second. Then he lets it fall. You don’t say anything when he turns to leave. But as the door opens, your voice cuts through the quiet: “I meant what I said.”

He pauses. Half in shadow. Half out. “…Which part?”

You look straight at him. “That I’m not done with you yet.”

After that he’s avoiding you.

You’re not stupid. You’ve seen it before. Ghost slipping behind silence like it’s armor. Averting his gaze. Showing up late to debriefs he’s never been late to. Taking night patrols he doesn’t need. Sleeping in the gear room again. He’s pulling away.

And the worst part? He’s pretending it’s nothing.

“Where’s Riley?” you ask, casual. Keegan doesn’t look up from his rifle cleaning. “Took a walk. Said he needed air.”

“He talk to you?”

“Nope.” You nod, tight. Then lean on the doorway just long enough to mutter, “Tell him I want him in my office.” Keegan pauses. Looks up slowly. You don’t repeat yourself. He gets the message.

Ten minutes later. He knocks. Two short raps. You don’t say anything. The door creaks open anyway. He steps in like he’s walking into an ambush. Skull balaclava on. Gloves still half-wet from the rain. Shoulders tight. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I heard you wanted something.”

You say nothing at first. Just study him. The shadows under his eyes. The stiff set of his spine. The slight tilt of his head like he’s waiting for impact. “You don’t run from me,” you say softly.

His mouth pulls tight behind the mask. “I’m not.”

You step around your desk. “Don’t lie to me.” He stays still.

“You’ve been pulling away,” you continue. “Since the mission. Since what I said. Since what you said.”

“I’m not pulling away,” he lies again. “I’m getting perspective.”

You snort. “That’s a poetic way of saying you’re hiding like a coward.”

His head snaps up. Good. There he is. “Careful,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re poking at.”

You step in. “Don’t I?”

“You think I’m scared of you?”

“No,” you say. “You’re scared of this.”

You jab a finger between you. “This thing we never talk about. This thing you keep pretending doesn’t matter. You can stare at me every day, let me touch you, let me whisper shit that makes your hands shake and then pretend it’s all a joke? That’s your play?”

His silence is deafening. You lower your voice. “I see you, Simon.” That name again. It lands like a punch. “I know you. And you’re not scared of dying. You’re scared of needing someone when you do.” His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

You close the space between you. Slowly. “You can try to disappear behind the skull. You can try to make me the villain for seeing too much. But it won’t work. Not on me.”

Still no answer. But his chest is rising faster now. His eyes flick once—down to your mouth. Then away. You pause just before your hand reaches him. “If you walk out now, don’t come back until you’re ready to stop pretending.” A full second passes. Then another.

And finally, his voice cracks out, low and rough: “I don’t know how to do this.”

You step forward. Touch his chest. Just rest your palm there, steady and warm. And this time, he doesn’t flinch. He stays. He doesn’t storm out, doesn’t shove it all down and vanish into his routine like a ghost in name and body. No—he stays in your office, rain dripping from his gloves, shoulders drawn tight beneath the weight of something neither of you have dared name until now.

You take a breath. The storm still rattles the windows, but the air between you is worse. It crackles. It aches. He looks up at you. And then, slowly, he lifts his hand. Grabs the hem of the skull balaclava with scarred fingers. He hesitates. And for a split second, you see it—not the man who’s held knives to necks and ghosted through firestorms. You see a boy trying not to flinch from being seen. Then he pulls the mask off. And he looks— Small. Tired. Wrecked.

Despite being taller than you by half a foot—190 centimeters of trained muscle and violence—he looks like he’s been hollowed out and barely stitched back together. Hair sweat-matted to his forehead. A fading bruise along his jaw. That mouth you’ve only ever seen in glimpses—tight, pained. But it’s the eyes that get you.

They don’t burn. They beg. Your chest caves in slowly. Quietly. You step toward him without a sound. You reach up, cupping his face—soft, steady, like you’re holding something delicate for the first time in your life. And the second your palm brushes his cheek—he flinches. Just once. But enough. You don’t drop your hand. Just tilt your head. “What is the matter, Riley?”

He breathes in sharp. His jaw tightens. Then he says it. Voice low, hollow, cracking on the edges like something worn too thin: “I can’t touch you.”

Your breath stutters. He keeps going, even quieter: “I can’t sleep with you. I just… I can’t.” And the look in his eyes when he says it— Shame. Fury. Hunger. Fear. It all crashes into you at once. You don’t move. You don’t drop your hand. Your thumb strokes just once across the edge of his jaw.

“I never asked you to.”

He looks down. You say it again—softer, this time. “I never asked you to touch me. Or fuck me. Or give me anything you can’t.”

You wait. Then: “I just asked you not to run.”

His shoulders sink. He closes his eyes.

Silence. Then he exhales—shaky and uneven and leans forward. Not for a kiss. Not for anything more. Just to rest his forehead against yours. And he stays there. A big, broken, breathless man, kneeling down emotionally, even if he’s still standing.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel like you’re not alone in the storm anymore. You don’t move when he leans his forehead against yours. You just breathe with him. And then—without a word—you wrap your arms around him and pull him in.

He stiffens for a second. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how. But you don’t let go. You step forward fully and press your head to his chest. Right over the vest. Right over the beat that proves he’s still here.

And you stay there. One second. Five.

Until he breaks. It doesn’t happen with sobs or gasps or anything loud. It starts with his hand gripping your back. And then his voice. “It started when I was a kid. He was drunk a lot. My dad. Mean even when he wasn’t.”

You keep your head on his chest. No pushing. No questions. Just listening. “He beat me. My brother, too. But I always took more. I thought—if he was busy with me, he’d leave him alone. Didn’t work.” His voice cracks. “He got us both. In different ways. And then after he died, it didn’t stop. There was Roba. He was supposed to help me. Help me get better. But he just…” He swallows. “Used it. Used me. Said I was already ruined, so what did it matter.”

Your fists curl against his back. You whisper, “It mattered.”

His breath stutters. “I used to think there was something wrong with me. That’s why they did it. Why they kept doing it.”

You lift your head, finally. Look up at him. His face is unreadable. But his eyes are screaming. You press your hand to his jaw again—softer this time, slower—and he lets you. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Riley.”

He doesn’t answer. Just closes his eyes, brow pulling tight. You cup the back of his head, pulling him forward again, letting him rest his cheek on your shoulder this time. He breathes out like he’s been underwater for years. You stroke his hair. Soft. Patient.

And whisper: “You’re not ruined. You’re still here. With me.” You’re still holding him. Arms around his broad body. His cheek buried against your shoulder. Your fingers threading through his hair. And then his voice comes again—low, hoarse, almost distant. Like it’s not him saying it. Like he’s watching someone else relive it.

“Roba used to say I was special.” He’s shaking slightly. “Said I was different from the others. Quieter. Stronger. Easier to train. He kept me separated from the other recruits. Would call me to his tent at night. Put a hand on my back and say I was ‘making progress.’ Sometimes… he’d tell me if I just took it without fighting, I could leave early. That I’d earned rest. But there was never any rest.”

Your head is against his chest again now, but you feel it—his heart is racing. His hands clenched into fists at your back. And then he says it—quiet, like a death sentence.

“He raped me.”

The silence after that word is unbearable. Your eyes burn. And you can’t stop it now. They well up. Because no matter how strong he is—how tall, how broad, how terrifying in combat—he looks so fucking hurt. Like a kid who was never saved. Like a man who was never held after the screaming stopped.

“He said no one would believe me,” Simon continues. “That I was too old for anyone to care. That I was just another disposable freak. And he was right. No one did. Not even after he was gone.”

Your voice trembles. “Simon…”

But he keeps going. “Then there was the grave. They drugged me. Hooded me. Tied my wrists. Buried me alive. There was a corpse in there with me. Half-rotten. No eyes. I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Just lay there for hours thinking I was already dead.”

You’re crying now. Quietly. Not sobbing. But your tears are falling. Onto his vest. Onto his chest. Because nothing in your career—nothing you’ve seen—could prepare you for how broken his voice sounds. He finally looks down at you. Eyes bloodshot. Hollow.

“That’s who I am. That’s what you’re touching. That’s what’s under this skin.” And then—almost a whisper— “I’m so fucked up, I don’t know how to be anything else.”

You don’t speak. You reach up again. Cup his face with both hands this time, even as your tears run down your cheeks. He tries to look away. You catch his jaw gently. “Don’t you dare look away from me.”

He freezes. “You survived things no one should’ve survived. You’re still standing. Still fighting. Still protecting people who will never know what you went through to be here.” You lean your forehead to his, breathing hard. “You are not what they did to you.”

His lips part, breath shuddering. You swear he’s about to cry. But he doesn’t. Instead, he says: “…I don’t know how to let someone love that.” You whisper: “You don’t have to let me. Just don’t stop me.”

Your eyes are glassy. Your cheeks damp. And Simon—he sees it. You try to hold his gaze, but the emotions are too much, too deep. You blink, tears spilling over. He exhales, rough. Then lifts one gloved hand and brushes your cheek with his thumb. Gently.

“Don’t cry, love.” His voice is hoarse. Raw. Like it hurts him to see you hurting for him. But you don’t look away. You look up at him, nose a little red, lips bitten and swollen from holding back too much.

“Please stay the night.” He stills. Your voice is quiet. Steady. No desperation, no pleading. Just warmth. Something in him softens. His brow relaxes. He just… nods.

A single movement. But it feels like the world shifting.

The walk to your dorm is quiet. You don’t touch him. Not out of fear. Just out of respect. Like you’re holding his hand without needing to touch it. At your door, he hesitates. You see it. The twitch of his jaw. The shift of his weight. The thought: Is this a mistake?

You open the door. And he follows you in.

“You can shower. I’ll wait for you.” Your voice is light, even. Like you’re talking to someone normal. Not a man who’s seen hell and still lives in the echo of it.

Simon nods. He disappears into the bathroom, and the water runs moments later. You change quickly. Oversized shirt. Short biker leggings. Bare feet against the tile. You move to the kitchen. Not doing anything—just… standing there. Waiting. Processing.

You hear the water stop. A few minutes later, the door creaks open again. He steps out. Towel slung low around his hips. Chest damp. Hair darker when wet, a little curled at the ends. Steam clings to his skin, still flushed from the heat. He smells clean—soap, smoke, and something distinctly him.

And for a moment—he doesn’t move. Just watches you in the low light. You don’t speak. You walk over. Slow. And you wrap your arms around him. You hug him. Chest to chest. Damp skin to cotton. Your face buried against his collarbone. And this time— he hugs you back. Full-bodied. No hesitation. His arms around your waist. One hand at the small of your back. The other curling protectively around your shoulders. You hear his breath stutter. Once. Then again. You squeeze him tighter. He presses his face into your neck. Warm. Wet. Silent. And the way he holds you—it’s not rough. Not hard.

It’s loving. Like he doesn’t know how to say thank you yet. Or I don’t want to leave. Or I’ve never been held like this before. So he just breathes. And stays.

The hug lasts longer than either of you thought it would. There’s no rush. No ticking clock. No looming mission to run from. Just the wet press of his skin against your shirt. The steady thud of his heartbeat against your ribs. When you finally ease back, you keep one hand at his side. His towel is still slung low, drops of water clinging to his collarbone, gliding down the curve of his chest. His hair’s messily flattened from the towel. He looks younger like this. Or maybe just… real. He opens his mouth, voice low, uncertain.

“I’ll throw my boxers on. I can sleep on the cou—”

“No.” Your voice cuts through quietly, sure and soft. You meet his eyes. “If you’re comfortable… come with me to my bed.”

The silence after that is delicate. Heavy, but not awkward. Like something has been offered—not taken. Simon looks at you for a long second. Then nods, just once. “Okay.”

Later, in your bedroom.

You’re already curled into the side of the bed, back against the wall, blanket pulled over your legs. You expect him to hesitate. He doesn’t. He walks in wearing only his black boxer-briefs. No mask. Hair still a little damp. Shoulders impossibly broad in the soft lamp light. You lift the blanket. He slides in beside you. No words. His body heat seeps into the sheets. His arm brushes yours. You watch his chest rise and fall.

Then you shift closer slowly, tucking your arm around his waist and your head just under his collarbone. He lets out a shaky breath. You feel it in his ribs. His hand moves to your back, warm and careful. His fingers stroke softly there. Repeating a slow rhythm. Up. Down. Breathe. Up. Down. Like touching you helps him stay here.

“Thank you,” he whispers. You smile into his skin. “You’re safe here, Simon.”

A pause. Then: “I know.”

Minutes pass. Maybe more. The room is still. Safe. You shift slightly. Look up at him. His face is turned toward the ceiling, jaw tight. But his eyes flick to yours when he feels you move.

You whisper: “Can I kiss you?” He swallows. Nods—barely.

You shift up, press your hand to his jaw, and lean in— Soft. Not needy. Not urgent. Just lips meeting lips, slow and careful, as if sealing a wound no one else could reach.

He kisses you back—gently, like he’s scared to break the moment. Like he’s scared to break you. But you don’t break. You just kiss him again. And this time, he sighs against your mouth like he’s been waiting years for that single breath. Your lips are still brushing his when he exhales—quiet, shaky, like he’s still not sure if this is real. You kiss him again. Deeper, this time. And he groans softly into your mouth.

His hand finds your waist beneath the covers, fingers trembling at first, then firm as he pulls you closer. Your legs tangle under the sheets. His skin is warm and smooth and damp where your shirt rides up. You press your hand to his jaw again, kiss him harder.

And something in him snaps loose—but not in the rough, frantic way you feared. It’s desperate, but slow. Hungry, but careful. His body shifts over yours, weight sinking into the bed as he lowers himself between your thighs. You gasp into his mouth, and his hands immediately still.

His forehead presses to yours. “Too much?” You shake your head, breathless. “No. Just—don’t stop.” His mouth crashes into yours again. He slides his hands down—one to cup the back of your thigh, pulling your leg around his waist, the other gripping your hip like he’s trying not to lose his mind. You feel the heat of him, hard and heavy against your core, even through the thin fabric of his boxers and your leggings. You grab his hair. Fingers threading into the still-damp strands. Your other hand clutches his shoulder, nails digging in slightly, grounding yourself in the weight of him above you.

And the two of you just make out. Mad. Sloppy, slow, hot. Like teenagers with no sense of time. His mouth is everywhere—your lips, your cheek, your jaw, the line beneath your ear. He moans when you tug his hair harder, and the sound goes straight through you. It’s hot. But it’s soft. There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the rising ache of a man who hasn’t let himself want in so long, he doesn’t know how to pace himself—but god, he’s trying. You feel him shaking slightly when he grinds into you, groaning through clenched teeth.

Your fingers curl under his chin, guiding him back up to your lips. “Simon.” His eyes flutter open—dazed, dark, needy. “You’re okay,” you whisper. “You’re okay here.”

He nods. And kisses you again—deeper than before. His hips roll into you slow. Your thighs tighten around him. The friction makes you whimper, and that makes him lose whatever control he was holding onto.

You’re both breathing hard. You feel his heart racing through his chest, feel his cock straining against the layers of fabric still between you. But he doesn’t rush to strip them off. He just kisses you. Over and over. Like he’s starving. Like he finally found something that tastes like peace. And when he finally breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, his breath still ragged, he whispers:

“I needed that.” You smile up at him, thumb brushing the back of his neck. “I know.”

You’re still lying beneath him, legs tangled, his weight half on you, half held up by one shaking arm. The sweat has cooled a little between your bodies. Your mouths are red. Your cheeks flushed. But the urgency is gone. Now there’s only this—his chest pressed to yours, your hand resting on the warm, firm swell of his bicep as he finally lets himself breathe.

Simon shifts slightly, careful not to crush you, and your hand follows the movement—still holding onto his arm, grounding him. You feel the muscle flex under your palm. He glances down at you. And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—he’s soft. Not just in body, but in eyes. In mouth. In soul. His lashes are low, his brow no longer drawn tight. There’s a flush to his cheeks, a shine to his eyes—not tears, but close. He lifts one hand and slowly strokes your hair, brushing it back from your forehead, fingers warm and trembling a little as they slide behind your ear. “Is this okay?” he murmurs.

His voice is raw. Gentle. You nod. “It’s perfect.”

He keeps brushing your hair, then runs his thumb along your cheekbone—so slow, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “Never done this,” he says softly. “Not like this.”

You smile faintly, fingers flexing on his arm. “You’re doing fine.” He leans down, barely a kiss, just a warm press of lips to your temple. His free hand trails down to your side, resting just under your ribs. No grip. Just contact. He exhales. “I didn’t know I could feel like this,” he admits, voice nearly a whisper.

You press your forehead to his. “You don’t have to let go after this.”

His eyes flutter shut. “I don’t want to,” he breathes. “For the first time—I don’t want to go anywhere.”

You shift, rolling gently to your side so he’s now behind you, curling close. His arm wraps around your waist, and you guide his hand there, fingers laced through his, holding it in place. Your back fits into his chest. His nose presses to your hair. And his voice is the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you both under: “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

The light in your room is still soft, silver with morning. Curtains gently shifting with the breeze. Rain’s stopped.

And Simon wakes up before you. At first, he doesn’t know where he is. He blinks—sluggish, confused. Then he feels it. Your body, curled into his. Your hand resting lightly over his forearm. Your hair against his throat. And then it hits him. You let him stay. You asked him to stay. His eyes trace the shape of your back under the blanket, then your bare legs curled beneath the hem of that oversized shirt you slipped into last night. You’re warm. Breathing slow. You’re not running. Neither is he. He shifts a little, just to look at you. Quietly. Carefully.

Your nose is a little scrunched. Your cheek is pressed into the pillow in a way that makes your mouth pout slightly. And he just… stares. Like if he blinks too hard, it’ll all fade. He doesn’t know how long he’s been watching you when your voice—dry, amused—breaks the moment:

“You lookin’ to propose or something, Riley?”

He startles slightly. You smirk, still not opening your eyes. “You’ve been staring so hard I thought I’d wake up with a ring.”

He clears his throat. “You were snoring.”

You roll onto your back slowly, still blinking sleep from your eyes. “Right. I’m sure that’s why you’ve been gawking at me like I invented breakfast.” He says nothing. His eyes flick away like a guilty dog. You grin wider. “You’re so soft in the mornings, Ghost. Bet if I kissed your cheek, you’d blush.”

He growls under his breath, shifting away like it’ll help, but you catch his arm before he gets far. “Where you going, Romeo?”

He mumbles, “Away from your mouth. It’s dangerous in the mornings.”

You sit up slowly, hair messy, shirt sliding off one shoulder. “You’re the one who spooned me all night,” you say, voice light. “Real snug. Full koala grip.” He scowls, but it’s weak at best. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

You hum. “Didn’t say I minded.”

His eyes flick back to you. And despite the bickering, the deflection, the sarcasm—he’s smiling. Just a little. It’s tired. Crooked. Small. But it’s real. You lean forward, brush your fingers under his jaw, and say—deadpan: “If you’re gonna keep falling in love with me, Riley, I need at least a warning next time.”

He huffs a breath. And then? He leans in and kisses your forehead. “Consider this your warning.”

You’re standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching a shirtless Simon Riley—still in nothing but those damn black boxer briefs—try to navigate your tiny kitchen like it’s enemy territory.

He’s making eggs. Or trying to. You’re still grinning as the second egg hits the floor with a sad, wet splat. “Two for two,” you say, stepping closer. “You sure you’re cleared for kitchen duty, lieutenant?”

You raise your eyebrows, stepping in. “Deadliest operator in Task Force 141 can slice a man open in five seconds flat but loses a one-on-one with a couple of eggs.”

He turns his head slightly, already biting down a grin. “Don’t push it.”

You saunter closer. “What are you gonna do, lieutenant? Intimidate the frying pan into submission?” He sets the spatula down. Turns toward you.

And something shifts in the air. He steps forward, closing the distance between you in two easy strides. You feel your breath catch just a little—because now he’s face to face with you, chest bare, skin still warm from sleep, nose brushing yours.

His voice drops. „Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll put you on the counter.”

Oh. Your breath hitches, lashes fluttering, but your mouth curls in that exact way he loves—smart, smug, and so goddamn sure of yourself. “There’s my little Riley.” You lean in and press a kiss to the bridge of his nose. Then you murmur, sweet as sin: “Clean up, big guy. The only thing you’re allowed to make a mess of…” You lean into his ear, soft and slow: “…is in between my thighs.”

You pull back just enough to watch it hit. Simon freezes. Eyes wide. You see the moment it sinks in. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something—then closes again. “Did you just—” You’re already walking away with a smug little swing in your hips. “Breakfast, Riley. Focus up.” Behind you, you hear it. The laugh. That deep, warm, belly-deep thing that barely escapes his chest. Honest. Caught-off-guard. And then— “Fuckin’ hell.”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s staring at the yolk-covered floor with a hand in his hair and the ghost of a grin still stuck on his lips.

Behind you: a soft groan, followed by: “You’re gonna be the death of me.” You smile to yourself without turning around. “Only if you’re lucky.”

Then: a knock.

A hard, hurried, way-too-early knock at your dorm door. Ghost’s shirt is still bunched in your hands. He’s standing near the window, still barefoot, in nothing but black briefs, wide-eyed and frozen like a kid caught sneaking out of detention. You blink at him once. He blinks back. Then you hear it: “Boss?” Soap’s voice. “You up?”

Ghost mouths fuck and turns on his heel, sprinting back toward your bedroom like he’s dodging enemy fire. You catch a glimpse of him yanking the too-tight black t-shirt over his still-damp chest and slapping his balaclava into place just as you reach the door.

You crack it open, leaning lazily on the frame. “Yeeees, gentlemen?”

Soap looks mildly winded. Keegan, beside him, arms folded. Soap frowns. “We—uh—we can’t find Ghost.” You blink, deadpan. “He is standing right beside you?”

Keegan tilts his head and chuckle. “He’s not in his quarters. His comm’s offline. Locker untouched. We thought maybe he wandered off to commit murder again—y’know, as a treat.” You shrug, unfazed. “Maybe he found someone better to spoon.”

That’s when footsteps sound behind you. Heavy. Reluctant. You don’t even turn. Simon appears just over your shoulder, trying—and failing—to act like he wasn’t hiding half-naked in your bed thirty seconds ago. Now he’s standing in the doorway behind you in: A too-tight black shirt clinging to every defined line of his chest, his signature skull balaclava and still wearing just his briefs.

Just. His. Briefs.

Keegan stares. Mouth physically drops open under his mask. Soap’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. And then—slowly—like a man ascending to prophecy: “I KNEW IT.”

He wheels on Keegan like he just cracked the Da Vinci Code. “I KNEWWWWW IT, KEEGS. I FUCKING CALLED IT TWO WEEKS AGO—the weird tension, the spoon jokes, the way she called him ‘sweetheart’ that one time—I CALLED IT!”

You raise your brows, leaning in the doorway, smug as ever. Ghost just stands there. Silent. Arms crossed. Not speaking. Letting the shame wash over him. You elbow him gently. “You forgot your pants.” He exhales through his mask, muttering under his breath: “…I hate all of you.”

Soap grins. “You hate pants more, apparently.” Keegan finally speaks. “Do we… need to come back later? Or is this a regular morning now?” You beam. “Regular as hell.” Ghost turns around and walks straight back inside. You call after him, sing-song: “Don’t forget your dignity!”

Soap leans on the wall, still stunned. Keegan just sighs, murmuring through his mask: “God help us all.”

Ghost doesn’t leave your room for two full hours after Soap and Keegan leave. He refuses. Just lies on your bed like a sulking storm cloud—arms folded, mask still on, blanket over his waist like that’ll preserve what’s left of his dignity. You eventually poke your head into the room, coffee mug in hand. “You gonna hide under that blanket forever or do I need to mail in your resignation?”

“Not funny.” You sip. “I thought it was hilarious.” He stares at you with the flat, cold fury of a man who’s heard Soap scream “I FUCKING KNEWWWWWW IT” before sunrise.

You saunter in, lean over the bed, and whisper sweetly: “You’re just mad I got to see your legs and they got to see your shame.”

He groans into the pillow.

Later, Keegan finds you in the hall, arms crossed, eyes watching Ghost clean his rifle like it personally insulted him. He nods toward Simon. “He looks… lighter.” You raise an eyebrow. “That a fat joke, Keegan?” He huffs a breath. “It’s not. You know what I mean.” You glance at Ghost again. There’s a weight missing from his shoulders today. Not all of it. But enough.

Keegan continues, voice low: “I’m glad it’s him. You needed someone who could actually stay.” You look at Keegan. Really look. He doesn’t smile. But there’s something solid in his voice. Grounded. You nod once. “Me too.”

Back in Your Room – That Night you find Ghost sitting at the foot of your bed again, still sulking—but in a hot way. Quiet. Thoughtful.

„I am not asking how you even got in here Riley.“ You drop into his lap sideways. He catches you without flinching, arms circling your waist. You murmur: „You know, you were real mouthy this morning for a man who couldn’t even hold onto an egg.”

He exhales sharply through the mask. “You try makin’ breakfast with your hands shaking ‘cause someone kissed your fuckin’ nose.”

You bite your lip. “Oh? You mean this nose?”

You lean in. Kiss it again over the mask. He groans, low and deep. “You’re doin’ this on purpose.”

You whisper: “Just clean your mess up, lieutenant. Or do I need to remind you where you’re allowed to make one?”

He stares. Then his hands tighten around your hips. And this time, he pulls you flush against him, mouth brushing your ear.

“You say that again,” he growls, voice low and rough, “and I’ll make sure the next time you walk into briefing, your knees give you away.”

Oh. You blink. Mouth falling open. He chuckles under the mask. “That’s what I thought.”

You blink. Look him dead in the eye. And then say, flat as hell: “You gonna cry again, lieutenant?”

Silence. He just stares at you. You blink once. Tilt your head. “You sounded so tough just now. Real scary. Like a man who definitely didn’t almost faint when I said the word thighs.”

His hands go still. You press on, voice lilting, almost sweet: “Poor baby. Two eggs, one brain cell, and zero chance of winning an argument with me.” Ghost stares like he’s mentally weighing the pros and cons of throwing you over his shoulder and locking you in your own closet. “You done?”

You lean in. Kiss the tip of his nose again. “Not even close.”

He groans. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Language,” you scold, all mock innocence. “You kiss your CO with that mouth?”

“You are my CO.”

You grin. “Exactly. Which means I outrank you in every way.”

“Not when you’re underneath me, you don’t.”

Your jaw drops. He smirks—a real one, smug and dangerous, and for a second you think maybe you should shut up. But of course, you don’t. You narrow your eyes. “You wish you could flip me.”

He leans back, arms still snug around your waist, and says dryly: “Don’t tempt me. I’ve already accepted I’m dying embarrassed because of you. Might as well go out with my face buried in your ego.”

You gasp. And then slap his arm—hard. He laughs. Actually laughs. Like a man who’s finally starting to breathe again. And you, still straddling him like it’s your throne—just grin like the villain you are.

“You’re lucky I like you, Riley.”

He leans up, nose brushing yours again. “You don’t like me. You’re obsessed.”

You pause. Then murmur— “Guilty.”

He’s still smirking, arms around your waist, your thighs warm across his lap. The room’s dim now. Late afternoon bleeding into something quieter. The kind of hush that makes you feel like no one else exists. He’s still in that black shirt that’s slightly too tight across his chest. Still got his damn mask on. But his body is relaxed. He’s here. With you. And suddenly, you’re done pretending like this is all just jokes and tension and egg-related trauma. You reach up slowly. Hands gentle.

“Let me.” His eyes flicker. But he doesn’t stop you. Fingers brush the hem of the balaclava. You feel him hold his breath. You peel it up slowly—careful, like you’re unwrapping something fragile.

And then he’s there. His face. Bare. Raw. Real. Cheeks a little flushed. A light stubble brushing his jaw. The kind of face that shouldn’t belong to a man who can gut someone with a shoelace.

But it’s his eyes that kill you. Because when you look at him like this—so close, so undisguised—you see it: The hunger. The hope. The fear. You stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, feather-light, and whisper: “You don’t need it here. Not for me.” He swallows hard. Still watching you. Still not saying a word. And then—quieter— “Also I want to kiss you.”

You see it hit him. Right there in his chest. Like he didn’t expect to ever hear those words spoken to him without a trace of fear or pity. You pause, just a breath away. “Can I?” His lips twitch. Then he nods. A little. Once. And you kiss him. Slow. Sure. Gentle—but not shy.

Your hand curls around the back of his neck, his stubble rough under your fingertips. He kisses you back, firm and steady, but his hands stay where they are—on your hips, just holding you there like you’re the only real thing in the world. He exhales into your mouth. A soft sound. Like relief. You lean back just enough to look at him again, your fingers still resting on his cheek. “Hi, Simon,” you whisper.

He blinks—eyes glassy. Then—barely audible: “Hi.”

He’s still sitting there, mask off, hair messy from your fingers, lips pink from your kiss. Then he blinks, like something clicks—and suddenly, he stands up, scooping you effortlessly into his arms and throwing you onto the bed with a dramatic, almost cocky. You bounce once on the mattress, laughing out loud.

“Oh,” he says, voice dropping, “what a show.”

You roll your eyes. “Fuck off.” But you’re grinning as you reach up and hook your fingers in his shirt. He yanks it off over his head, smooth and fast. And then he drops his pants too—fluid, confident, but still blushing just a little. His body, tall and lean and cut from quiet violence, is suddenly all yours to look at.

He crawls up onto the bed with a wolfish look in his eyes but then you pull him into your arms, hands sliding up the warm stretch of his back. He exhales when your skin meets his. And you murmur against his jaw: “You know tomorrow’s off-duty day.”

His brow twitches. “We could stay in bed aaaaall day, handsome.” That low chuckle rumbles in his chest again. God, that sound. Like it hasn’t had permission to exist in years. He pulls you closer. Settles half on top of you, arm tucked under your neck, thigh caging yours in place. You feel him, warm and strong and human. Then, quieter now—just above a whisper—he says: “It’s been a long time.”

You tilt your head, brushing his hair back from his face.

He swallows. “Last time I felt something real for someone? I was younger. Stupid. It didn’t last. Didn’t end well.” You don’t interrupt. He keeps going, voice even lower. “I haven’t kissed anyone in years.” You brush your fingers along his jaw. “You kissed me like you hadn’t stopped.”

He snorts. “You bring out the worst in me.” You grin. “And the best.” There’s a long pause. His hand strokes lightly along your waist.

Then: “I’m still afraid to go further with you. But I want to.” You press your forehead to his. Your voice gentle, steady. “We don’t have to rush anything. We already have everything that matters.” His hand curls around yours. His voice is hoarse. “I want you. Even if I’m not ready for all of it… I still want you.” You smile, curl closer into him, and kiss the side of his throat. “Then you’ve got me. For as long as you want.”

It starts simple. A few days later.

The team’s back to regular rotation, training drills, weapon checks, hand-to-hand exercises on the mats. Simon’s near the far wall, adjusting something on his vest. You’re walking past him between rounds, sweat beading on your collarbone from sparring. And without thinking, you touch him. Just your fingers brushing the side of his ribcage. Your palm flat to his lower back.

Nothing intense. Just casual intimacy, the kind that comes from comfort. And he doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. Instead, he tilts his head toward you, and under the mask, you hear that dry, deadpan murmur: “You know I could’ve killed you for sneakin’ up like that.”

You smile. “You let me.” He turns slightly toward you. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “I did.” Just that. A tiny sentence. But to him? That’s an entire trust fall. You keep walking, but your fingers trail off him slowly, feeling the warmth he always carries underneath all that armor. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to.

The next day - the training field is tight with energy. You step out of the comms tent just in time to hear the voices rising over the clatter of drills and distant grunts.

“If you followed the formation like you were told, we wouldn’t be cleaning it up now.” Ghost. Cold. Controlled.

“Maybe if your orders made sense in motion, Riley, I’d follow them.”

König. Steady. But his accent is sharper than usual. Clipped.

You see them both masked, black balaclavas pulled low. They’re facing each other across the mats like sparring wasn’t enough and now it’s personal. They’re not yelling yet. But the tension?

Lethal. You cross the distance. “Are we debating tactics or measuring dicks, boys?”

Ghost’s head snaps toward you immediately. König’s broad shoulders stiffen. You keep your tone light, mocking, familiar. The way you always handle them when their egos start dragging the room down.

“Because if I have to hear another passive-aggressive lecture on squad spacing, I’m putting you both in the same tent and locking it from the outside.”

König’s head tilts a little. The amused kind of stillness he does when he’s smiling under the mask.

Ghost, though? He doesn’t move Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t say a thing. You glance between them. The tension hasn’t gone down. It’s gone worse. Ghost’s hand flexes once at his side. Then he turns. Sharp. Quick. And walks straight off the field. No word. No look back. You blink. “Riley—” But he’s gone.

Ten minutes later. Your office.

You’re behind your desk, seething. The door’s cracked. Your jacket’s slung over the chair, your radio off.

And then— BANG.

The door slams open so hard it smacks the wall behind it. Ghost. Full mask. Gloves still on. Shoulders broad and breathing hard like he didn’t walk—he stalked here. You’re already on your feet. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Ghost?!”

He storms inside, chest rising like he’s holding something back with his teeth. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” you snap.

“Mock me. In front of him. Like I was just another soldier acting up in your class.”

You step around the desk, incredulous. “You were. Both of you were.”

“No.” His voice is sharper now. “Not the same.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think because you want to fuck me, you get special treatment?” He flinches.

Then he steps in close—way too close—until your chest is almost against his plate carrier, your chin tipped up to keep the eye contact. “I think you knew what you were doing. Letting him run his mouth. Laughing with him. Making me look small.”

You breathe in through your nose. Quiet. Controlled. Then you murmur, deadly calm: “You are small when you act like that, lieutenant.”

The silence punches between you like a gunshot. His breath comes faster through the mask. His hands twitch. “You don’t get it.”

Your voice doesn’t waver. “Then explain it.”

Something in him snaps. He moves. Fast. He slams the door shut with one gloved hand so violently the walls shake. The sound echoes loud, final, like a fucking breach charge going off. You whirl on him, jaw clenched. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You!” he growls. “You’re the fucking problem!”

He paces once, then turns back on you, shoulders squared, fists clenched like he doesn’t trust what his hands will do. “You stand out there and make a joke out of me, let that asshole mock me like I’m some rookie, and then smile like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

“You were acting like a rookie! Fighting over mission calls like a goddamn child, Riley!”

He steps closer—mask in your face, hot breath rushing through it, voice full of rage and something breaking underneath.

“You think I give a shit about König? I don’t. I give a shit about you. You. Laughing. With him. At me. I’m standing there losing my fucking mind because he’s getting to look at you like he knows you—”

“Because he’s not acting like a jealous, insecure prick?”

Ghost’s breath catches. You regret it the second it leaves your mouth but it’s too late. He turns his head. Just for a second. Then slowly looks back at you.

“Say that again.” Low. Quiet. Dangerous. But not threatening. Not to you. To himself. “Say it again so I remember not to come near you tonight. Or ever.”

You move fast. Shove him. Hard. Right in the chest. His body barely gives. Like shoving a wall. “Don’t you fucking twist this on me, Riley! I’ve stood by you, protected you, kept your secrets—”

“You didn’t protect me today!” he yells. “You embarrassed me!”

You scoff, furious. “Oh, I’m sorry—do you need special treatment? You want me to salute your ego next?” He’s shaking his head, backing away like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“You really think this is just fucking around?”

The words hit you in the gut. Silence. Hot. Sharp. You blink at him. His shoulders drop just slightly. Like it slipped out. Like he didn’t mean to say it—but meant every word. You stare. Heart pounding. He breathes out, softer now.

“You think I’d lose my mind over some field sarcasm if it wasn’t more than that?”

He takes a step back, toward the door. You speak before you even think: “Don’t you dare walk out on me.”

He stops. Doesn’t turn around. You move fast—around the desk, toward him. Grab his arm. Hold him there. “If it’s more than that—” Your voice cracks. “Then fucking act like it.”

He’s still. For a second. Then he turns. Slowly. Staring down at you, that black balaclava hiding his mouth but not his eyes. They’re furious. Yes. But also full of something heavier. Something desperate. And when he speaks, it’s lower now. Just for you.

“I don’t know how.”

You step in again, jaw tight. “Then let me show you.”

He growls under his breath. And then he rips the mask off. Violent. Quick. Like it burns him. You flinch—not from fear, but from how raw it feels. How naked he looks all of a sudden. Flushed. Jaw clenched. Eyes wild. Lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. And he looks irritated—not just at you. At himself. At how easily you make him want. At how much of his power you hold and how helpless he feels because of it.

You both breathe hard. Staring. Neither one backing down. And then—you move. You grab the front of his shirt in both fists and pull him down, crashing your mouth to his with every ounce of fury in your blood. And he kisses you back like a man who needs to win something.

It’s teeth and breath and fists in fabric, both of you pushing, both of you grabbing, mouths colliding like this is the only language left between you. His hands slam against the door behind you, one on either side of your head, pinning you in. His thigh wedges between yours, hot and hard and claiming. You moan into him and bite his lip a little, and he growls—actually growls—into your mouth. Your hands are already under his shirt, nails dragging along his ribs. He shudders. Leans in harder.

He pulls back for just a second, breathing heavy, mouth red, eyes wild. “You drive me fucking insane.”

You smirk, breathless, lips swollen. “Likewise, sweetheart.”

And you yank him in again. You’re still pressed between the door and his, your lips burning from that last kiss, your breath ragged, your hands still under his shirt, nails dragging fire up his ribs.

His thigh is wedged between yours, grinding slow, deliberately, like he wants to see you unravel but also doesn’t trust himself to go further. You move with it hips rolling down against him, mouth brushing his jaw. He shudders. His forehead rests against yours for a breathless second. You can feel the heat of him, how hard he’s breathing, how he’s barely holding on. His hands curl at your waist—strong, firm—but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t drag you to the desk. Doesn’t take. And that’s when you grin.

You slide your hand to the back of his neck, tug his hair slightly, and whisper— “If you want to fuck me…” Your voice low, filthy, and sweet as venom. “…then don’t hold back.”

He jerks like you hit him. Stares at you. Eyes wide. Lips parting. Shock, want, fury, need all crashing into one split-second of stillness. And then he moves. Fast. Rough. His hands grab your ass, lift you, and spin you—slam you back onto the edge of your desk so hard the wood creaks beneath you. He spreads your legs with one knee, steps between them, and grips your jaw, tilting your face up.

“You really want that?” His voice is dark. Gravel soaked in thunder. “You want me to stop fucking holding back?”

You lean in, nose brushing his, smile growing. “I want you to try.”

He crushes his mouth to yours, hands dragging up your thighs, fingers pressing into your hips like he’s finally allowing himself to want—not carefully. Not cautiously. But completely. He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s claiming territory that was already his but he’s been too scared to touch. And all the anger, the heat, the adrenaline? It pours out in the way he grinds against you now, harder, biting at your lower lip, your hands pulling at his hair and shirt.

One hand slides up to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there his breath hot at your ear: “You sure?”

You bite his earlobe, soft and threatening. “You need a fucking permission slip?”

That’s it. He growls again, deep in his chest, and starts pushing your shirt up, his hands everywhere now, worshipping, demanding, starved. The moment nearly tips into full chaos. But just before it can go further, he catches himself. Stops.

Pulls back just an inch, breathing like he ran a mile. His eyes meet yours, wild but conscious. Still holding back. But now? You know it’s not fear. It’s respect. It’s you. It’s the fact that if he fucks you now, he’s not walking away unchanged. And neither are you.

Simon’s breathing hard. His hands are on your hips, your thighs spread around him, mouth swollen, eyes flickering with a dozen things he can’t say. He’s just kissed you like he meant to rewrite time. Like it hurt not to. And now—he’s still holding back. His fingers twitch against your skin. You feel it. He’s pulling away. Not physically but in his mind. Stepping back into the cage he always lives in. The one labeled Don’t Feel Too Much.

His voice comes rough. Ragged. “I want it to mean something.” His throat bobs. “Not just this.”

And instead of nodding like he expects you to— You reach up. Grab him by the collar. Yank him forward until he’s inches from your face again, forehead to yours, your breath brushing his lips.

“Riley.” Your voice isn’t soft. It’s solid. Commanding. Real. “I know you’re scared.”

He flinches slightly. You don’t let go. “I know what you’ve gone through. What people did to you. What it turned you into. But you don’t have to hold back.” You lean in, lips brushing his, but not kissing him yet. “Not for me. Not with me.” Your hand slides up his jaw—palm cradling it. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing in my fucking office, furious, hard and jealous—”

You smile, sharp and intimate. “You hot bastard.”

His jaw clenches under your hand. His pupils dilate. You feel the tremble go through his entire frame. And you see it—the exact second it lands. When the truth hits harder than the heat. That he’s not just obsessed. Not just territorial. He’s so in love with you and he has no idea how to survive it.

His voice breaks. “You’re gonna ruin me.” And this time, you kiss him. Not like earlier, this one is slow. Deep. Tongues sliding. Hands in hair. A kiss that says everything. And he doesn’t pull back. He gives in.

You don’t say anything as you walk through the halls. You don’t need to. You can feel him behind you, silent as a shadow, a storm still trembling in his chest after the argument, the fight, the kiss.

You reach your door. Open it. Walk inside. He hovers at the threshold. Not because he doesn’t want to enter but because he’s afraid of what it means if he does. You step toward your bed, wordless. Shrug your jacket off, let it drop on the nearby chair, and pull your hair free from its tie. Then, slowly, you lie down—on your side, facing the door, one hand resting lazily on the sheets beside you. Your eyes meet his.

And softly, without demand, without command: “Come lay with me.”

He hesitates. Just for a beat. Then he steps in, closes the door, and makes his way to the bed like someone crossing into unfamiliar territory. Still in his dark t-shirt and tactical pants, hands unsure.

You shift, making space. He sits on the edge. Still doesn’t look at you. So you reach out fingers gentle—and brush your hand along his forearm. Just once. “It’s okay.”

That’s all it takes. He exhales and lowers himself beside you, the bed dipping with his weight. And when he finally turns to face you, you’re already watching him. His face is flushed, eyes dark and vulnerable, mouth parted like he wants to speak and can’t. You scoot closer. Just enough to press your forehead to his.

Your hand slides up his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt, slowly down to his stomach, then back up again, tracing the line of muscle, the tremble in his breath. You kiss his jaw. His neck. Soft, warm, comforting.

And then you feel it: A sound. A quiet, broken whine in the back of his throat. He shudders. “Touch me.” Barely audible.

You pull back, eyes wide, heart pounding. “Are you sure?”

His hand finds yours. Guides it again, this time to his chest, over his heart, which is racing. His voice cracks. “Yes.”

A pause. “Touch me. Please.”

You slide your hand down his chest again, slower this time. Meaningful. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you, mouth slightly open, cheeks pink, breath trembling. And you know this isn’t about sex. This is about being seen. Being wanted. Feeling safe enough to want back. You lie beside him, your hand pressed flat to his chest. You can feel it—his heartbeat, thudding so hard it echoes into your wrist. His shirt is soft under your palm. Warm. Damp from heat.

And still, he doesn’t stop you. Your fingers move slowly. Deliberate. Down, over the firm stretch of his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You feel him hold his breath. So you do it again. Lower. Your hand drifts just above the waistband of his boxers, your thumb slipping under the edge, teasing back and forth in a rhythm that’s slow enough to make him ache. He lets out a sound.

A tight, shaky exhale through his nose. His body jerks slightly, like he didn’t mean to react that much—but he did. You lift your eyes to watch him. His lips are parted. Cheeks flushed. Jaw clenched so hard you can see it twitch. But he doesn’t look at you. Instead, he buries his face into the side of your pillow. His nose brushes your shoulder, forehead tucked into the curve of your neck.

He’s breathing harder now. Trying to be quiet. Trying not to show how badly he’s coming undone. But you can feel it. In the way his thigh presses into yours. In the way his hand grips the sheets behind your back, white-knuckled. He lets out a little whimper—barely a sound.

But he doesn’t stop you. So you dip your fingers lower. Not beneath—just over. Palming him gently through the soft cotton of his boxers. Slow. Light. He jerks once, hand tightening behind your back like a reflex. His breath stutters hard against your collarbone, and he tucks his face even deeper into your neck. You smile soft, loving and confident. Your other hand cradles his jaw, thumb brushing just under his ear. “You’re so good for me, Simon.”

And when you say his name like that, he makes another sound—deep and hoarse, nearly broken. He’s trembling. But he still doesn’t stop you. His breath is shuddering. Face buried against your neck, hand twisted tight in the sheets behind your back like he’s clinging to something. His thigh presses into yours, heat rolling off him in waves.

And your hand? Torturing him. You drag your fingers slowly from his waistband down between his thighs, pressing lightly along the inside where the skin is hotter, more sensitive. Then up again. You can feel him twitch, feel the tension rise in his abs, his stomach flexing as your fingers graze the V-line slipping out beneath his crumpled-up t-shirt. It’s all bunched around his ribs now, exposing smooth, flushed skin and the soft dip of his hips.

He’s so goddamn beautiful like this—hard, shaking, letting you see him undone for the first time. You trace along the line of muscle, letting your nails rake gently over it as you kiss the base of his throat. And then, one finger dips. Right along the waistband. Just beneath.

Just enough to make him tense completely, breath held, brows furrowing against your skin like it physically hurts to be touched like this. And then—your finger glides up. Over his cock, thick and twitching beneath the cotton of his boxers. Not too much pressure. Just enough to feel how achingly hard he is for you. He lets out a guttural breath, sharp and desperate, a whine getting caught at the back of his throat. Your hand pauses.

You murmur softly, mouth against his jaw: “I can stop if you—” His voice cuts through immediately. Not loud. Just wrecked. “No.”

You blink, pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are closed. His jaw’s clenched tight. His cheeks are flushed deep pink, and his brows are still pulled together like he’s overwhelmed but holding on. He opens his eyes finally—glassy, dark, desperate. “Don’t stop.”

So you don’t. You press your lips to his jaw, soft and warm. Then to the corner of his mouth. And then you lean in. Your lips brush the shell of his ear, voice dropping to something low and sinful.

“You’re so fucking hard for me, baby.” His breath catches in his throat. “You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you? For me. My hand. My voice.” You graze your teeth gently over his earlobe and feel his entire body shiver. Your fingers move again, stroking over his length through the cotton—more pressure now. Firmer.

Just enough to make him twitch and whimper, trying to keep still under you. “Lying here, shaking in my bed like a good boy. Just begging without saying it.”

He moans, quiet but sharp, hips twitching up into your hand now like his body’s betraying him. “You gonna come just from me talking to you?”

A soft laugh against his ear. “Haven’t even taken your boxers off yet.” And he just groans, low and helpless, burying his face in your neck again, one arm wrapping tight around your waist like he needs you close to survive this. So you kiss his temple. And whisper one more thing. “Let me touch you for real, Simon.”

He nods. Wordless. Already falling apart. You slip your fingers under the waistband. Hot. Hard. Heavy. Your hand wraps around him, and he gasps—sharply, like he’s never felt it like this before. Like your touch means something deeper than he’s ever let himself want.

You stroke him slow. Deliberate. Palm gliding up and down, thumb brushing the sensitive head on every pass. His entire body shakes. His hips jerk once, his breath hitched in his throat. But he doesn’t stop you. He just holds onto you, breath ragged, voice broken— “F-Fuck. Please. Don’t stop.”

He’s sprawled beside you, shirt bunched under his arms, his cock thick and hot in your hand now, leaking into your palm with every pass of your fingers. His forehead’s buried in your neck, and his breath—God, his breath—is hot and broken, stuttering across your collarbone like he’s barely holding on.

You keep your voice low. Dangerous. Gentle. “That’s it, sweetheart…” You stroke him again, slower this time—your grip tight, rhythm steady. “You’re doing so good.” He moans—quiet and choked, hips twitching helplessly up into your palm like his body’s forgotten how to stay still. Your thumb swirls just under the head, smearing the mess he’s already made.

He shudders. Violently. “Oh my—fuck—” His voice is hoarse. High. He’s shaking now, one arm thrown over his eyes like if he sees you while this is happening, he’ll completely come undone. You lean in, mouth brushing his temple. “You’re not gonna last, are you?”

He shakes his head into your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Your strokes pick up, just a little more pressure, a little more pace. “You’re gonna come for me, Simon. Gonna soak my hand while I talk you through it.” He whimpers. And his hand finds your waist, gripping tight—like he needs something to anchor him or he’ll float away. You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his ear.

“Been needing this for so long, haven’t you?”

He nods. Frantic. Breathless. You keep going, hand working him with slow, merciless skill, stroking him just how he needs it, fingers tightening at the base, twisting slightly on the upstroke. He gasps. His whole body jerks. And you feel it—the way he’s curling into you now, thighs trembling, abs flexing. He’s close. So close.

Your lips touch the corner of his mouth, whispering soft and filthy: “Come for me, baby.” “Come in my hand like the good boy you are.”

And that’s it. He lets go with a broken, guttural moan, body arching into you as he spills into your palm—hot and messy, hips twitching as he rides it out in gasping waves. He’s shaking. Breathing like he ran through hell and back. His forehead is still pressed against your skin, his mouth parted against your collarbone. You hold him there, your hand softening, slowing, stroking him through every last pulse until he whimpers from the overstimulation and grabs your wrist.

You stop. Kiss his temple again. You wipe your hand gently on a spare shirt at the edge of your bed, then pull the blanket over both of you. He’s still trembling, not from fear. From the kind of intimacy he hasn’t had in years.

You wrap your arms around him. He lets you. And for the first time in forever… Simon Riley sleeps in someone’s arms. Rested and not worried.

You wake up warm. Not just blanket warm. Body warm. Breath warm. The kind of warmth that comes from being wrapped in someone solid, steady, and completely pressed to your back.

Simon’s chest is at your spine. One arm slung heavy around your waist, the other curled under your pillow. He’s still shirtless, still wearing only his boxers. Legs tangled with yours. Breathing slow.

But he’s not asleep. You can feel it—the way his fingers move. Slow and aimless. Tracing up and down your ribs, barely-there pressure that makes goosebumps rise beneath your shirt. You blink slowly, still half in a dream. Then his hand slides higher, fingers brushing the underside of your breast, just once, just soft—and you let out a sleepy, amused hum.

“You’re not even pretending to be subtle, are you?”

He huffs into your shoulder. Doesn’t answer. You smile, lips curling smug. “You are such a big guy.” You stretch against him, slow and catlike. His arm tightens just slightly around your middle. “Big ego, big confidence, very dangerous…” You turn your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, your voice dipping— “…and yet you let yourself fall apart in my arms.”

He goes still. You grin wider. “Like the softest cloud ever.” You tap his thigh with your foot. “I could get used to that, y’know.” You feel his forehead drop to your nape. And then, you land the final blow: “You even whimpered, babe.”

His groan is muffled against your neck. “Stop teasing me, love.” You laugh. Really laugh—quiet, smug, fond. “You make it too easy, lieutenant.” He shifts, burying his face further into your neck, the tip of his nose warm against your skin. But you can feel it now—

His smile. Hidden, small, but there. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move to leave. He just lies there, hand back on your stomach, thumb brushing lazily under the hem of your shirt like he has nowhere else he’d rather be. And maybe he doesn’t.

The knock comes right as your breath starts to hitch.

“Do I need to bleach my eyes or is it safe?” It's Soap.

You blink against the pillow, biting back a grin as Simon groans low into your neck, arms curling tighter around your middle.

“Ignore him,” you murmur, your hand resting over his forearm.

He does. Your bodies are still locked together—his bare chest to your back, your thighs tangled, both of you too warm and too close.

And his hand? Roaming again. Fingertips ghosting along the curve of your waist, up under your shirt, palm dragging over the soft weight of your breast. His other arm stays tight around you, keeping you in place, mouth brushing your shoulder.

It starts slow. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s just touching you because you’re there. But then your hand slides back. Reaches into the waistband of his boxers. You feel him twitch in your palm—already hard again. “I want to feel you,” you whisper, breath catching as your fingers wrap gently around him. He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just lets out a low, wrecked hum. Then? His arm loosens around your middle. And the next moment, he pulls you upward slightly, enough to slide the blanket down, to get you exactly where he wants you. His hand reaches behind you, slow and confident, sliding your shorts down your hips. You lift one leg without thinking, helping him. And then—he lines himself up. His body curls over yours.

You feel the weight of him, his cock resting heavy between your thighs, the tip pressing against your entrance, warm and ready. And he leans in. His lips touch your ear. His voice—low, hoarse, and filthy-sweet. “You’re gonna feel me all morning, love.”

He nudges your thigh, spreading you open just a little more. “Gonna stuff you full and slow, and you’re not gonna go anywhere.”

Your breath catches. Your body arches back into him, needing it now. And then he pushes in—slowly, thick and hot, every inch dragging you open until you’re gasping, your hand gripping the sheets. His hand comes up again, wraps under your thigh, holding you open for him as he bottoms out—his chest heavy against your back, his breath shaking in your ear. Then he whispers. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimper, completely wrecked already, and he just presses his mouth to your shoulder, his voice barely a rasp: “I missed this… didn’t even know I needed it.” And then he starts to move. He’s buried in you, deep and slow, every inch dragging through your walls as he groans into your skin. Your leg’s hooked over his arm now, bent open lazily as he grinds his hips forward again, just enough pressure to make your body shiver.

“Fuck…” he murmurs, voice low and full of something almost awed. “You take me so well. Like you’re made for it.” You let out a soft, broken sound, fingers digging into the pillow beneath your head. He stays close. Doesn’t pull out much—just enough to move, enough to press, enough to make you feel every aching inch. His hand smooths over your stomach, holding you there, his thumb brushing lazy circles under your breast as his cock grinds deeper.

“You feel that?” A kiss to your neck. “Feel me right here?” He presses his palm flat just above your pelvis. You moan—helpless—and push your hips back into him, desperate for more. He groans again, rougher this time, hips snapping forward, still deep, still steady but stronger now, grinding into that spot that makes your thighs tense around him.

“There she is.” His voice is soft and full of filth. “All cocky yesterday, teasing me like that—saying I whimpered. Look at you now.”

Your breath catches. He’s right. You’re trembling under him. Back arched. Practically soaked from the slow pressure of him grinding into you over and over. You turn your face into the pillow and whimper again as he pushes in deep, holding himself there.

Then slowly—he rolls his hips. One long, hot grind that drags your body with it. “You feel everything I’ve got, yeah?”

Another thrust—just enough to make you gasp. “You wanted to feel me, sweetheart. You got me.” His lips trail down your spine, messy and open, his arm keeping your leg up, pushing you into just the right angle. You don’t even realize how hard you’re breathing until his voice brushes your ear again: “You gonna come like this? Slow. Deep. Full of me?” You nod against the sheets, your body quaking.

And he just keeps moving. Not faster. Not rougher. Just perfect. Simon’s body is glued to yours, chest warm against your back, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged in your ear as he thrusts into you with a rhythm that’s no longer just slow.

It’s intentional. He’s still deep. Still grinding—but harder now, a little faster, the kind of pace that makes your eyes roll and your thighs twitch without warning.

And then—his hand slides down. It starts at your ribs, grazing your breast on the way, then over your stomach—until it rests low, just beneath your navel. He presses there—firm and warm, right where he can feel himself moving inside you. “Right here, yeah?” he whispers, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “That’s me, love. All the way in.”

You gasp, your back arching slightly into him, your body overwhelmed and desperate as his cock drags deep again, rubbing that spot inside you with precision.

And then— His hand dips lower. Fingers sliding between your legs, slick with you already, and finding your clit with a practiced, devastating touch. “There we go,” he murmurs, his mouth right at your ear now. “Let me make you come, sweetheart.” His finger circles slow at first—gentle, like he wants to watch you twitch, feel the way your breath catches with every grind of his hips.

Then—he picks up the pace. Just enough. Thrusting deeper, his rhythm syncing with his fingers on your clit, over and over, so precise you feel your body start to go soft and tense all at once. Your hands grip the sheets. You sob out something halfway between his name and a curse. He groans—louder this time, losing it with you. “Fuck—come for me.” Your whole body locks up. Your thighs shake. Your stomach pulls tight. And then it hits you—hard, fast, relentless—your climax tearing through you as he keeps moving, keeps touching, riding it out with you, whispering low praise into your skin: “So good for me. So perfect. Takin’ me so well, baby—fuck.”

And when your body starts to go limp he follows. You feel him jerk, then still—his breath stuttering as he pushes in one last time and spills inside you, warm and slow, one hand clutching your hip, the other still pressed to your belly. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, inside you, wrapped around you, his chest heaving. After a long silence, his voice—barely audible: “Didn’t know I needed that.”

You smile, still catching your breath. “Told you you whimpered.” He groans into your shoulder. The room is warm, quiet, and wrecked. Sheets half-off the bed. A shirt discarded on the floor. Your legs still trembling when you try to move. Simon’s behind you, one arm draped across your waist, his chest sticky with sweat and his breath still slowing. After a while, he speaks—low, gentle.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nod. And you go with him—wordless, slow. In the bathroom, he starts the water first. Tests it with his hand, adjusting the temp with quiet care. Then he undresses the rest of the way, waiting for you to do the same.

No rush. And when he steps in, you follow him. You don’t know what to expect. But then? He pulls you in. Soft. Steady. Arms around your back. His head lowers. His lips brush your wet shoulder.

The spray is warm against your skin, but his touch is warmer—gentle hands down your spine, his fingers smoothing through your hair, helping you rinse the sweat and the ache away. He doesn’t speak. But his every movement is so tender, so intimate, it makes your throat tighten.

He lathers shampoo into your hair, careful not to get any in your eyes. Rinses it with his hand, palm tilted like a shield. And you turn to face him. Slowly. Bare. Vulnerable. And you don’t expect it— That look in his eyes. Not lust. Not pride. Something raw.

Like he’s still trying to understand how you want him. All of him. Even this soft, unmasked version of him.

You reach up, touch his jaw with wet fingers. He leans into it. No mask. No armor. Just Simon.

And then he says it, so quiet you almost miss it over the water: “Didn’t know I could be this soft with someone.”

You stare up at him. His face wet. Flushed. His lashes dark and heavy from the steam. His eyes—so damn open.

“Would’ve never thought that about you,” you whisper. A smile touches your lips. “Lieutenant Ghost. Sir.” He lets out a soft, gruff laugh. Shakes his head. “Just Simon, when it’s you.” And then he leans down and kisses you.

It’s not urgent. It’s not filthy. It’s the kind of kiss you give someone when you realize they’re home.

The water shuts off with a gentle squeak. You’re both soaked and warm, skin flushed from steam, hair clinging to foreheads and necks. You hand Simon a towel, and he takes it—rubbing it briefly through his hair, letting the fabric fall over his shoulders. He watches you silently. Not because he’s checking you out. Because he’s processing. You go to grab your towel, but he beats you to it. He dries you. Carefully. Slowly. First your shoulders. Then your arms. Then down your legs, kneeling a little as he works. It should feel silly. Domestic. But it doesn’t. It feels like the most intimate thing anyone’s ever done for you. When he stands again, his eyes flick up—and they hold yours. You see it then. The moment he breaks. Not from pain. From trust.

“I never let anyone see me like that.” His voice is quiet. Steady. Measured. But there’s something thick behind it. You blink. He continues, not looking away. “Not like this. Not soft. Not after what I’ve seen. What I’ve done.”

You don’t speak. You wait. He steps closer, towel falling from his shoulder. “And last night—when you touched me like that—” His jaw works. His eyes flicker like it costs him to say this. “It meant something. It still does.” Your chest pulls tight. He reaches out—just brushes his fingers along your wrist. Barely a touch. Just a tether. “I didn’t know I could still feel that.” You smile. Small. Full. “You can. And you did.”

He looks like he wants to say something else—but instead, he just takes your hand. Then, without a word, lifts you into his arms. Not rushed. Not showy. Careful. Like you’re precious. You rest your head on his shoulder, fingers curled against his chest as he carries you—bare, towel-wrapped—back into your room. The bed is still messy, still warm. He sets you down gently, slides in after you, pulling the covers up over both of you. And then—he wraps his arms around you like it’s instinct. “Just sleep, yeah?” he murmurs. You hum, closing your eyes. But you feel it—his fingers tracing your side, still needing to touch you. Still grounding himself. And long after your breath evens out, he stays awake. Just holding you. Like he’s still trying to believe you’re real.

You’re half asleep, wrapped in Simon’s arms, your legs tangled with his beneath the sheets. His chin rests on top of your head, his breath slow, finally calm. You shift slightly, and his grip tightens automatically—one broad arm curling under your ribs, the other over your waist. Safe. Still. And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You both freeze. No one moves. You both just stare at the ceiling.

Knock. Knock-knock. Then a muffled voice. “Riiiight… So I’m just gonna assume Ghost’s in there because he didn’t show up for breakfast, and if you two are still in bed, I better not hear anything traumatizing through the door.” Soap.

You groan. Simon exhales through his nose, annoyed but not surprised. Another voice. Keegan, deadpan: “You told me they were just briefing last night.”

Soap: “They were! I saw her go in her dorm, and then five minutes later he vanished like a slutty ninja.” You start laughing quietly, into Simon’s chest. Simon just tightens his grip around you and mutters:

“I will actually kill them.”

Knock-knock. Soap again, sing-song: “Round two? If you’re gonna fuck again, just tell us so we can leave and keep our childhoods intact.” You roll over slightly, grinning up at Simon.

“Do we answer?” He deadpans, voice gravel-deep: “I’ll answer with a flashbang.” You laugh again, curl up against him. But then you sit up suddenly and call through the door, cheerful as hell: “We’re naked and emotionally unavailable, come back later!” There’s a pause.

Keegan, under his breath: “…Fucking knew it.” Soap: “I told you! I told you, Keeg!” Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Simon just groans and drops his face into your pillow. You grin. He throws a pillow at you.

You finally drag yourselves out of bed—barely. Your thighs ache. Your shirt is wrinkled. And Simon? He keeps trying to pull you back in by the waistband of your shorts. “You’re warm,” he mutters, voice low and raspy.

“We’ve already traumatized them, Riley,” you say, batting his hand away, “let’s at least pretend we’re professionals.”

You pull on a loose hoodie, still only in your biker shorts underneath, and he throws on a clean shirt and joggers. His mask’s back on—but not his usual skull. Just black. Subtle. But when he opens the door, Soap is already there. Mouth full of toast.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally—oh fuckin’ hell.” He chokes mid-bite, looking you up and down. “You’re wearing his hoodie.”

You grin. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Simon just walks past him like he doesn’t exist. Keegan’s just watching, arms crossed, sipping coffee like he saw this all in a vision three weeks ago. “She’s glowing,” he mutters to Soap. “He’s limping,” Soap mutters back. You roll your eyes.

Simon hands you a mug before grabbing his own coffee. You take it and lean on the counter beside him—but before you can move again, he pulls you into his side. Arm low around your waist. Hand splayed over your hip. His fingers tapping lightly against your skin like he’s still processing that you’re real. You raise a brow at him, smirking.

“Clingy now, are we?”

“Shut up.” But he doesn’t let go. Not when Soap walks by and stares. Not when Keegan narrows his eyes suspiciously at the smug tension in the room. And definitely not when you lean into him on purpose and whisper: “You’re not hiding it very well, Lieutenant.”

He hums. Takes a sip of coffee. Doesn’t move his hand. “Not hiding anything.”

“You’re literally gripping my ass in front of your teammates.”

“It’s mine now.”

You snort into your mug. Soap gags dramatically behind you both. “Can you at least pretend you don’t wanna fuck on the breakfast table?” Simon squeezes your hip—hard—and mutters low enough for only you to hear: “Don’t tempt me.”

You glance up at him with a smug little smirk. “Maybe I will.”

He looks at you sideways, jaw ticking under the mask. And just like that, you win. Because he’s back to that needy tension again. The one that ends in slammed doors and messy kisses and you in his lap.

Which is exactly where you end up five minutes later on the couch—with his coffee in one hand and his other arm around you, your thighs over his lap, your smirk never fading.

And Soap? Soap’s standing in the hallway, dramatically fake-gagging while Keegan just walks away, muttering: “I hate this unit.”

Before the Mission – Gear-Up Bay

You’re leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching Ghost snap his vest straps into place. König’s across from him, already suited up, quiet, unreadable under his balaclava.

Simon checks his knife. Tugs his gloves tighter. Doesn’t look at you.

You hum low under your breath. “Five days, huh?”

He doesn’t respond at first. Just slams the mag into his rifle and slings it over his shoulder. But you see the twitch in his jaw. The way his eyes flick sideways to you, then away.

“Don’t get soft on me, Riley,” you tease, voice dipped in sugar and static. “You’ll miss me too much.”

Still no smile. Still that cold calm he wears before missions. But as he brushes past you toward the exit, his hand catches your hip—just once. Squeezing. A promise.

You turn your head to watch him walk out, and König gives you a slow look from the door. “You really shouldn’t rile him up before deployment.”

You smile. “He likes it.”

Five Days Later – 02:46am

Your dorm is dark. You’re wrapped in a hoodie and boxers, barely conscious, just padding to the kitchen for water when— BANG.

The door slams like a damn grenade went off. You jump, heart slamming against your ribs. You rush over, yanking it open.

“Jesus, you don’t have to kick my—”

But you stop. Simon’s standing there. No mask. No gear. No words. Just rage and hunger and something cracked in his expression, like the only thing keeping him stitched together was the thought of you.

He grabs you. Lifts you. Takes you straight to the bed. You don’t fight it. Don’t ask. Just stare up at him as he peels off his shirt, muscles taut, his skin flushed from the cold and the adrenaline.

You breathe, stunned: “Fuck, you are so hot, Riley.”

“Shut up.” It’s not harsh. It’s desperate.

His pants drop next, leaving just his boxers and that black tank clinging to him. His body heavy, broad, his eyes locked on you like he could eat you alive. And then he crawls over you. Fingers already tugging your pants down, rough and uncoordinated from how badly he needs this.

“I missed you,” he rasps between kisses, biting into your jaw.

“Missed this. Missed your fuckin’ mouth, your smell, your voice—”

His hand cups your thigh, pulling it up around his hip. “I need it. I need you. Now.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your head tipping back, already breathless. “Then take it, Lieutenant. Don’t leave me waiting.”

Your pants are halfway down when his mouth crashes back into yours—open, wet, biting. His hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you hard enough to bruise. And his body—hot and solid over yours—rocks forward, grinding his cock against your bare heat through his boxers. You moan into his mouth, and it only makes him snap.

“Fuckin’—missed this,” he grits out, tearing his own underwear down. “Thought about it every night. Had to jerk off in silence like some fuckin’ teenager.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Poor baby.”

He growls—grabs your jaw. Not rough to hurt. Rough to own. His hand wraps around your face, thumb at your chin, tilting your head up as his cock slides against your slick heat.

“Still running your mouth?” he mutters, voice hot against your lips.

You try to answer but all you get out is— “Simon—”

And then he’s inside. One harsh thrust—deep and sharp—and your head drops back to the mattress with a choked moan, eyes fluttering.

“That’s right,” he grunts. “Take it. That’s mine.”

His hips don’t wait. He fucks you hard—hips snapping, rhythm tight, focused, like he’s trying to grind the days without you out of his bones. The bed frame starts to creak. The sound of skin against skin fills the room—wet and rhythmic, punctuated by his low groans and your gasping moans.

But even now—he’s watching. His thumb strokes your jaw as he holds your face. His eyes flick down to your body every few seconds, checking—are you okay? can you take more? And when he sees you gripping the sheets, your legs wrapped around his waist, begging without words—he pushes deeper. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.” His breath is ragged, forehead touching yours now. “You take me so good.”

You whimper, nails digging into his back. He doesn’t stop. Just fucks you through it—rough, rhythmic, completely lost in you.

And then his hand slips down again, slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. He presses down hard and circles fast, matching every thrust with that tight swirl.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

You shatter around him—loud and wrecked, your body trembling as he drives through your orgasm, relentless, chasing his own release with clenched teeth and buried curses.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it—”

He thrusts once more, twice, then buries himself deep—groaning, coming hard with a hand fisted in your sheets and the other still holding your jaw like a lifeline. You both freeze. Breathing. Shaking.

And then? He collapses. Not on top of you—just around you. Head buried in your neck. Chest heaving. “I really missed you,” he murmurs again. Quieter now.

More like a confession than a need. You card your fingers through his hair. Kiss the side of his head. “You gonna kick my door in every time you want to get laid?”

He groans. Smirks against your skin. “If I go five days without this again? Yeah.”

The sheets are half-kicked off the bed, and your legs are still trembling when you slide on top of him. Simon’s laid out on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on your thigh.

His chest rises slow. Steady. Like he’s not on alert for once. You settle over him, bare, lazy, content. Your fingers trace the ink on his shoulder, the heat still rolling off his skin. And then he whispers it.

“I love what you do to me.” It’s not a confession. It’s a realization. Soft. Quiet. Real. You hum, smiling against his jaw as you lean down. “Mmm. And I love both of your sides.” You press a kiss beneath his eye, then one to his temple. “You soft little bastard.”

That makes him laugh—an actual, honest laugh, low in his chest, raspy and free. It shakes his whole body, and your heart with it. “Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “I wish I would’ve got to you sooner. Talked to you. Would’ve changed so much.”

You cup his face—thumb brushing the faint stubble on his cheek. “You’re here now.” Your voice is warm. Firm. “Come home to me as often as you want.”

He blinks up at you. And that’s when it clicks— The way his hand slides up your back. The way you press your forehead to his. The way you both breathe like you’ve been underwater for years.

Neither of you said it. Not out loud. But it’s been there. For three years. In every glance. Every restrained touch. Every “watch your six” that meant come back to me.

Now? You’ve got him. All of him. And he’s never letting go.

The sun is still rising, lazy through the clouds. The yard is quiet, save for the distant clack of gear and boots. You’re leaning against the railing outside the main barracks, sipping your coffee, hoodie half-zipped, still foggy from the morning.

And then—Footsteps. Heavy. Confident. Familiar.

You don’t have to turn. You feel him. Simon comes up behind you—black joggers, clingy black shirt, sleeves rolled up over thick forearms, and that damn black skull balaclava pulled low. Still a ghost. But only to the rest of the world.

To you? All man. All heat. All yours.

He doesn’t say a word. Just steps in close, his hand finds your hip, fingers squeezing through the fabric of your shorts, and then he pulls his mask up just enough—

And kisses you. Long. Slow. Filthy. You gasp into his mouth, hand bracing on his chest as he backs you into the wall. His tongue drags over your bottom lip. His palm slides up your back. You feel the heat of him in every inch of your skin.

And then—

“WHOOOOOOOHOOOO!”

“FUCKING FINALLY.”

You both break the kiss, breathless and flushed, just in time to see Soap spinning in a circle like a man possessed. Keegan’s just standing behind him, arms crossed, head tilted slightly.

“Hot. Hot. Hot,” Soap chants, grinning like an idiot. “I mean—fucking hell, Ghost, leave some sexual tension for the rest of us.”

Simon just stares at them for a second. Then casually wipes his mouth with his gloved thumb and drags the mask back down.

Keegan, dry as hell: “Look at that smug bastard. I don’t see much, but it’s unfair how hot that looked.”

You shoot a smug smile over your shoulder. Simon groans. Soap laughs so hard he nearly trips. Keegan just mutters, “Man. I hate this unit.”

And Ghost? He just walks off—completely unbothered, completely yours.

After the morning briefing, the rest of the unit starts to peel off—König heading out to check the drops, Soap tossing a wink your way as he exits.

Simon lingers behind. You wait until the room clears before you step up beside him. Your arm brushes his. Your shoulder bumps his chest. He doesn’t move. Just looks down at you. And waits.

You take a deep breath, eyes scanning the dark fabric of his balaclava, then the softness in his eyes behind it. “Be careful, big guy.” Your hand presses to his chest, over his vest. “Come back home.”

He reaches up. Fingers curl around the edge of his mask. And he pulls it up, slow, just enough to uncover his mouth—just for you.

And then he leans down. Kisses you. Not quick. Not lustful. Deep. Caring. Full. His hand cups the back of your head, his other arm pulling you into him. It’s slow. Measured. Like he needs you to feel exactly what it means. When he pulls back, your eyes are still half-shut.

His lips brush your temple. “I will.” You breathe out, barely nodding. Then his voice—quiet. Real. No gravel, no walls.

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap up to him. And he sees it. The stillness. The shock. So he says it again. Softer this time. “I mean it.” There’s a silence in the room now. You reach up and slide your hand along his jaw.

“I know.” You swallow, smiling. “I’ve always known, baby.”

And when he pulls the mask back down, you still feel the kiss. But more than that— You feel the weight of the promise that just passed between you.

He’s coming back.

To you.

Always.

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

[scaleniusrm]

Forever

✦ oneshot

Reader x Simon ‘Ghost‘ Riley | 18+ MDNI

cw: explicit sexual content, rough sex with emotional aftercare, PTSD, mentions of past abuse (non-graphic), dominant/submissive dynamics, soft angst, emotional vulnerability, military setting, light voyeuristic teasing from others, slow-burn tension turned intimacy

⸻

You’ve known Simon Riley for years.

Not well. Not enough to call it close. But long enough to know what silence means when he uses it like a shield. Long enough to know what his eyes look like when he’s about to say something devastating but doesn’t. And long enough to be the only one who knows what he looks like under the mask.

That wasn’t his choice. You caught a glimpse once—purely by accident—when he thought the building was cleared, years ago. You never told a soul. And now, every time you’re standing in front of him and he’s wearing that stupid, grinning balaclava, you tilt your head and say:

“Who are you now? Keegan or Riley?”

Every time, he plays along.

“Depends. Who pisses you off more?”

It’s a thing between you. The teasing. The back-and-forth that always walks the line between violent and horny. He’s big and broad and impossible to intimidate, and you’re his superior, sharp-tongued and dead-eyed from years in command. You slap his arm when he’s being smug. He tugs you by the waist when you try to walk away. He calls you “boss” with a sneer that sounds like “brat.”

Soap jokes that you two should either fuck or fight it out. You’d deck him for that, but Ghost always beats you to it with a slow, gruff, “Jealous, Johnny?”

The room is dim. Flickering with fluorescent fatigue. The mission brief drones on from the front—something about secondary exit routes, thermal blind spots, and fallback zones.

You’re listening. Mostly. But your body is turned toward the man beside you. Ghost.

He’s all black kevlar, thick arms folded, legs spread, skull mask still and unbothered. His fingers drum once against his thigh—restless, calculating. Not nervous. Never nervous.

You lean your elbow on the edge of the table, hand casually drifting over to his. And without asking, without even thinking, you tap his knuckles with two fingers. Once. Then again. He doesn’t flinch.

You start tracing slow circles on the back of his glove with your nail. Absent. Like you’re doodling. Like it means nothing. He still doesn’t move. You graze over the seam where glove meets skin. He shifts his hand, just slightly, enough to let your fingers slip lower. Onto bare skin.

Your touch softens, trails along the tendon between his thumb and index. It’s calloused. Warm. He twitches once, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he plants his boot wide, spreading out like he’s relaxed.

He always does this. He doesn’t stop you. You trace the shape of his thumb, the bone under it. You feel him breathe, steady and deep, and your mouth tilts into a smirk.

“You know,” you murmur under your breath, quiet enough for only him to hear, “if you keep letting me do this, I’m gonna start thinking you like me.” You don’t look at him. But you feel the shift. His head turns just slightly. His voice is low, near your ear. “You always think I like you. That’s the problem.”

You roll your eyes, still tracing his hand lazily. “You always let me touch you. That’s your problem.” He doesn’t answer that. But you swear you hear the faintest exhale under the mask—close to a laugh. Close to something warmer than he usually shows anyone.

And then— “Focus up,” Price says from the front. “We’ve got twenty minutes left. I want eyes forward.” You straighten. Ghost lets his arm slip away from yours, pulling his hand back to rest against his thigh.

But you feel his pinkie brushing yours. Just barely. Like he’s testing the weight of your presence. Like he doesn’t want to admit he missed your hand when you moved it away. It means a lot. And he’s letting you.

His massive frame is all stillness beside you—knees spread, arms resting. His glove shifts again as you trace the lines in his skin, nail brushing that groove near the thumb joint. You feel him flex beneath your fingers, like he’s holding back a shiver.

You keep doing it. Just because he won’t ask you to stop.

Across the room, Soap glances your way. Double-takes. Then blinks and raises a brow so high it nearly flies off his forehead.

“Am I—am I the only one seein’ this?” he mutters under his breath to Gaz. “The hell’s that then? Tactile map reading?”

Gaz snorts. “Shut up.”

You don’t look up, but your hand does shift a little higher—stroking the edge of Ghost’s wrist now. Your nails drag gently where skin meets fabric. Ghost doesn’t even twitch. He’s trained for this. For battlefield control. But you can feel the tension in him, tight and low and pulling like wire.

“You’re not subtle,” you murmur out of the corner of your mouth.

Ghost tilts his head, just a little. “Neither are you.”

Your mouth curls. “You like it.” He doesn’t deny it.

Price calls wrap. Everyone starts moving. Ghost stands, towering like a monolith beside you, checking his gear. His mask turns toward you, and you know he’s waiting for something—an order, a comment, a tease. Something to ground him. So you rise too, slowly, walking beside him just long enough to lean in close. So close your lips brush the edge of his mask—where cloth meets cheekbone.

And you whisper: “Come back in one piece, Riley. I’m not done with you yet.” Then, just as he straightens slightly, caught in it, you lean in closer— “If you die, I’m gonna find your corpse and fuckin’ kill you again.” You palm his chest once, soft and firm, then step away.

He doesn’t move for a full beat. And you don’t look back. You just walk out of the room with your head high and a lazy swing in your hips, headed for your office like you didn’t just fry every nerve ending in this man’s body.

The door clicks shut behind you. You wait. You know something’s about to go wrong. But you also know he better come back. Because you weren’t joking. Not even a little.

Ghost didn’t move for a long time after you whispered in his ear. He heard it. Felt it. Still burned from it, your voice seared into his jaw where your lips brushed the edge of his mask.

And then the mission went to hell.

It wasn’t a full failure. Not on paper. The package got moved. The target slipped through. Civilians caught in the crossfire. Exit routes blown. Communications scrambled.

For twenty full minutes, you thought Ghost was dead. You saw his name grey out on the tracker. You saw his last position ping surrounded. And when command asked for the casualty estimate, you had to clench your fists behind your back and say—“Unknown.” When he came back, he was covered in blood that wasn’t his, panting, dragging a rookie with a busted leg over his shoulder like it was nothing. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at you. And that hurt more than you expected.

You wait thirty minutes. Then you call him into your office. Door shut. The rain pelts hard against the window now. Everything smells like stale adrenaline and gunpowder. He steps inside.

Silent. Broad. Shadowed. Still in gear. Still wearing the mask. You don’t look at him yet. You’re pacing. Arms crossed. Rage flickering behind your ribs like a dying fire you keep fanning.

“I gave you an order.”

“I ignored it.”

“Don’t be proud of that.”

“I’m not.”

You stop pacing. He stands there with that skull face tilted down toward you, unreadable. “You almost died.”

“I didn’t.”

You step forward. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point, boss?”

He spits the word like a challenge. Like he wants you to bite. So you do. “The point is that you’re reckless. You’re always reckless. And you think that makes you valuable. It doesn’t.”

Something sharp flashes in his eyes. You shove your hand against his arm, harder than usual. “You think I’m impressed?” you hiss. “You think I want your damn loyalty if it gets you killed? I don’t want martyrs on my squad. I want people who stay the fuck alive.”

His shoulders go stiff. His hand flexes. You don’t stop. You’re shaking now, the edge of something else—panic, maybe, or the rage that comes from caring too much and not knowing when it happened.

“You think this is noble? Rushing in, ignoring the plan, coming back with a bleeding rookie like you’re some goddamn hero—”

“Don’t touch me when you’re angry,” he says, suddenly.

You freeze. He says it again, quieter.

“Don’t—don’t fucking touch me when you’re angry.”

You lower your hand. “…Simon.” His jaw tightens under the mask. You’ve only said his name like that a few times. It always hits different. Always lands hard in the silence.

“I’m not angry because I hate you,” you murmur. “I’m angry because I—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. His voice cracks at the edge of it. “Don’t say it.” He takes one step back. You follow. His voice is a whisper now. “You always do this.”

You stop. “What?” He looks up slowly.

“You touch me. You joke. You say my name like it’s safe in your mouth. And then you expect me not to want more.”

Silence. Your breath catches. He adds, quieter this time: “And I can’t want more. Not from you. Not from anyone.”

Your voice breaks. “Then why do you always let me?” He looks at you with eyes full of guilt and heat and something rawer than you’ve ever seen on him. “Because I’m not strong enough to stop.”

You reach out. Slow. Just to brush your hand down his vest—gentle now. Not angry. Not demanding. His eyes close like it hurts. You step closer, chest nearly brushing his. Voice low. “Then stay alive next time. Let that be your strength.”

His hand ghosts over your hip. Just for a second. Then he lets it fall. You don’t say anything when he turns to leave. But as the door opens, your voice cuts through the quiet: “I meant what I said.”

He pauses. Half in shadow. Half out. “…Which part?”

You look straight at him. “That I’m not done with you yet.”

After that he’s avoiding you.

You’re not stupid. You’ve seen it before. Ghost slipping behind silence like it’s armor. Averting his gaze. Showing up late to debriefs he’s never been late to. Taking night patrols he doesn’t need. Sleeping in the gear room again. He’s pulling away.

And the worst part? He’s pretending it’s nothing.

“Where’s Riley?” you ask, casual. Keegan doesn’t look up from his rifle cleaning. “Took a walk. Said he needed air.”

“He talk to you?”

“Nope.” You nod, tight. Then lean on the doorway just long enough to mutter, “Tell him I want him in my office.” Keegan pauses. Looks up slowly. You don’t repeat yourself. He gets the message.

Ten minutes later. He knocks. Two short raps. You don’t say anything. The door creaks open anyway. He steps in like he’s walking into an ambush. Skull balaclava on. Gloves still half-wet from the rain. Shoulders tight. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I heard you wanted something.”

You say nothing at first. Just study him. The shadows under his eyes. The stiff set of his spine. The slight tilt of his head like he’s waiting for impact. “You don’t run from me,” you say softly.

His mouth pulls tight behind the mask. “I’m not.”

You step around your desk. “Don’t lie to me.” He stays still.

“You’ve been pulling away,” you continue. “Since the mission. Since what I said. Since what you said.”

“I’m not pulling away,” he lies again. “I’m getting perspective.”

You snort. “That’s a poetic way of saying you’re hiding like a coward.”

His head snaps up. Good. There he is. “Careful,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re poking at.”

You step in. “Don’t I?”

“You think I’m scared of you?”

“No,” you say. “You’re scared of this.”

You jab a finger between you. “This thing we never talk about. This thing you keep pretending doesn’t matter. You can stare at me every day, let me touch you, let me whisper shit that makes your hands shake and then pretend it’s all a joke? That’s your play?”

His silence is deafening. You lower your voice. “I see you, Simon.” That name again. It lands like a punch. “I know you. And you’re not scared of dying. You’re scared of needing someone when you do.” His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

You close the space between you. Slowly. “You can try to disappear behind the skull. You can try to make me the villain for seeing too much. But it won’t work. Not on me.”

Still no answer. But his chest is rising faster now. His eyes flick once—down to your mouth. Then away. You pause just before your hand reaches him. “If you walk out now, don’t come back until you’re ready to stop pretending.” A full second passes. Then another.

And finally, his voice cracks out, low and rough: “I don’t know how to do this.”

You step forward. Touch his chest. Just rest your palm there, steady and warm. And this time, he doesn’t flinch. He stays. He doesn’t storm out, doesn’t shove it all down and vanish into his routine like a ghost in name and body. No—he stays in your office, rain dripping from his gloves, shoulders drawn tight beneath the weight of something neither of you have dared name until now.

You take a breath. The storm still rattles the windows, but the air between you is worse. It crackles. It aches. He looks up at you. And then, slowly, he lifts his hand. Grabs the hem of the skull balaclava with scarred fingers. He hesitates. And for a split second, you see it—not the man who’s held knives to necks and ghosted through firestorms. You see a boy trying not to flinch from being seen. Then he pulls the mask off. And he looks— Small. Tired. Wrecked.

Despite being taller than you by half a foot—190 centimeters of trained muscle and violence—he looks like he’s been hollowed out and barely stitched back together. Hair sweat-matted to his forehead. A fading bruise along his jaw. That mouth you’ve only ever seen in glimpses—tight, pained. But it’s the eyes that get you.

They don’t burn. They beg. Your chest caves in slowly. Quietly. You step toward him without a sound. You reach up, cupping his face—soft, steady, like you’re holding something delicate for the first time in your life. And the second your palm brushes his cheek—he flinches. Just once. But enough. You don’t drop your hand. Just tilt your head. “What is the matter, Riley?”

He breathes in sharp. His jaw tightens. Then he says it. Voice low, hollow, cracking on the edges like something worn too thin: “I can’t touch you.”

Your breath stutters. He keeps going, even quieter: “I can’t sleep with you. I just… I can’t.” And the look in his eyes when he says it— Shame. Fury. Hunger. Fear. It all crashes into you at once. You don’t move. You don’t drop your hand. Your thumb strokes just once across the edge of his jaw.

“I never asked you to.”

He looks down. You say it again—softer, this time. “I never asked you to touch me. Or fuck me. Or give me anything you can’t.”

You wait. Then: “I just asked you not to run.”

His shoulders sink. He closes his eyes.

Silence. Then he exhales—shaky and uneven and leans forward. Not for a kiss. Not for anything more. Just to rest his forehead against yours. And he stays there. A big, broken, breathless man, kneeling down emotionally, even if he’s still standing.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel like you’re not alone in the storm anymore. You don’t move when he leans his forehead against yours. You just breathe with him. And then—without a word—you wrap your arms around him and pull him in.

He stiffens for a second. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how. But you don’t let go. You step forward fully and press your head to his chest. Right over the vest. Right over the beat that proves he’s still here.

And you stay there. One second. Five.

Until he breaks. It doesn’t happen with sobs or gasps or anything loud. It starts with his hand gripping your back. And then his voice. “It started when I was a kid. He was drunk a lot. My dad. Mean even when he wasn’t.”

You keep your head on his chest. No pushing. No questions. Just listening. “He beat me. My brother, too. But I always took more. I thought—if he was busy with me, he’d leave him alone. Didn’t work.” His voice cracks. “He got us both. In different ways. And then after he died, it didn’t stop. There was Roba. He was supposed to help me. Help me get better. But he just…” He swallows. “Used it. Used me. Said I was already ruined, so what did it matter.”

Your fists curl against his back. You whisper, “It mattered.”

His breath stutters. “I used to think there was something wrong with me. That’s why they did it. Why they kept doing it.”

You lift your head, finally. Look up at him. His face is unreadable. But his eyes are screaming. You press your hand to his jaw again—softer this time, slower—and he lets you. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Riley.”

He doesn’t answer. Just closes his eyes, brow pulling tight. You cup the back of his head, pulling him forward again, letting him rest his cheek on your shoulder this time. He breathes out like he’s been underwater for years. You stroke his hair. Soft. Patient.

And whisper: “You’re not ruined. You’re still here. With me.” You’re still holding him. Arms around his broad body. His cheek buried against your shoulder. Your fingers threading through his hair. And then his voice comes again—low, hoarse, almost distant. Like it’s not him saying it. Like he’s watching someone else relive it.

“Roba used to say I was special.” He’s shaking slightly. “Said I was different from the others. Quieter. Stronger. Easier to train. He kept me separated from the other recruits. Would call me to his tent at night. Put a hand on my back and say I was ‘making progress.’ Sometimes… he’d tell me if I just took it without fighting, I could leave early. That I’d earned rest. But there was never any rest.”

Your head is against his chest again now, but you feel it—his heart is racing. His hands clenched into fists at your back. And then he says it—quiet, like a death sentence.

“He raped me.”

The silence after that word is unbearable. Your eyes burn. And you can’t stop it now. They well up. Because no matter how strong he is—how tall, how broad, how terrifying in combat—he looks so fucking hurt. Like a kid who was never saved. Like a man who was never held after the screaming stopped.

“He said no one would believe me,” Simon continues. “That I was too old for anyone to care. That I was just another disposable freak. And he was right. No one did. Not even after he was gone.”

Your voice trembles. “Simon…”

But he keeps going. “Then there was the grave. They drugged me. Hooded me. Tied my wrists. Buried me alive. There was a corpse in there with me. Half-rotten. No eyes. I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Just lay there for hours thinking I was already dead.”

You’re crying now. Quietly. Not sobbing. But your tears are falling. Onto his vest. Onto his chest. Because nothing in your career—nothing you’ve seen—could prepare you for how broken his voice sounds. He finally looks down at you. Eyes bloodshot. Hollow.

“That’s who I am. That’s what you’re touching. That’s what’s under this skin.” And then—almost a whisper— “I’m so fucked up, I don’t know how to be anything else.”

You don’t speak. You reach up again. Cup his face with both hands this time, even as your tears run down your cheeks. He tries to look away. You catch his jaw gently. “Don’t you dare look away from me.”

He freezes. “You survived things no one should’ve survived. You’re still standing. Still fighting. Still protecting people who will never know what you went through to be here.” You lean your forehead to his, breathing hard. “You are not what they did to you.”

His lips part, breath shuddering. You swear he’s about to cry. But he doesn’t. Instead, he says: “…I don’t know how to let someone love that.” You whisper: “You don’t have to let me. Just don’t stop me.”

Your eyes are glassy. Your cheeks damp. And Simon—he sees it. You try to hold his gaze, but the emotions are too much, too deep. You blink, tears spilling over. He exhales, rough. Then lifts one gloved hand and brushes your cheek with his thumb. Gently.

“Don’t cry, love.” His voice is hoarse. Raw. Like it hurts him to see you hurting for him. But you don’t look away. You look up at him, nose a little red, lips bitten and swollen from holding back too much.

“Please stay the night.” He stills. Your voice is quiet. Steady. No desperation, no pleading. Just warmth. Something in him softens. His brow relaxes. He just… nods.

A single movement. But it feels like the world shifting.

The walk to your dorm is quiet. You don’t touch him. Not out of fear. Just out of respect. Like you’re holding his hand without needing to touch it. At your door, he hesitates. You see it. The twitch of his jaw. The shift of his weight. The thought: Is this a mistake?

You open the door. And he follows you in.

“You can shower. I’ll wait for you.” Your voice is light, even. Like you’re talking to someone normal. Not a man who’s seen hell and still lives in the echo of it.

Simon nods. He disappears into the bathroom, and the water runs moments later. You change quickly. Oversized shirt. Short biker leggings. Bare feet against the tile. You move to the kitchen. Not doing anything—just… standing there. Waiting. Processing.

You hear the water stop. A few minutes later, the door creaks open again. He steps out. Towel slung low around his hips. Chest damp. Hair darker when wet, a little curled at the ends. Steam clings to his skin, still flushed from the heat. He smells clean—soap, smoke, and something distinctly him.

And for a moment—he doesn’t move. Just watches you in the low light. You don’t speak. You walk over. Slow. And you wrap your arms around him. You hug him. Chest to chest. Damp skin to cotton. Your face buried against his collarbone. And this time— he hugs you back. Full-bodied. No hesitation. His arms around your waist. One hand at the small of your back. The other curling protectively around your shoulders. You hear his breath stutter. Once. Then again. You squeeze him tighter. He presses his face into your neck. Warm. Wet. Silent. And the way he holds you—it’s not rough. Not hard.

It’s loving. Like he doesn’t know how to say thank you yet. Or I don’t want to leave. Or I’ve never been held like this before. So he just breathes. And stays.

The hug lasts longer than either of you thought it would. There’s no rush. No ticking clock. No looming mission to run from. Just the wet press of his skin against your shirt. The steady thud of his heartbeat against your ribs. When you finally ease back, you keep one hand at his side. His towel is still slung low, drops of water clinging to his collarbone, gliding down the curve of his chest. His hair’s messily flattened from the towel. He looks younger like this. Or maybe just… real. He opens his mouth, voice low, uncertain.

“I’ll throw my boxers on. I can sleep on the cou—”

“No.” Your voice cuts through quietly, sure and soft. You meet his eyes. “If you’re comfortable… come with me to my bed.”

The silence after that is delicate. Heavy, but not awkward. Like something has been offered—not taken. Simon looks at you for a long second. Then nods, just once. “Okay.”

Later, in your bedroom.

You’re already curled into the side of the bed, back against the wall, blanket pulled over your legs. You expect him to hesitate. He doesn’t. He walks in wearing only his black boxer-briefs. No mask. Hair still a little damp. Shoulders impossibly broad in the soft lamp light. You lift the blanket. He slides in beside you. No words. His body heat seeps into the sheets. His arm brushes yours. You watch his chest rise and fall.

Then you shift closer slowly, tucking your arm around his waist and your head just under his collarbone. He lets out a shaky breath. You feel it in his ribs. His hand moves to your back, warm and careful. His fingers stroke softly there. Repeating a slow rhythm. Up. Down. Breathe. Up. Down. Like touching you helps him stay here.

“Thank you,” he whispers. You smile into his skin. “You’re safe here, Simon.”

A pause. Then: “I know.”

Minutes pass. Maybe more. The room is still. Safe. You shift slightly. Look up at him. His face is turned toward the ceiling, jaw tight. But his eyes flick to yours when he feels you move.

You whisper: “Can I kiss you?” He swallows. Nods—barely.

You shift up, press your hand to his jaw, and lean in— Soft. Not needy. Not urgent. Just lips meeting lips, slow and careful, as if sealing a wound no one else could reach.

He kisses you back—gently, like he’s scared to break the moment. Like he’s scared to break you. But you don’t break. You just kiss him again. And this time, he sighs against your mouth like he’s been waiting years for that single breath. Your lips are still brushing his when he exhales—quiet, shaky, like he’s still not sure if this is real. You kiss him again. Deeper, this time. And he groans softly into your mouth.

His hand finds your waist beneath the covers, fingers trembling at first, then firm as he pulls you closer. Your legs tangle under the sheets. His skin is warm and smooth and damp where your shirt rides up. You press your hand to his jaw again, kiss him harder.

And something in him snaps loose—but not in the rough, frantic way you feared. It’s desperate, but slow. Hungry, but careful. His body shifts over yours, weight sinking into the bed as he lowers himself between your thighs. You gasp into his mouth, and his hands immediately still.

His forehead presses to yours. “Too much?” You shake your head, breathless. “No. Just—don’t stop.” His mouth crashes into yours again. He slides his hands down—one to cup the back of your thigh, pulling your leg around his waist, the other gripping your hip like he’s trying not to lose his mind. You feel the heat of him, hard and heavy against your core, even through the thin fabric of his boxers and your leggings. You grab his hair. Fingers threading into the still-damp strands. Your other hand clutches his shoulder, nails digging in slightly, grounding yourself in the weight of him above you.

And the two of you just make out. Mad. Sloppy, slow, hot. Like teenagers with no sense of time. His mouth is everywhere—your lips, your cheek, your jaw, the line beneath your ear. He moans when you tug his hair harder, and the sound goes straight through you. It’s hot. But it’s soft. There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the rising ache of a man who hasn’t let himself want in so long, he doesn’t know how to pace himself—but god, he’s trying. You feel him shaking slightly when he grinds into you, groaning through clenched teeth.

Your fingers curl under his chin, guiding him back up to your lips. “Simon.” His eyes flutter open—dazed, dark, needy. “You’re okay,” you whisper. “You’re okay here.”

He nods. And kisses you again—deeper than before. His hips roll into you slow. Your thighs tighten around him. The friction makes you whimper, and that makes him lose whatever control he was holding onto.

You’re both breathing hard. You feel his heart racing through his chest, feel his cock straining against the layers of fabric still between you. But he doesn’t rush to strip them off. He just kisses you. Over and over. Like he’s starving. Like he finally found something that tastes like peace. And when he finally breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, his breath still ragged, he whispers:

“I needed that.” You smile up at him, thumb brushing the back of his neck. “I know.”

You’re still lying beneath him, legs tangled, his weight half on you, half held up by one shaking arm. The sweat has cooled a little between your bodies. Your mouths are red. Your cheeks flushed. But the urgency is gone. Now there’s only this—his chest pressed to yours, your hand resting on the warm, firm swell of his bicep as he finally lets himself breathe.

Simon shifts slightly, careful not to crush you, and your hand follows the movement—still holding onto his arm, grounding him. You feel the muscle flex under your palm. He glances down at you. And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—he’s soft. Not just in body, but in eyes. In mouth. In soul. His lashes are low, his brow no longer drawn tight. There’s a flush to his cheeks, a shine to his eyes—not tears, but close. He lifts one hand and slowly strokes your hair, brushing it back from your forehead, fingers warm and trembling a little as they slide behind your ear. “Is this okay?” he murmurs.

His voice is raw. Gentle. You nod. “It’s perfect.”

He keeps brushing your hair, then runs his thumb along your cheekbone—so slow, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “Never done this,” he says softly. “Not like this.”

You smile faintly, fingers flexing on his arm. “You’re doing fine.” He leans down, barely a kiss, just a warm press of lips to your temple. His free hand trails down to your side, resting just under your ribs. No grip. Just contact. He exhales. “I didn’t know I could feel like this,” he admits, voice nearly a whisper.

You press your forehead to his. “You don’t have to let go after this.”

His eyes flutter shut. “I don’t want to,” he breathes. “For the first time—I don’t want to go anywhere.”

You shift, rolling gently to your side so he’s now behind you, curling close. His arm wraps around your waist, and you guide his hand there, fingers laced through his, holding it in place. Your back fits into his chest. His nose presses to your hair. And his voice is the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you both under: “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

The light in your room is still soft, silver with morning. Curtains gently shifting with the breeze. Rain’s stopped.

And Simon wakes up before you. At first, he doesn’t know where he is. He blinks—sluggish, confused. Then he feels it. Your body, curled into his. Your hand resting lightly over his forearm. Your hair against his throat. And then it hits him. You let him stay. You asked him to stay. His eyes trace the shape of your back under the blanket, then your bare legs curled beneath the hem of that oversized shirt you slipped into last night. You’re warm. Breathing slow. You’re not running. Neither is he. He shifts a little, just to look at you. Quietly. Carefully.

Your nose is a little scrunched. Your cheek is pressed into the pillow in a way that makes your mouth pout slightly. And he just… stares. Like if he blinks too hard, it’ll all fade. He doesn’t know how long he’s been watching you when your voice—dry, amused—breaks the moment:

“You lookin’ to propose or something, Riley?”

He startles slightly. You smirk, still not opening your eyes. “You’ve been staring so hard I thought I’d wake up with a ring.”

He clears his throat. “You were snoring.”

You roll onto your back slowly, still blinking sleep from your eyes. “Right. I’m sure that’s why you’ve been gawking at me like I invented breakfast.” He says nothing. His eyes flick away like a guilty dog. You grin wider. “You’re so soft in the mornings, Ghost. Bet if I kissed your cheek, you’d blush.”

He growls under his breath, shifting away like it’ll help, but you catch his arm before he gets far. “Where you going, Romeo?”

He mumbles, “Away from your mouth. It’s dangerous in the mornings.”

You sit up slowly, hair messy, shirt sliding off one shoulder. “You’re the one who spooned me all night,” you say, voice light. “Real snug. Full koala grip.” He scowls, but it’s weak at best. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

You hum. “Didn’t say I minded.”

His eyes flick back to you. And despite the bickering, the deflection, the sarcasm—he’s smiling. Just a little. It’s tired. Crooked. Small. But it’s real. You lean forward, brush your fingers under his jaw, and say—deadpan: “If you’re gonna keep falling in love with me, Riley, I need at least a warning next time.”

He huffs a breath. And then? He leans in and kisses your forehead. “Consider this your warning.”

You’re standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching a shirtless Simon Riley—still in nothing but those damn black boxer briefs—try to navigate your tiny kitchen like it’s enemy territory.

He’s making eggs. Or trying to. You’re still grinning as the second egg hits the floor with a sad, wet splat. “Two for two,” you say, stepping closer. “You sure you’re cleared for kitchen duty, lieutenant?”

You raise your eyebrows, stepping in. “Deadliest operator in Task Force 141 can slice a man open in five seconds flat but loses a one-on-one with a couple of eggs.”

He turns his head slightly, already biting down a grin. “Don’t push it.”

You saunter closer. “What are you gonna do, lieutenant? Intimidate the frying pan into submission?” He sets the spatula down. Turns toward you.

And something shifts in the air. He steps forward, closing the distance between you in two easy strides. You feel your breath catch just a little—because now he’s face to face with you, chest bare, skin still warm from sleep, nose brushing yours.

His voice drops. „Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll put you on the counter.”

Oh. Your breath hitches, lashes fluttering, but your mouth curls in that exact way he loves—smart, smug, and so goddamn sure of yourself. “There’s my little Riley.” You lean in and press a kiss to the bridge of his nose. Then you murmur, sweet as sin: “Clean up, big guy. The only thing you’re allowed to make a mess of…” You lean into his ear, soft and slow: “…is in between my thighs.”

You pull back just enough to watch it hit. Simon freezes. Eyes wide. You see the moment it sinks in. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something—then closes again. “Did you just—” You’re already walking away with a smug little swing in your hips. “Breakfast, Riley. Focus up.” Behind you, you hear it. The laugh. That deep, warm, belly-deep thing that barely escapes his chest. Honest. Caught-off-guard. And then— “Fuckin’ hell.”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s staring at the yolk-covered floor with a hand in his hair and the ghost of a grin still stuck on his lips.

Behind you: a soft groan, followed by: “You’re gonna be the death of me.” You smile to yourself without turning around. “Only if you’re lucky.”

Then: a knock.

A hard, hurried, way-too-early knock at your dorm door. Ghost’s shirt is still bunched in your hands. He’s standing near the window, still barefoot, in nothing but black briefs, wide-eyed and frozen like a kid caught sneaking out of detention. You blink at him once. He blinks back. Then you hear it: “Boss?” Soap’s voice. “You up?”

Ghost mouths fuck and turns on his heel, sprinting back toward your bedroom like he’s dodging enemy fire. You catch a glimpse of him yanking the too-tight black t-shirt over his still-damp chest and slapping his balaclava into place just as you reach the door.

You crack it open, leaning lazily on the frame. “Yeeees, gentlemen?”

Soap looks mildly winded. Keegan, beside him, arms folded. Soap frowns. “We—uh—we can’t find Ghost.” You blink, deadpan. “He is standing right beside you?”

Keegan tilts his head and chuckle. “He’s not in his quarters. His comm’s offline. Locker untouched. We thought maybe he wandered off to commit murder again—y’know, as a treat.” You shrug, unfazed. “Maybe he found someone better to spoon.”

That’s when footsteps sound behind you. Heavy. Reluctant. You don’t even turn. Simon appears just over your shoulder, trying—and failing—to act like he wasn’t hiding half-naked in your bed thirty seconds ago. Now he’s standing in the doorway behind you in: A too-tight black shirt clinging to every defined line of his chest, his signature skull balaclava and still wearing just his briefs.

Just. His. Briefs.

Keegan stares. Mouth physically drops open under his mask. Soap’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. And then—slowly—like a man ascending to prophecy: “I KNEW IT.”

He wheels on Keegan like he just cracked the Da Vinci Code. “I KNEWWWWW IT, KEEGS. I FUCKING CALLED IT TWO WEEKS AGO—the weird tension, the spoon jokes, the way she called him ‘sweetheart’ that one time—I CALLED IT!”

You raise your brows, leaning in the doorway, smug as ever. Ghost just stands there. Silent. Arms crossed. Not speaking. Letting the shame wash over him. You elbow him gently. “You forgot your pants.” He exhales through his mask, muttering under his breath: “…I hate all of you.”

Soap grins. “You hate pants more, apparently.” Keegan finally speaks. “Do we… need to come back later? Or is this a regular morning now?” You beam. “Regular as hell.” Ghost turns around and walks straight back inside. You call after him, sing-song: “Don’t forget your dignity!”

Soap leans on the wall, still stunned. Keegan just sighs, murmuring through his mask: “God help us all.”

Ghost doesn’t leave your room for two full hours after Soap and Keegan leave. He refuses. Just lies on your bed like a sulking storm cloud—arms folded, mask still on, blanket over his waist like that’ll preserve what’s left of his dignity. You eventually poke your head into the room, coffee mug in hand. “You gonna hide under that blanket forever or do I need to mail in your resignation?”

“Not funny.” You sip. “I thought it was hilarious.” He stares at you with the flat, cold fury of a man who’s heard Soap scream “I FUCKING KNEWWWWWW IT” before sunrise.

You saunter in, lean over the bed, and whisper sweetly: “You’re just mad I got to see your legs and they got to see your shame.”

He groans into the pillow.

Later, Keegan finds you in the hall, arms crossed, eyes watching Ghost clean his rifle like it personally insulted him. He nods toward Simon. “He looks… lighter.” You raise an eyebrow. “That a fat joke, Keegan?” He huffs a breath. “It’s not. You know what I mean.” You glance at Ghost again. There’s a weight missing from his shoulders today. Not all of it. But enough.

Keegan continues, voice low: “I’m glad it’s him. You needed someone who could actually stay.” You look at Keegan. Really look. He doesn’t smile. But there’s something solid in his voice. Grounded. You nod once. “Me too.”

Back in Your Room – That Night you find Ghost sitting at the foot of your bed again, still sulking—but in a hot way. Quiet. Thoughtful.

„I am not asking how you even got in here Riley.“ You drop into his lap sideways. He catches you without flinching, arms circling your waist. You murmur: „You know, you were real mouthy this morning for a man who couldn’t even hold onto an egg.”

He exhales sharply through the mask. “You try makin’ breakfast with your hands shaking ‘cause someone kissed your fuckin’ nose.”

You bite your lip. “Oh? You mean this nose?”

You lean in. Kiss it again over the mask. He groans, low and deep. “You’re doin’ this on purpose.”

You whisper: “Just clean your mess up, lieutenant. Or do I need to remind you where you’re allowed to make one?”

He stares. Then his hands tighten around your hips. And this time, he pulls you flush against him, mouth brushing your ear.

“You say that again,” he growls, voice low and rough, “and I’ll make sure the next time you walk into briefing, your knees give you away.”

Oh. You blink. Mouth falling open. He chuckles under the mask. “That’s what I thought.”

You blink. Look him dead in the eye. And then say, flat as hell: “You gonna cry again, lieutenant?”

Silence. He just stares at you. You blink once. Tilt your head. “You sounded so tough just now. Real scary. Like a man who definitely didn’t almost faint when I said the word thighs.”

His hands go still. You press on, voice lilting, almost sweet: “Poor baby. Two eggs, one brain cell, and zero chance of winning an argument with me.” Ghost stares like he’s mentally weighing the pros and cons of throwing you over his shoulder and locking you in your own closet. “You done?”

You lean in. Kiss the tip of his nose again. “Not even close.”

He groans. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Language,” you scold, all mock innocence. “You kiss your CO with that mouth?”

“You are my CO.”

You grin. “Exactly. Which means I outrank you in every way.”

“Not when you’re underneath me, you don’t.”

Your jaw drops. He smirks—a real one, smug and dangerous, and for a second you think maybe you should shut up. But of course, you don’t. You narrow your eyes. “You wish you could flip me.”

He leans back, arms still snug around your waist, and says dryly: “Don’t tempt me. I’ve already accepted I’m dying embarrassed because of you. Might as well go out with my face buried in your ego.”

You gasp. And then slap his arm—hard. He laughs. Actually laughs. Like a man who’s finally starting to breathe again. And you, still straddling him like it’s your throne—just grin like the villain you are.

“You’re lucky I like you, Riley.”

He leans up, nose brushing yours again. “You don’t like me. You’re obsessed.”

You pause. Then murmur— “Guilty.”

He’s still smirking, arms around your waist, your thighs warm across his lap. The room’s dim now. Late afternoon bleeding into something quieter. The kind of hush that makes you feel like no one else exists. He’s still in that black shirt that’s slightly too tight across his chest. Still got his damn mask on. But his body is relaxed. He’s here. With you. And suddenly, you’re done pretending like this is all just jokes and tension and egg-related trauma. You reach up slowly. Hands gentle.

“Let me.” His eyes flicker. But he doesn’t stop you. Fingers brush the hem of the balaclava. You feel him hold his breath. You peel it up slowly—careful, like you’re unwrapping something fragile.

And then he’s there. His face. Bare. Raw. Real. Cheeks a little flushed. A light stubble brushing his jaw. The kind of face that shouldn’t belong to a man who can gut someone with a shoelace.

But it’s his eyes that kill you. Because when you look at him like this—so close, so undisguised—you see it: The hunger. The hope. The fear. You stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, feather-light, and whisper: “You don’t need it here. Not for me.” He swallows hard. Still watching you. Still not saying a word. And then—quieter— “Also I want to kiss you.”

You see it hit him. Right there in his chest. Like he didn’t expect to ever hear those words spoken to him without a trace of fear or pity. You pause, just a breath away. “Can I?” His lips twitch. Then he nods. A little. Once. And you kiss him. Slow. Sure. Gentle—but not shy.

Your hand curls around the back of his neck, his stubble rough under your fingertips. He kisses you back, firm and steady, but his hands stay where they are—on your hips, just holding you there like you’re the only real thing in the world. He exhales into your mouth. A soft sound. Like relief. You lean back just enough to look at him again, your fingers still resting on his cheek. “Hi, Simon,” you whisper.

He blinks—eyes glassy. Then—barely audible: “Hi.”

He’s still sitting there, mask off, hair messy from your fingers, lips pink from your kiss. Then he blinks, like something clicks—and suddenly, he stands up, scooping you effortlessly into his arms and throwing you onto the bed with a dramatic, almost cocky. You bounce once on the mattress, laughing out loud.

“Oh,” he says, voice dropping, “what a show.”

You roll your eyes. “Fuck off.” But you’re grinning as you reach up and hook your fingers in his shirt. He yanks it off over his head, smooth and fast. And then he drops his pants too—fluid, confident, but still blushing just a little. His body, tall and lean and cut from quiet violence, is suddenly all yours to look at.

He crawls up onto the bed with a wolfish look in his eyes but then you pull him into your arms, hands sliding up the warm stretch of his back. He exhales when your skin meets his. And you murmur against his jaw: “You know tomorrow’s off-duty day.”

His brow twitches. “We could stay in bed aaaaall day, handsome.” That low chuckle rumbles in his chest again. God, that sound. Like it hasn’t had permission to exist in years. He pulls you closer. Settles half on top of you, arm tucked under your neck, thigh caging yours in place. You feel him, warm and strong and human. Then, quieter now—just above a whisper—he says: “It’s been a long time.”

You tilt your head, brushing his hair back from his face.

He swallows. “Last time I felt something real for someone? I was younger. Stupid. It didn’t last. Didn’t end well.” You don’t interrupt. He keeps going, voice even lower. “I haven’t kissed anyone in years.” You brush your fingers along his jaw. “You kissed me like you hadn’t stopped.”

He snorts. “You bring out the worst in me.” You grin. “And the best.” There’s a long pause. His hand strokes lightly along your waist.

Then: “I’m still afraid to go further with you. But I want to.” You press your forehead to his. Your voice gentle, steady. “We don’t have to rush anything. We already have everything that matters.” His hand curls around yours. His voice is hoarse. “I want you. Even if I’m not ready for all of it… I still want you.” You smile, curl closer into him, and kiss the side of his throat. “Then you’ve got me. For as long as you want.”

It starts simple. A few days later.

The team’s back to regular rotation, training drills, weapon checks, hand-to-hand exercises on the mats. Simon’s near the far wall, adjusting something on his vest. You’re walking past him between rounds, sweat beading on your collarbone from sparring. And without thinking, you touch him. Just your fingers brushing the side of his ribcage. Your palm flat to his lower back.

Nothing intense. Just casual intimacy, the kind that comes from comfort. And he doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. Instead, he tilts his head toward you, and under the mask, you hear that dry, deadpan murmur: “You know I could’ve killed you for sneakin’ up like that.”

You smile. “You let me.” He turns slightly toward you. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “I did.” Just that. A tiny sentence. But to him? That’s an entire trust fall. You keep walking, but your fingers trail off him slowly, feeling the warmth he always carries underneath all that armor. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to.

The next day - the training field is tight with energy. You step out of the comms tent just in time to hear the voices rising over the clatter of drills and distant grunts.

“If you followed the formation like you were told, we wouldn’t be cleaning it up now.” Ghost. Cold. Controlled.

“Maybe if your orders made sense in motion, Riley, I’d follow them.”

König. Steady. But his accent is sharper than usual. Clipped.

You see them both masked, black balaclavas pulled low. They’re facing each other across the mats like sparring wasn’t enough and now it’s personal. They’re not yelling yet. But the tension?

Lethal. You cross the distance. “Are we debating tactics or measuring dicks, boys?”

Ghost’s head snaps toward you immediately. König’s broad shoulders stiffen. You keep your tone light, mocking, familiar. The way you always handle them when their egos start dragging the room down.

“Because if I have to hear another passive-aggressive lecture on squad spacing, I’m putting you both in the same tent and locking it from the outside.”

König’s head tilts a little. The amused kind of stillness he does when he’s smiling under the mask.

Ghost, though? He doesn’t move Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t say a thing. You glance between them. The tension hasn’t gone down. It’s gone worse. Ghost’s hand flexes once at his side. Then he turns. Sharp. Quick. And walks straight off the field. No word. No look back. You blink. “Riley—” But he’s gone.

Ten minutes later. Your office.

You’re behind your desk, seething. The door’s cracked. Your jacket’s slung over the chair, your radio off.

And then— BANG.

The door slams open so hard it smacks the wall behind it. Ghost. Full mask. Gloves still on. Shoulders broad and breathing hard like he didn’t walk—he stalked here. You’re already on your feet. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Ghost?!”

He storms inside, chest rising like he’s holding something back with his teeth. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” you snap.

“Mock me. In front of him. Like I was just another soldier acting up in your class.”

You step around the desk, incredulous. “You were. Both of you were.”

“No.” His voice is sharper now. “Not the same.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think because you want to fuck me, you get special treatment?” He flinches.

Then he steps in close—way too close—until your chest is almost against his plate carrier, your chin tipped up to keep the eye contact. “I think you knew what you were doing. Letting him run his mouth. Laughing with him. Making me look small.”

You breathe in through your nose. Quiet. Controlled. Then you murmur, deadly calm: “You are small when you act like that, lieutenant.”

The silence punches between you like a gunshot. His breath comes faster through the mask. His hands twitch. “You don’t get it.”

Your voice doesn’t waver. “Then explain it.”

Something in him snaps. He moves. Fast. He slams the door shut with one gloved hand so violently the walls shake. The sound echoes loud, final, like a fucking breach charge going off. You whirl on him, jaw clenched. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You!” he growls. “You’re the fucking problem!”

He paces once, then turns back on you, shoulders squared, fists clenched like he doesn’t trust what his hands will do. “You stand out there and make a joke out of me, let that asshole mock me like I’m some rookie, and then smile like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

“You were acting like a rookie! Fighting over mission calls like a goddamn child, Riley!”

He steps closer—mask in your face, hot breath rushing through it, voice full of rage and something breaking underneath.

“You think I give a shit about König? I don’t. I give a shit about you. You. Laughing. With him. At me. I’m standing there losing my fucking mind because he’s getting to look at you like he knows you—”

“Because he’s not acting like a jealous, insecure prick?”

Ghost’s breath catches. You regret it the second it leaves your mouth but it’s too late. He turns his head. Just for a second. Then slowly looks back at you.

“Say that again.” Low. Quiet. Dangerous. But not threatening. Not to you. To himself. “Say it again so I remember not to come near you tonight. Or ever.”

You move fast. Shove him. Hard. Right in the chest. His body barely gives. Like shoving a wall. “Don’t you fucking twist this on me, Riley! I’ve stood by you, protected you, kept your secrets—”

“You didn’t protect me today!” he yells. “You embarrassed me!”

You scoff, furious. “Oh, I’m sorry—do you need special treatment? You want me to salute your ego next?” He’s shaking his head, backing away like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“You really think this is just fucking around?”

The words hit you in the gut. Silence. Hot. Sharp. You blink at him. His shoulders drop just slightly. Like it slipped out. Like he didn’t mean to say it—but meant every word. You stare. Heart pounding. He breathes out, softer now.

“You think I’d lose my mind over some field sarcasm if it wasn’t more than that?”

He takes a step back, toward the door. You speak before you even think: “Don’t you dare walk out on me.”

He stops. Doesn’t turn around. You move fast—around the desk, toward him. Grab his arm. Hold him there. “If it’s more than that—” Your voice cracks. “Then fucking act like it.”

He’s still. For a second. Then he turns. Slowly. Staring down at you, that black balaclava hiding his mouth but not his eyes. They’re furious. Yes. But also full of something heavier. Something desperate. And when he speaks, it’s lower now. Just for you.

“I don’t know how.”

You step in again, jaw tight. “Then let me show you.”

He growls under his breath. And then he rips the mask off. Violent. Quick. Like it burns him. You flinch—not from fear, but from how raw it feels. How naked he looks all of a sudden. Flushed. Jaw clenched. Eyes wild. Lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. And he looks irritated—not just at you. At himself. At how easily you make him want. At how much of his power you hold and how helpless he feels because of it.

You both breathe hard. Staring. Neither one backing down. And then—you move. You grab the front of his shirt in both fists and pull him down, crashing your mouth to his with every ounce of fury in your blood. And he kisses you back like a man who needs to win something.

It’s teeth and breath and fists in fabric, both of you pushing, both of you grabbing, mouths colliding like this is the only language left between you. His hands slam against the door behind you, one on either side of your head, pinning you in. His thigh wedges between yours, hot and hard and claiming. You moan into him and bite his lip a little, and he growls—actually growls—into your mouth. Your hands are already under his shirt, nails dragging along his ribs. He shudders. Leans in harder.

He pulls back for just a second, breathing heavy, mouth red, eyes wild. “You drive me fucking insane.”

You smirk, breathless, lips swollen. “Likewise, sweetheart.”

And you yank him in again. You’re still pressed between the door and his, your lips burning from that last kiss, your breath ragged, your hands still under his shirt, nails dragging fire up his ribs.

His thigh is wedged between yours, grinding slow, deliberately, like he wants to see you unravel but also doesn’t trust himself to go further. You move with it hips rolling down against him, mouth brushing his jaw. He shudders. His forehead rests against yours for a breathless second. You can feel the heat of him, how hard he’s breathing, how he’s barely holding on. His hands curl at your waist—strong, firm—but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t drag you to the desk. Doesn’t take. And that’s when you grin.

You slide your hand to the back of his neck, tug his hair slightly, and whisper— “If you want to fuck me…” Your voice low, filthy, and sweet as venom. “…then don’t hold back.”

He jerks like you hit him. Stares at you. Eyes wide. Lips parting. Shock, want, fury, need all crashing into one split-second of stillness. And then he moves. Fast. Rough. His hands grab your ass, lift you, and spin you—slam you back onto the edge of your desk so hard the wood creaks beneath you. He spreads your legs with one knee, steps between them, and grips your jaw, tilting your face up.

“You really want that?” His voice is dark. Gravel soaked in thunder. “You want me to stop fucking holding back?”

You lean in, nose brushing his, smile growing. “I want you to try.”

He crushes his mouth to yours, hands dragging up your thighs, fingers pressing into your hips like he’s finally allowing himself to want—not carefully. Not cautiously. But completely. He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s claiming territory that was already his but he’s been too scared to touch. And all the anger, the heat, the adrenaline? It pours out in the way he grinds against you now, harder, biting at your lower lip, your hands pulling at his hair and shirt.

One hand slides up to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there his breath hot at your ear: “You sure?”

You bite his earlobe, soft and threatening. “You need a fucking permission slip?”

That’s it. He growls again, deep in his chest, and starts pushing your shirt up, his hands everywhere now, worshipping, demanding, starved. The moment nearly tips into full chaos. But just before it can go further, he catches himself. Stops.

Pulls back just an inch, breathing like he ran a mile. His eyes meet yours, wild but conscious. Still holding back. But now? You know it’s not fear. It’s respect. It’s you. It’s the fact that if he fucks you now, he’s not walking away unchanged. And neither are you.

Simon’s breathing hard. His hands are on your hips, your thighs spread around him, mouth swollen, eyes flickering with a dozen things he can’t say. He’s just kissed you like he meant to rewrite time. Like it hurt not to. And now—he’s still holding back. His fingers twitch against your skin. You feel it. He’s pulling away. Not physically but in his mind. Stepping back into the cage he always lives in. The one labeled Don’t Feel Too Much.

His voice comes rough. Ragged. “I want it to mean something.” His throat bobs. “Not just this.”

And instead of nodding like he expects you to— You reach up. Grab him by the collar. Yank him forward until he’s inches from your face again, forehead to yours, your breath brushing his lips.

“Riley.” Your voice isn’t soft. It’s solid. Commanding. Real. “I know you’re scared.”

He flinches slightly. You don’t let go. “I know what you’ve gone through. What people did to you. What it turned you into. But you don’t have to hold back.” You lean in, lips brushing his, but not kissing him yet. “Not for me. Not with me.” Your hand slides up his jaw—palm cradling it. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing in my fucking office, furious, hard and jealous—”

You smile, sharp and intimate. “You hot bastard.”

His jaw clenches under your hand. His pupils dilate. You feel the tremble go through his entire frame. And you see it—the exact second it lands. When the truth hits harder than the heat. That he’s not just obsessed. Not just territorial. He’s so in love with you and he has no idea how to survive it.

His voice breaks. “You’re gonna ruin me.” And this time, you kiss him. Not like earlier, this one is slow. Deep. Tongues sliding. Hands in hair. A kiss that says everything. And he doesn’t pull back. He gives in.

You don’t say anything as you walk through the halls. You don’t need to. You can feel him behind you, silent as a shadow, a storm still trembling in his chest after the argument, the fight, the kiss.

You reach your door. Open it. Walk inside. He hovers at the threshold. Not because he doesn’t want to enter but because he’s afraid of what it means if he does. You step toward your bed, wordless. Shrug your jacket off, let it drop on the nearby chair, and pull your hair free from its tie. Then, slowly, you lie down—on your side, facing the door, one hand resting lazily on the sheets beside you. Your eyes meet his.

And softly, without demand, without command: “Come lay with me.”

He hesitates. Just for a beat. Then he steps in, closes the door, and makes his way to the bed like someone crossing into unfamiliar territory. Still in his dark t-shirt and tactical pants, hands unsure.

You shift, making space. He sits on the edge. Still doesn’t look at you. So you reach out fingers gentle—and brush your hand along his forearm. Just once. “It’s okay.”

That’s all it takes. He exhales and lowers himself beside you, the bed dipping with his weight. And when he finally turns to face you, you’re already watching him. His face is flushed, eyes dark and vulnerable, mouth parted like he wants to speak and can’t. You scoot closer. Just enough to press your forehead to his.

Your hand slides up his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt, slowly down to his stomach, then back up again, tracing the line of muscle, the tremble in his breath. You kiss his jaw. His neck. Soft, warm, comforting.

And then you feel it: A sound. A quiet, broken whine in the back of his throat. He shudders. “Touch me.” Barely audible.

You pull back, eyes wide, heart pounding. “Are you sure?”

His hand finds yours. Guides it again, this time to his chest, over his heart, which is racing. His voice cracks. “Yes.”

A pause. “Touch me. Please.”

You slide your hand down his chest again, slower this time. Meaningful. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you, mouth slightly open, cheeks pink, breath trembling. And you know this isn’t about sex. This is about being seen. Being wanted. Feeling safe enough to want back. You lie beside him, your hand pressed flat to his chest. You can feel it—his heartbeat, thudding so hard it echoes into your wrist. His shirt is soft under your palm. Warm. Damp from heat.

And still, he doesn’t stop you. Your fingers move slowly. Deliberate. Down, over the firm stretch of his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You feel him hold his breath. So you do it again. Lower. Your hand drifts just above the waistband of his boxers, your thumb slipping under the edge, teasing back and forth in a rhythm that’s slow enough to make him ache. He lets out a sound.

A tight, shaky exhale through his nose. His body jerks slightly, like he didn’t mean to react that much—but he did. You lift your eyes to watch him. His lips are parted. Cheeks flushed. Jaw clenched so hard you can see it twitch. But he doesn’t look at you. Instead, he buries his face into the side of your pillow. His nose brushes your shoulder, forehead tucked into the curve of your neck.

He’s breathing harder now. Trying to be quiet. Trying not to show how badly he’s coming undone. But you can feel it. In the way his thigh presses into yours. In the way his hand grips the sheets behind your back, white-knuckled. He lets out a little whimper—barely a sound.

But he doesn’t stop you. So you dip your fingers lower. Not beneath—just over. Palming him gently through the soft cotton of his boxers. Slow. Light. He jerks once, hand tightening behind your back like a reflex. His breath stutters hard against your collarbone, and he tucks his face even deeper into your neck. You smile soft, loving and confident. Your other hand cradles his jaw, thumb brushing just under his ear. “You’re so good for me, Simon.”

And when you say his name like that, he makes another sound—deep and hoarse, nearly broken. He’s trembling. But he still doesn’t stop you. His breath is shuddering. Face buried against your neck, hand twisted tight in the sheets behind your back like he’s clinging to something. His thigh presses into yours, heat rolling off him in waves.

And your hand? Torturing him. You drag your fingers slowly from his waistband down between his thighs, pressing lightly along the inside where the skin is hotter, more sensitive. Then up again. You can feel him twitch, feel the tension rise in his abs, his stomach flexing as your fingers graze the V-line slipping out beneath his crumpled-up t-shirt. It’s all bunched around his ribs now, exposing smooth, flushed skin and the soft dip of his hips.

He’s so goddamn beautiful like this—hard, shaking, letting you see him undone for the first time. You trace along the line of muscle, letting your nails rake gently over it as you kiss the base of his throat. And then, one finger dips. Right along the waistband. Just beneath.

Just enough to make him tense completely, breath held, brows furrowing against your skin like it physically hurts to be touched like this. And then—your finger glides up. Over his cock, thick and twitching beneath the cotton of his boxers. Not too much pressure. Just enough to feel how achingly hard he is for you. He lets out a guttural breath, sharp and desperate, a whine getting caught at the back of his throat. Your hand pauses.

You murmur softly, mouth against his jaw: “I can stop if you—” His voice cuts through immediately. Not loud. Just wrecked. “No.”

You blink, pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are closed. His jaw’s clenched tight. His cheeks are flushed deep pink, and his brows are still pulled together like he’s overwhelmed but holding on. He opens his eyes finally—glassy, dark, desperate. “Don’t stop.”

So you don’t. You press your lips to his jaw, soft and warm. Then to the corner of his mouth. And then you lean in. Your lips brush the shell of his ear, voice dropping to something low and sinful.

“You’re so fucking hard for me, baby.” His breath catches in his throat. “You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you? For me. My hand. My voice.” You graze your teeth gently over his earlobe and feel his entire body shiver. Your fingers move again, stroking over his length through the cotton—more pressure now. Firmer.

Just enough to make him twitch and whimper, trying to keep still under you. “Lying here, shaking in my bed like a good boy. Just begging without saying it.”

He moans, quiet but sharp, hips twitching up into your hand now like his body’s betraying him. “You gonna come just from me talking to you?”

A soft laugh against his ear. “Haven’t even taken your boxers off yet.” And he just groans, low and helpless, burying his face in your neck again, one arm wrapping tight around your waist like he needs you close to survive this. So you kiss his temple. And whisper one more thing. “Let me touch you for real, Simon.”

He nods. Wordless. Already falling apart. You slip your fingers under the waistband. Hot. Hard. Heavy. Your hand wraps around him, and he gasps—sharply, like he’s never felt it like this before. Like your touch means something deeper than he’s ever let himself want.

You stroke him slow. Deliberate. Palm gliding up and down, thumb brushing the sensitive head on every pass. His entire body shakes. His hips jerk once, his breath hitched in his throat. But he doesn’t stop you. He just holds onto you, breath ragged, voice broken— “F-Fuck. Please. Don’t stop.”

He’s sprawled beside you, shirt bunched under his arms, his cock thick and hot in your hand now, leaking into your palm with every pass of your fingers. His forehead’s buried in your neck, and his breath—God, his breath—is hot and broken, stuttering across your collarbone like he’s barely holding on.

You keep your voice low. Dangerous. Gentle. “That’s it, sweetheart…” You stroke him again, slower this time—your grip tight, rhythm steady. “You’re doing so good.” He moans—quiet and choked, hips twitching helplessly up into your palm like his body’s forgotten how to stay still. Your thumb swirls just under the head, smearing the mess he’s already made.

He shudders. Violently. “Oh my—fuck—” His voice is hoarse. High. He’s shaking now, one arm thrown over his eyes like if he sees you while this is happening, he’ll completely come undone. You lean in, mouth brushing his temple. “You’re not gonna last, are you?”

He shakes his head into your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Your strokes pick up, just a little more pressure, a little more pace. “You’re gonna come for me, Simon. Gonna soak my hand while I talk you through it.” He whimpers. And his hand finds your waist, gripping tight—like he needs something to anchor him or he’ll float away. You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his ear.

“Been needing this for so long, haven’t you?”

He nods. Frantic. Breathless. You keep going, hand working him with slow, merciless skill, stroking him just how he needs it, fingers tightening at the base, twisting slightly on the upstroke. He gasps. His whole body jerks. And you feel it—the way he’s curling into you now, thighs trembling, abs flexing. He’s close. So close.

Your lips touch the corner of his mouth, whispering soft and filthy: “Come for me, baby.” “Come in my hand like the good boy you are.”

And that’s it. He lets go with a broken, guttural moan, body arching into you as he spills into your palm—hot and messy, hips twitching as he rides it out in gasping waves. He’s shaking. Breathing like he ran through hell and back. His forehead is still pressed against your skin, his mouth parted against your collarbone. You hold him there, your hand softening, slowing, stroking him through every last pulse until he whimpers from the overstimulation and grabs your wrist.

You stop. Kiss his temple again. You wipe your hand gently on a spare shirt at the edge of your bed, then pull the blanket over both of you. He’s still trembling, not from fear. From the kind of intimacy he hasn’t had in years.

You wrap your arms around him. He lets you. And for the first time in forever… Simon Riley sleeps in someone’s arms. Rested and not worried.

You wake up warm. Not just blanket warm. Body warm. Breath warm. The kind of warmth that comes from being wrapped in someone solid, steady, and completely pressed to your back.

Simon’s chest is at your spine. One arm slung heavy around your waist, the other curled under your pillow. He’s still shirtless, still wearing only his boxers. Legs tangled with yours. Breathing slow.

But he’s not asleep. You can feel it—the way his fingers move. Slow and aimless. Tracing up and down your ribs, barely-there pressure that makes goosebumps rise beneath your shirt. You blink slowly, still half in a dream. Then his hand slides higher, fingers brushing the underside of your breast, just once, just soft—and you let out a sleepy, amused hum.

“You’re not even pretending to be subtle, are you?”

He huffs into your shoulder. Doesn’t answer. You smile, lips curling smug. “You are such a big guy.” You stretch against him, slow and catlike. His arm tightens just slightly around your middle. “Big ego, big confidence, very dangerous…” You turn your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, your voice dipping— “…and yet you let yourself fall apart in my arms.”

He goes still. You grin wider. “Like the softest cloud ever.” You tap his thigh with your foot. “I could get used to that, y’know.” You feel his forehead drop to your nape. And then, you land the final blow: “You even whimpered, babe.”

His groan is muffled against your neck. “Stop teasing me, love.” You laugh. Really laugh—quiet, smug, fond. “You make it too easy, lieutenant.” He shifts, burying his face further into your neck, the tip of his nose warm against your skin. But you can feel it now—

His smile. Hidden, small, but there. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move to leave. He just lies there, hand back on your stomach, thumb brushing lazily under the hem of your shirt like he has nowhere else he’d rather be. And maybe he doesn’t.

The knock comes right as your breath starts to hitch.

“Do I need to bleach my eyes or is it safe?” It's Soap.

You blink against the pillow, biting back a grin as Simon groans low into your neck, arms curling tighter around your middle.

“Ignore him,” you murmur, your hand resting over his forearm.

He does. Your bodies are still locked together—his bare chest to your back, your thighs tangled, both of you too warm and too close.

And his hand? Roaming again. Fingertips ghosting along the curve of your waist, up under your shirt, palm dragging over the soft weight of your breast. His other arm stays tight around you, keeping you in place, mouth brushing your shoulder.

It starts slow. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s just touching you because you’re there. But then your hand slides back. Reaches into the waistband of his boxers. You feel him twitch in your palm—already hard again. “I want to feel you,” you whisper, breath catching as your fingers wrap gently around him. He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just lets out a low, wrecked hum. Then? His arm loosens around your middle. And the next moment, he pulls you upward slightly, enough to slide the blanket down, to get you exactly where he wants you. His hand reaches behind you, slow and confident, sliding your shorts down your hips. You lift one leg without thinking, helping him. And then—he lines himself up. His body curls over yours.

You feel the weight of him, his cock resting heavy between your thighs, the tip pressing against your entrance, warm and ready. And he leans in. His lips touch your ear. His voice—low, hoarse, and filthy-sweet. “You’re gonna feel me all morning, love.”

He nudges your thigh, spreading you open just a little more. “Gonna stuff you full and slow, and you’re not gonna go anywhere.”

Your breath catches. Your body arches back into him, needing it now. And then he pushes in—slowly, thick and hot, every inch dragging you open until you’re gasping, your hand gripping the sheets. His hand comes up again, wraps under your thigh, holding you open for him as he bottoms out—his chest heavy against your back, his breath shaking in your ear. Then he whispers. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimper, completely wrecked already, and he just presses his mouth to your shoulder, his voice barely a rasp: “I missed this… didn’t even know I needed it.” And then he starts to move. He’s buried in you, deep and slow, every inch dragging through your walls as he groans into your skin. Your leg’s hooked over his arm now, bent open lazily as he grinds his hips forward again, just enough pressure to make your body shiver.

“Fuck…” he murmurs, voice low and full of something almost awed. “You take me so well. Like you’re made for it.” You let out a soft, broken sound, fingers digging into the pillow beneath your head. He stays close. Doesn’t pull out much—just enough to move, enough to press, enough to make you feel every aching inch. His hand smooths over your stomach, holding you there, his thumb brushing lazy circles under your breast as his cock grinds deeper.

“You feel that?” A kiss to your neck. “Feel me right here?” He presses his palm flat just above your pelvis. You moan—helpless—and push your hips back into him, desperate for more. He groans again, rougher this time, hips snapping forward, still deep, still steady but stronger now, grinding into that spot that makes your thighs tense around him.

“There she is.” His voice is soft and full of filth. “All cocky yesterday, teasing me like that—saying I whimpered. Look at you now.”

Your breath catches. He’s right. You’re trembling under him. Back arched. Practically soaked from the slow pressure of him grinding into you over and over. You turn your face into the pillow and whimper again as he pushes in deep, holding himself there.

Then slowly—he rolls his hips. One long, hot grind that drags your body with it. “You feel everything I’ve got, yeah?”

Another thrust—just enough to make you gasp. “You wanted to feel me, sweetheart. You got me.” His lips trail down your spine, messy and open, his arm keeping your leg up, pushing you into just the right angle. You don’t even realize how hard you’re breathing until his voice brushes your ear again: “You gonna come like this? Slow. Deep. Full of me?” You nod against the sheets, your body quaking.

And he just keeps moving. Not faster. Not rougher. Just perfect. Simon’s body is glued to yours, chest warm against your back, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged in your ear as he thrusts into you with a rhythm that’s no longer just slow.

It’s intentional. He’s still deep. Still grinding—but harder now, a little faster, the kind of pace that makes your eyes roll and your thighs twitch without warning.

And then—his hand slides down. It starts at your ribs, grazing your breast on the way, then over your stomach—until it rests low, just beneath your navel. He presses there—firm and warm, right where he can feel himself moving inside you. “Right here, yeah?” he whispers, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “That’s me, love. All the way in.”

You gasp, your back arching slightly into him, your body overwhelmed and desperate as his cock drags deep again, rubbing that spot inside you with precision.

And then— His hand dips lower. Fingers sliding between your legs, slick with you already, and finding your clit with a practiced, devastating touch. “There we go,” he murmurs, his mouth right at your ear now. “Let me make you come, sweetheart.” His finger circles slow at first—gentle, like he wants to watch you twitch, feel the way your breath catches with every grind of his hips.

Then—he picks up the pace. Just enough. Thrusting deeper, his rhythm syncing with his fingers on your clit, over and over, so precise you feel your body start to go soft and tense all at once. Your hands grip the sheets. You sob out something halfway between his name and a curse. He groans—louder this time, losing it with you. “Fuck—come for me.” Your whole body locks up. Your thighs shake. Your stomach pulls tight. And then it hits you—hard, fast, relentless—your climax tearing through you as he keeps moving, keeps touching, riding it out with you, whispering low praise into your skin: “So good for me. So perfect. Takin’ me so well, baby—fuck.”

And when your body starts to go limp he follows. You feel him jerk, then still—his breath stuttering as he pushes in one last time and spills inside you, warm and slow, one hand clutching your hip, the other still pressed to your belly. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, inside you, wrapped around you, his chest heaving. After a long silence, his voice—barely audible: “Didn’t know I needed that.”

You smile, still catching your breath. “Told you you whimpered.” He groans into your shoulder. The room is warm, quiet, and wrecked. Sheets half-off the bed. A shirt discarded on the floor. Your legs still trembling when you try to move. Simon’s behind you, one arm draped across your waist, his chest sticky with sweat and his breath still slowing. After a while, he speaks—low, gentle.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nod. And you go with him—wordless, slow. In the bathroom, he starts the water first. Tests it with his hand, adjusting the temp with quiet care. Then he undresses the rest of the way, waiting for you to do the same.

No rush. And when he steps in, you follow him. You don’t know what to expect. But then? He pulls you in. Soft. Steady. Arms around your back. His head lowers. His lips brush your wet shoulder.

The spray is warm against your skin, but his touch is warmer—gentle hands down your spine, his fingers smoothing through your hair, helping you rinse the sweat and the ache away. He doesn’t speak. But his every movement is so tender, so intimate, it makes your throat tighten.

He lathers shampoo into your hair, careful not to get any in your eyes. Rinses it with his hand, palm tilted like a shield. And you turn to face him. Slowly. Bare. Vulnerable. And you don’t expect it— That look in his eyes. Not lust. Not pride. Something raw.

Like he’s still trying to understand how you want him. All of him. Even this soft, unmasked version of him.

You reach up, touch his jaw with wet fingers. He leans into it. No mask. No armor. Just Simon.

And then he says it, so quiet you almost miss it over the water: “Didn’t know I could be this soft with someone.”

You stare up at him. His face wet. Flushed. His lashes dark and heavy from the steam. His eyes—so damn open.

“Would’ve never thought that about you,” you whisper. A smile touches your lips. “Lieutenant Ghost. Sir.” He lets out a soft, gruff laugh. Shakes his head. “Just Simon, when it’s you.” And then he leans down and kisses you.

It’s not urgent. It’s not filthy. It’s the kind of kiss you give someone when you realize they’re home.

The water shuts off with a gentle squeak. You’re both soaked and warm, skin flushed from steam, hair clinging to foreheads and necks. You hand Simon a towel, and he takes it—rubbing it briefly through his hair, letting the fabric fall over his shoulders. He watches you silently. Not because he’s checking you out. Because he’s processing. You go to grab your towel, but he beats you to it. He dries you. Carefully. Slowly. First your shoulders. Then your arms. Then down your legs, kneeling a little as he works. It should feel silly. Domestic. But it doesn’t. It feels like the most intimate thing anyone’s ever done for you. When he stands again, his eyes flick up—and they hold yours. You see it then. The moment he breaks. Not from pain. From trust.

“I never let anyone see me like that.” His voice is quiet. Steady. Measured. But there’s something thick behind it. You blink. He continues, not looking away. “Not like this. Not soft. Not after what I’ve seen. What I’ve done.”

You don’t speak. You wait. He steps closer, towel falling from his shoulder. “And last night—when you touched me like that—” His jaw works. His eyes flicker like it costs him to say this. “It meant something. It still does.” Your chest pulls tight. He reaches out—just brushes his fingers along your wrist. Barely a touch. Just a tether. “I didn’t know I could still feel that.” You smile. Small. Full. “You can. And you did.”

He looks like he wants to say something else—but instead, he just takes your hand. Then, without a word, lifts you into his arms. Not rushed. Not showy. Careful. Like you’re precious. You rest your head on his shoulder, fingers curled against his chest as he carries you—bare, towel-wrapped—back into your room. The bed is still messy, still warm. He sets you down gently, slides in after you, pulling the covers up over both of you. And then—he wraps his arms around you like it’s instinct. “Just sleep, yeah?” he murmurs. You hum, closing your eyes. But you feel it—his fingers tracing your side, still needing to touch you. Still grounding himself. And long after your breath evens out, he stays awake. Just holding you. Like he’s still trying to believe you’re real.

You’re half asleep, wrapped in Simon’s arms, your legs tangled with his beneath the sheets. His chin rests on top of your head, his breath slow, finally calm. You shift slightly, and his grip tightens automatically—one broad arm curling under your ribs, the other over your waist. Safe. Still. And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You both freeze. No one moves. You both just stare at the ceiling.

Knock. Knock-knock. Then a muffled voice. “Riiiight… So I’m just gonna assume Ghost’s in there because he didn’t show up for breakfast, and if you two are still in bed, I better not hear anything traumatizing through the door.” Soap.

You groan. Simon exhales through his nose, annoyed but not surprised. Another voice. Keegan, deadpan: “You told me they were just briefing last night.”

Soap: “They were! I saw her go in her dorm, and then five minutes later he vanished like a slutty ninja.” You start laughing quietly, into Simon’s chest. Simon just tightens his grip around you and mutters:

“I will actually kill them.”

Knock-knock. Soap again, sing-song: “Round two? If you’re gonna fuck again, just tell us so we can leave and keep our childhoods intact.” You roll over slightly, grinning up at Simon.

“Do we answer?” He deadpans, voice gravel-deep: “I’ll answer with a flashbang.” You laugh again, curl up against him. But then you sit up suddenly and call through the door, cheerful as hell: “We’re naked and emotionally unavailable, come back later!” There’s a pause.

Keegan, under his breath: “…Fucking knew it.” Soap: “I told you! I told you, Keeg!” Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Simon just groans and drops his face into your pillow. You grin. He throws a pillow at you.

You finally drag yourselves out of bed—barely. Your thighs ache. Your shirt is wrinkled. And Simon? He keeps trying to pull you back in by the waistband of your shorts. “You’re warm,” he mutters, voice low and raspy.

“We’ve already traumatized them, Riley,” you say, batting his hand away, “let’s at least pretend we’re professionals.”

You pull on a loose hoodie, still only in your biker shorts underneath, and he throws on a clean shirt and joggers. His mask’s back on—but not his usual skull. Just black. Subtle. But when he opens the door, Soap is already there. Mouth full of toast.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally—oh fuckin’ hell.” He chokes mid-bite, looking you up and down. “You’re wearing his hoodie.”

You grin. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Simon just walks past him like he doesn’t exist. Keegan’s just watching, arms crossed, sipping coffee like he saw this all in a vision three weeks ago. “She’s glowing,” he mutters to Soap. “He’s limping,” Soap mutters back. You roll your eyes.

Simon hands you a mug before grabbing his own coffee. You take it and lean on the counter beside him—but before you can move again, he pulls you into his side. Arm low around your waist. Hand splayed over your hip. His fingers tapping lightly against your skin like he’s still processing that you’re real. You raise a brow at him, smirking.

“Clingy now, are we?”

“Shut up.” But he doesn’t let go. Not when Soap walks by and stares. Not when Keegan narrows his eyes suspiciously at the smug tension in the room. And definitely not when you lean into him on purpose and whisper: “You’re not hiding it very well, Lieutenant.”

He hums. Takes a sip of coffee. Doesn’t move his hand. “Not hiding anything.”

“You’re literally gripping my ass in front of your teammates.”

“It’s mine now.”

You snort into your mug. Soap gags dramatically behind you both. “Can you at least pretend you don’t wanna fuck on the breakfast table?” Simon squeezes your hip—hard—and mutters low enough for only you to hear: “Don’t tempt me.”

You glance up at him with a smug little smirk. “Maybe I will.”

He looks at you sideways, jaw ticking under the mask. And just like that, you win. Because he’s back to that needy tension again. The one that ends in slammed doors and messy kisses and you in his lap.

Which is exactly where you end up five minutes later on the couch—with his coffee in one hand and his other arm around you, your thighs over his lap, your smirk never fading.

And Soap? Soap’s standing in the hallway, dramatically fake-gagging while Keegan just walks away, muttering: “I hate this unit.”

Before the Mission – Gear-Up Bay

You’re leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching Ghost snap his vest straps into place. König’s across from him, already suited up, quiet, unreadable under his balaclava.

Simon checks his knife. Tugs his gloves tighter. Doesn’t look at you.

You hum low under your breath. “Five days, huh?”

He doesn’t respond at first. Just slams the mag into his rifle and slings it over his shoulder. But you see the twitch in his jaw. The way his eyes flick sideways to you, then away.

“Don’t get soft on me, Riley,” you tease, voice dipped in sugar and static. “You’ll miss me too much.”

Still no smile. Still that cold calm he wears before missions. But as he brushes past you toward the exit, his hand catches your hip—just once. Squeezing. A promise.

You turn your head to watch him walk out, and König gives you a slow look from the door. “You really shouldn’t rile him up before deployment.”

You smile. “He likes it.”

Five Days Later – 02:46am

Your dorm is dark. You’re wrapped in a hoodie and boxers, barely conscious, just padding to the kitchen for water when— BANG.

The door slams like a damn grenade went off. You jump, heart slamming against your ribs. You rush over, yanking it open.

“Jesus, you don’t have to kick my—”

But you stop. Simon’s standing there. No mask. No gear. No words. Just rage and hunger and something cracked in his expression, like the only thing keeping him stitched together was the thought of you.

He grabs you. Lifts you. Takes you straight to the bed. You don’t fight it. Don’t ask. Just stare up at him as he peels off his shirt, muscles taut, his skin flushed from the cold and the adrenaline.

You breathe, stunned: “Fuck, you are so hot, Riley.”

“Shut up.” It’s not harsh. It’s desperate.

His pants drop next, leaving just his boxers and that black tank clinging to him. His body heavy, broad, his eyes locked on you like he could eat you alive. And then he crawls over you. Fingers already tugging your pants down, rough and uncoordinated from how badly he needs this.

“I missed you,” he rasps between kisses, biting into your jaw.

“Missed this. Missed your fuckin’ mouth, your smell, your voice—”

His hand cups your thigh, pulling it up around his hip. “I need it. I need you. Now.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your head tipping back, already breathless. “Then take it, Lieutenant. Don’t leave me waiting.”

Your pants are halfway down when his mouth crashes back into yours—open, wet, biting. His hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you hard enough to bruise. And his body—hot and solid over yours—rocks forward, grinding his cock against your bare heat through his boxers. You moan into his mouth, and it only makes him snap.

“Fuckin’—missed this,” he grits out, tearing his own underwear down. “Thought about it every night. Had to jerk off in silence like some fuckin’ teenager.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Poor baby.”

He growls—grabs your jaw. Not rough to hurt. Rough to own. His hand wraps around your face, thumb at your chin, tilting your head up as his cock slides against your slick heat.

“Still running your mouth?” he mutters, voice hot against your lips.

You try to answer but all you get out is— “Simon—”

And then he’s inside. One harsh thrust—deep and sharp—and your head drops back to the mattress with a choked moan, eyes fluttering.

“That’s right,” he grunts. “Take it. That’s mine.”

His hips don’t wait. He fucks you hard—hips snapping, rhythm tight, focused, like he’s trying to grind the days without you out of his bones. The bed frame starts to creak. The sound of skin against skin fills the room—wet and rhythmic, punctuated by his low groans and your gasping moans.

But even now—he’s watching. His thumb strokes your jaw as he holds your face. His eyes flick down to your body every few seconds, checking—are you okay? can you take more? And when he sees you gripping the sheets, your legs wrapped around his waist, begging without words—he pushes deeper. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.” His breath is ragged, forehead touching yours now. “You take me so good.”

You whimper, nails digging into his back. He doesn’t stop. Just fucks you through it—rough, rhythmic, completely lost in you.

And then his hand slips down again, slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. He presses down hard and circles fast, matching every thrust with that tight swirl.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

You shatter around him—loud and wrecked, your body trembling as he drives through your orgasm, relentless, chasing his own release with clenched teeth and buried curses.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it—”

He thrusts once more, twice, then buries himself deep—groaning, coming hard with a hand fisted in your sheets and the other still holding your jaw like a lifeline. You both freeze. Breathing. Shaking.

And then? He collapses. Not on top of you—just around you. Head buried in your neck. Chest heaving. “I really missed you,” he murmurs again. Quieter now.

More like a confession than a need. You card your fingers through his hair. Kiss the side of his head. “You gonna kick my door in every time you want to get laid?”

He groans. Smirks against your skin. “If I go five days without this again? Yeah.”

The sheets are half-kicked off the bed, and your legs are still trembling when you slide on top of him. Simon’s laid out on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on your thigh.

His chest rises slow. Steady. Like he’s not on alert for once. You settle over him, bare, lazy, content. Your fingers trace the ink on his shoulder, the heat still rolling off his skin. And then he whispers it.

“I love what you do to me.” It’s not a confession. It’s a realization. Soft. Quiet. Real. You hum, smiling against his jaw as you lean down. “Mmm. And I love both of your sides.” You press a kiss beneath his eye, then one to his temple. “You soft little bastard.”

That makes him laugh—an actual, honest laugh, low in his chest, raspy and free. It shakes his whole body, and your heart with it. “Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “I wish I would’ve got to you sooner. Talked to you. Would’ve changed so much.”

You cup his face—thumb brushing the faint stubble on his cheek. “You’re here now.” Your voice is warm. Firm. “Come home to me as often as you want.”

He blinks up at you. And that’s when it clicks— The way his hand slides up your back. The way you press your forehead to his. The way you both breathe like you’ve been underwater for years.

Neither of you said it. Not out loud. But it’s been there. For three years. In every glance. Every restrained touch. Every “watch your six” that meant come back to me.

Now? You’ve got him. All of him. And he’s never letting go.

The sun is still rising, lazy through the clouds. The yard is quiet, save for the distant clack of gear and boots. You’re leaning against the railing outside the main barracks, sipping your coffee, hoodie half-zipped, still foggy from the morning.

And then—Footsteps. Heavy. Confident. Familiar.

You don’t have to turn. You feel him. Simon comes up behind you—black joggers, clingy black shirt, sleeves rolled up over thick forearms, and that damn black skull balaclava pulled low. Still a ghost. But only to the rest of the world.

To you? All man. All heat. All yours.

He doesn’t say a word. Just steps in close, his hand finds your hip, fingers squeezing through the fabric of your shorts, and then he pulls his mask up just enough—

And kisses you. Long. Slow. Filthy. You gasp into his mouth, hand bracing on his chest as he backs you into the wall. His tongue drags over your bottom lip. His palm slides up your back. You feel the heat of him in every inch of your skin.

And then—

“WHOOOOOOOHOOOO!”

“FUCKING FINALLY.”

You both break the kiss, breathless and flushed, just in time to see Soap spinning in a circle like a man possessed. Keegan’s just standing behind him, arms crossed, head tilted slightly.

“Hot. Hot. Hot,” Soap chants, grinning like an idiot. “I mean—fucking hell, Ghost, leave some sexual tension for the rest of us.”

Simon just stares at them for a second. Then casually wipes his mouth with his gloved thumb and drags the mask back down.

Keegan, dry as hell: “Look at that smug bastard. I don’t see much, but it’s unfair how hot that looked.”

You shoot a smug smile over your shoulder. Simon groans. Soap laughs so hard he nearly trips. Keegan just mutters, “Man. I hate this unit.”

And Ghost? He just walks off—completely unbothered, completely yours.

After the morning briefing, the rest of the unit starts to peel off—König heading out to check the drops, Soap tossing a wink your way as he exits.

Simon lingers behind. You wait until the room clears before you step up beside him. Your arm brushes his. Your shoulder bumps his chest. He doesn’t move. Just looks down at you. And waits.

You take a deep breath, eyes scanning the dark fabric of his balaclava, then the softness in his eyes behind it. “Be careful, big guy.” Your hand presses to his chest, over his vest. “Come back home.”

He reaches up. Fingers curl around the edge of his mask. And he pulls it up, slow, just enough to uncover his mouth—just for you.

And then he leans down. Kisses you. Not quick. Not lustful. Deep. Caring. Full. His hand cups the back of your head, his other arm pulling you into him. It’s slow. Measured. Like he needs you to feel exactly what it means. When he pulls back, your eyes are still half-shut.

His lips brush your temple. “I will.” You breathe out, barely nodding. Then his voice—quiet. Real. No gravel, no walls.

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap up to him. And he sees it. The stillness. The shock. So he says it again. Softer this time. “I mean it.” There’s a silence in the room now. You reach up and slide your hand along his jaw.

“I know.” You swallow, smiling. “I’ve always known, baby.”

And when he pulls the mask back down, you still feel the kiss. But more than that— You feel the weight of the promise that just passed between you.

He’s coming back.

To you.

Always.

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

[scaleniusrm]

Hi love!! I looove your writings so much!!

May I please request Simon with a people-pleaser reader? Like whenever she walk around the market, she would always come back with ridiculous things because “the saleswoman took her time to explain and demonstrate this product on me, Si :(“ or “the lady called me pretty so I have to buy it :((((” so everytime reader wanna walk around the market Simon would always have to be by her side to prevent her from getting scammed

Hi!! So sorry, I'm just catching up with requests 😭 tysm!!!<3 I hope you like it ❀

I went to my local market yesterday and almost LOST MY MIND to the amount of Etsy and Temu products, so I'm taking it out on this blurb.

Boyfriend!Simon with a people-pleaser reader

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

wc: 973

warnings: none!

Simon thought you had a wide variety of peculiar tastes. Surely, that had to be the reason you always skipped over to him holding things he couldn’t help but classifying as useless junk. It had to be the reason he’d look away for a second, or answer a call, or tie his shoelaces—only to find you next to a stand, serious and determined to buy a salt lamp. 

“You don’t need that, love,” he muttered under his breath, guiding you away from the colourful stand full of trinkets and mass-produced items. His hand rested on the small of your back, eyes set on the nearest way out of this sea of people you’d dragged them to. 

That was far from the last time you returned to him with a sheepish smile and a useless item between your hands. 

A resin pyramid—small, full of glitter, layers in different colours, a charm he couldn’t make out lodged in the middle. Something that served no purpose to either of you. Something that didn’t even look nice. You pouted your lips at him, soft eyes staring up at him as you clutched it against your chest. “She said her dog’s vet bill had stacked, Si. And it’s kind of cute!”

It absolutely wasn’t—a bit of an eyesore that he had no idea where in your flat you’d place. He shifted his gaze to the stand behind you, where you’d just gotten it, and raised an eyebrow at the woman, who avoided his glare like he was the plague. 

The next time, it was essential oils. Simon didn’t notice until he whiffed the scent of clove and peppermint that he realized it was you, the figure walking in front of him, who smelled like you’d gone on a trip to a temple. When asked, you simply shrugged, lifting your wrist to his face so he’d smell better—not that he had any desire to, but he obliged.

“He told me it boosts the immune system,” you said, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Not possible, I don’t think. But he really took his time trying to explain it to me.”

Simon wanted to strangle that man. Instead, he took in a long breath, wiped his hands down his face, and nodded his head. “Smells great, love. Just don’t buy anymore.”

He finally drew the line when he spotted you talking to a flimsy, lanky man who looked like he hadn’t had a shower since he’d lost his last milk tooth—a good millennia or so ago. His stand was so far down the road, removed from all others, that it looked borderline illegal. Simon couldn’t hear the words coming out of his mouth, but he could see him getting increasingly flustered as Simon approached you. He didn’t blame him—hood pulled up, black face mask, eyebrows knit together tightly. 

Once you felt his presence, you turned to look at him, small box between your hands. You smiled at him—wide, genuine, beautiful enough to have earned a smile of his own, had you not been in the middle of purchasing pills. 

“Look, for weight-loss!” You showed him the box, which he took with a frown drawn sharp on his features. “He said these are organic.”

While he spoke to you, his eyes were set on the man, who looked a second away from bolting down the street and leave everything behind. 

“These are laxatives,” he groaned. “What’d’ya need to lose weight for, anyway?”

You shrugged, turning your gaze to face the vendor. “He told me I could do with a couple of pounds less.”

The look Simon gave the man must’ve been threatening enough for him to snatch the box from the blond’s hand and shove most of his belongings in a bag. You stood rooted in place, mouth slightly agape, as you watched the man practically sprint away from the two of you. 

You hummed, tilting your face up to look at him. “What an odd guy.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

From that point on, Simon made it his mission to leave you alone as little as possible. When you stopped by the stand that sold dog treats, he stood with a hand on your waist, your back pressed firmly to his chest. The woman explaining how these vegan, organic, low-calorie treats lost more and more spirit with every glance he gave her, and gave up entirely once she realized she’d lost you thanks to the gargoyle that trailed behind you. 

Your regular sellers now steered clear from you. The resin ashtrays man didn’t look at you when you walked across from him. The cancer-curing crystals lady stopped meeting your eyes whenever you spoke to her. The mass-produced “artisan” bracelets woman stopped trying to tell you how she’d personally found some of the stones embedded on the jewellery—the same stones he’d seen in another display a few stands down. 

When you returned to your flat that night, worn down from walking all day and, for the first time in forever, empty handed, he plopped down on the couch, pulling you on his lap with a satisfied hum. 

You pressed your forehead to his cheek, your warm breath hitting the curve of his neck. “I’ve gotten better at saving money,” you sing-songed, proud. 

He almost snorted, because if there’d been a single reason you’d managed to keep your money in your wallet and your flat from being infested with more useless trinkets, it had been him. But he didn’t say it—he let you believe. Because he was determined to spend the rest of his life with you, and that included keeping you from burning away your money. 

He pulled you closer against him, lips warm against your temple. “You have, love.”

You gave a victorious hum, letting yourself melt into his embrace. 

[scaleniusrm]

Trying to buy new furniture w Simon

Something something, after you moved in with Simon, he’s not used to all the decor that keeps popping up every time you come back from the store.

His place had always been bare before, only the few necessities he needed. It wasn’t that he necessarily wanted it that way, it was just, he was so used to it that when he saw pillows on the couch, not just regular pillows, fancy pillows, his brows furrowed.

“What’s this?” he muttered, turning it around to all sides like he was inspecting a grenade.

You huffed, gently taking the pillow back and rearranging it into place on the couch.

“Pillows…?”

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head.

“Pillows are for the bed, not the couch, last time I checked.”

You rolled your eyes playfully.

“Decorative pillows? Are you dense, Si? They’re for decoration, and where did you ‘check’ because last I saw, about everyone has pillows for their couch.”

“Not me” he grunted.

“Yeah, well that’s because you never decorate”

He huffed, crossing his arms like a grumpy bear. “Waste of yer money, I tell ya, biggest scam ever”

he proceeded to plop down onto the couch, glaring at the pillows like they’d personally offended him before reaching for the remote.

Next time, it was your bedroom. You heard him call something out from the doorway and got up to see what he was fussing about.

“Why does our bloody bedroom look like an ikea pop up?” he grunted, an apple in his hand that he had been mindlessly eating. He leaned against the doorframe, brows furrowed like he was looking at a crime scene.

“Because it looks nice…?”

He was quiet for a moment before you caught sight of his new expression. You could’ve sworn his jaw dropped as he rushed over to his side of the bed.

“What did you do with my pillow?”

“Did you throw it out?” Simon’s face dropped, he’d looked like his entire family had just died. I apologize in advance for that

“No…? I put a cover on it” You huffed, confused.

He looked a tad bit relieved when he unzipped the side to see his familiar pillow still inside.

“Thank god” he mumbled, clutching it like he’d nearly had a heart attack had it not been there.

“Get this- stupid bloody awful thing off” he muttered under his breath as his large, clumsy fingers peeled the decorative cover off, revealing his bare naked pillow.

“That—” he pointed to the cover with a glare, “is not going back on my pillow.”

Honestly, you couldn’t even be upset. You were just so baffled you let out a laugh when he placed his pillow back on the bed without the cover, patting it down with satisfaction.

And it stayed like that, sure enough. That was probably the start of when you realized Simon had emotional attachments to some of his stuff. Like when you tried buying a new couch, since the old one was far past its last limb.

You tried to surprise Simon when he came home from work that day, smiling proudly at the new couch set up in the living room. But he had the same exact expression painted on his face as when he thought you got rid of his pillow.

“Where’s my couch?” he asked, sucking in a breath after he remembered to breathe.

“It’s in the other room, I just thought, y’know… it was time for a new couch—”

He rushed right past you mid sentence, returning in under thirty seconds later with his old couch held above his head, setting it down with a sigh of relief as he sank into it like it was his throne.

“Bloody terrified me, love” he said, shaking his head.

You let out a small amused snort.

While Simon never let you put a cover back on his pillow again or replace his couch, you didn’t mind. It was endearing, in a way. Now, instead both couches sat in the living room pushed together, and you continued to make the bed each morning with his bare pillow fluffed up against all your decorative ones and covered pillows.

Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t the decor that made it home. It was him and all his stubborn little comforts too.

I get so unbelievably mad when I see a lady w her husband and she won’t let him decorate THEIR house and only gets the stuff she likes 😒 like if you don’t like that man decorate BOTH of ur guys house

Also sorry for being inactive recently im on vacation rn so in a little bit ill be back to posting again but i made this rq 😼

[scaleniusrm]

“Leave a light on f’me, yeah?”

It was how he said “I love you and I’ll be back home” in his own way. You were never allowed to know the specifics, where he went, how long he’d be gone. But you could always count on a long kiss at the front door and those words whispered against your forehead in a final embrace.

You continued on in life, waking up to cold sheets, going to work, drinks with friends, and the never ending upkeep of the house. The silent house that technically you shared, but rarely cohabitated. There were no photos of a smiling couple on the wall, no extra set of shoes by the door and no coat waiting beside yours for the next adventure.

But there was always the light. A table lamp, picked up at a thrift shop one day to fill an empty space in the living room. It had seen better days before you hefted it home, a relic of another time of solid metal and outdated fabric. It filled the space in your living room and its dim light became a hopeful beacon home.

As you’d wander off too bed, whether it be an early night where you just couldn’t take the silence anymore or stumbling in after one too many with the girls, you made sure to turn the lamp on. A gentle tug of the cord, casting shadows in the living room and some rays through the closed blinds.

You’d send a small prayer every night that you’d wake up and the light would be off, signaling Simon had come home. Likely asleep on the couch because he always woke you up when he lumbered in, and Simon hated waking you.

The longest you’d gone was 3 months, 90 nights of turning it on and turning in. Only to wake up to that damn light creeping under your bedroom door, getting clicked off with a sigh. But there has always been an end to the storm, that joyful morning, like a kid on Christmas seeing that Santa came. You’d roll over, see no light from the other room, and launch out of bed, attacking the poor sleeping soldier with kisses and tears.

But this had been 4 months. And then 5 months. At the 6th month mark, you started turning on more lights. Each light switch, cord pull or button to push became a little prayer. By the 8th month, your front yard looked like the crack of dawn. Every single light was on. All night. Hoping to draw him home, to be that beacon he always requested. Your poor neighbors probably thought you were crazy, and by then, you felt like you were too.

Your heart couldn’t let you stop, no matter how ridiculous you felt, haunting the halls like a ghost at dusk. Turning on every light methodically, working your way through the house and glancing back to the driveway one last time before bed. Then continuing the routine in reverse in the morning, switching them all off as tears fell.

Until one night, you woke up to a warm body and a rough whisper.

“What the bloody hell is our light bill now?”

.-.-.

Blame it on the fact that I’m from the south and country music is part of my bloodstream. Inspired by: every light in the house by Trace Atkins

[scaleniusrm]

jokes to make after failure that aren’t self-deprecating:

I’m the best to ever do it

Nobody saw that (best if said loudly)

No one’s ever done it like me

I could be President/they should make me President

Behold, a mere fraction of my power!

The public wants to be me soooooo bad

I’m an expert in (thing you just failed at)

How could this have happened to god’s favorite princess?

Nothing ibuprofen and a glass of water cant fix

I’m being sabotaged

[scaleniusrm]

📁 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟏: EROTIC TRANSFERENCE — an asylum au | 6.0k wc

↳ featuring: sociopath!simon x psychiatrist!reader

ⓘ file preface: he’s a masked sociopath with a filthy mouth and eyes that never stop watching you. you’re the new psychiatrist—young, polished, and far too curious for your own good.

⚠︎ classified triggers: this fic contains explicit and dark themes, including mental instability, psychological manipulation, power imbalances, and dubious consent. sexual content depicted include restraint play, degradation, praise kink, size kink, oral sex, pierced genitals (jacob’s ladder), and intense dom/sub dynamics. additional warnings for asylum settings with disturbing imagery, violence , and heavy psychological tension. the reader engages in self-destructive behavior, shame, and ethical violations (doctor/patient relationship). reader discretion is strongly advised.

event masterlist

the asylum smells like bleach and something older. older than mold, older than rot. something that can't be scrubbed away, no matter how many times the floors are mopped or the walls are wiped down.

it's in the cracks of the tile, the grout between them, the ceiling tiles yellowed with time. not decay, not exactly but close. like the building itself has absorbed every scream, every whispered confession, every last gasp of air from lungs that will never draw breath again.

you have smelled it time and time again. in hospice clinical rotation during medical school, where death comes slow and expected, where the antiseptic tries and fails to mask the stench of dead or dying bodies.

it's even stronger in psych wards, where the air is thick with sweat and fear and the metallic tang of blood flaking off the skulls that have banged into walls one too many times.

the smell clings to your clothes, seeps into the fibers of your white coat, your scrubs, your hair. no amount of detergent or perfume or showers can strip it away. it follows you home, into your apartment, into your bed. it even follows you into your dreams.

but this new job is supposed to be a fresh start. that's what your mentor called it when she pressed the file into your hands three weeks ago. her fingers left faint smudges on the manila folder, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. the weight of it in your palms feels heavier than it should—not just paper and ink, but something more. 

"try not to be scared of the environment," she said with a tired smile. the lines around her eyes deepened as she spoke, the kind that come from too many late nights and too many patients who never get better. her hand lingered on yours for half a second too long. "focus on the patient. that's where you always shine."

but the asylum doesn't feel like a fresh start. it feels like a place where fresh things go to die.

you pass the nurses' station with a nod, already trying to tune out the screaming echoing from the lower level. it isn't the sharp, sudden kind of scream. it's a scream that sounds like a soul being peeled apart layer by layer. your fingers tighten around the clipboard until your knuckles whiten. the pen cap wedges between your fingers like a weapon—small, pathetic, but yours.

a group of patients shuffle through the far hallway under supervision, their slippers scuffing against tile that hasn't been properly cleaned in years. the nurse pushes a metal cart ahead of them, the trays rattling with little paper cups—each holding colorful pills.

most don't look up. their heads stay bowed, their shoulders hunched, as if carrying a weight no one else can see. some twitch—a finger jerking, an eyelid fluttering. others stare at nothing, their eyes fixed on some middle distance between this world and whatever hellscape lives inside their skulls.

"you get used to it," says dr. carver, your new supervisor, without looking back. his keys jangle as he walks, the sound almost mocking in its cheerfulness.

you don't believe him for a second. your past work experiences have been in the frame of psych wards in hospitals and outpatient clinics—never asylums. asylums are where patients go when nowhere else can contain them. where the worst cases, the truly broken, are sent to be studied like specimens under glass. the kind of place where people are forgotten.

the tour is brisk, clinical. the west wing for the non-violent cases, the east for the ones who need restraints. the common area with its bolted-down furniture, the cafeteria with its plastic utensils counted and recounted. everything designed to keep the chaos contained.

you feel it the moment you step into the east wing—the weight of eyes on you. not just watching. studying.

"this is where you'll be assigned," carver says, stopping in front of a reinforced door. the nameplate reads riley, s. in neat block letters. "high-risk patient. former military. court-mandated after an... incident."

he doesn't elaborate. he doesn't need to. you've read up on his file before going for rounds this morning.

age: 37. former military operative with a service record that is heavily redacted, suggesting involvement in classified black ops. dishonorably discharged under sealed circumstances. following his return to civilian life, riley is implicated in a series of violent homicides—deliberate, ritualistic, and performed with a level of precision that rules out impulse or psychosis.

court-mandated psychiatric evaluation deems him fit for long-term containment at blackwall institute due to extreme sociopathic behavior and the high likelihood of reoffense.

diagnostically, riley meets the criteria for antisocial personality disorder, marked by chronic disregard for the rights and boundaries of others, lack of empathy, and calculated manipulation. he exhibits no delusional thinking, no psychotic breaks, and no evidence of hallucinations.

instead, he operates with full cognitive clarity. his violence is not reactive, but strategic—premeditated acts committed without remorse. he displays an eerie emotional flatness, but maintains a high-functioning intellect and strong interpersonal acuity.

he reads people quickly and accurately, often weaponizing their emotional tells against them. while superficially cooperative, all interactions appear designed to extract information, establish control, or destabilize the other party.

he wears a self-constructed skull mask at nearly all times. when forcibly removed, his behavior becomes volatile. the mask appears to serve a psychological function—both as armor and as a performance. he does not hide behind it so much as embody it. attempts to strip it from him have resulted in injury to staff. for the sake of stability, containment policy has allowed him to retain it during sessions, under heavy physical restraints.

clinical recommendation: treat all interactions as adversarial. do not respond to personal inquiries. do not allow sessions to deviate from their intended therapeutic structure. patient is capable of emotional mimicry but does not possess empathy. any rapport built is likely a means to an end. do not mistake his stillness for submission.

do not underestimate him. control is his currency. you'll only get what he wants to give you, and he'll want to watch what you do with it.

the risk assessment didn't bother with pleasantries:

level 5 containment

subject is non-delusional, cognitively stable, and extremely dangerous. violent outbursts are rare, but never reactive—always premeditated. staff injury incidents occur only when restraints are compromised. he waits. he plans. he attacks.

through the small reinforced window, you see him for the first time. the photo that you saw in his file is grainy and taken through the window of a solitary confinement cell.

he wears a black cloth mask stretched into the pattern of a stylized skull. white smears over the sockets. a grin permanently frozen in place. his eyes are the only visible part of his face—shadowed, half-lidded.

the reinforced glass fogs slightly with your quickened breath as you press closer. the air in the hallway suddenly feels too thick, too still, like the entire wing is holding its breath along with you.

he sits perfectly still on the edge of his cot, back straight, hands resting on his knees. the skull mask stares blankly at the opposite wall, that same frozen grin you saw in the photograph. his shoulders strain against the fabric of his jumpsuit, the material stretched obscenely tight across the impossible breadth of him—no wonder they keep him in reinforced restraints. 

even sitting, he dominates the space, his frame so broad, so solid, it makes the flimsy cot beneath him look like a child's toy. your throat goes dry watching the way his arms bulge where the sleeves pull taut, veins standing in stark relief along corded muscle that flexes just once when he shifts his weight.

his hands are massive where they rest on his knees, fingers thick and capable—you imagine them wrapping around your throat and your pulse jumps traitorously.

of course, they would have him under around the clock supervision. no wonder the restraints are heavy-duty, the door reinforced. he's not just big—he's built like a weapon, every inch of him honed and hardened, radiating a dangerous magnetism that makes your skin prickle with something that isn't quite fear. 

his eyes—the only part of him that moves—track slowly across the room before settling on the door.

on you.

his eyes are much lighter than you expected. but there's something about them that oozes darkness—the kind of darkness that creates a dark pit of fear in your abdomen. they were utterly devoid of anything recognizable as warmth or empathy.

you hold your breath without realizing it. your brain sending signals to your lungs reminding you to breathe.

there's something obscenely compelling about his stillness, about the power coiled in his frame, and it terrifies you how badly you want to see it unleashed.

your fingers tighten around the clipboard, nails biting into your palms as you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. the rational part of your brain screams danger while something deeper, something primal thrills at the way his gaze lingers—like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he's already imagined a dozen ways to ruin you. 

one of his fingers twitches—just once—against his knee. if you had blinked you probably would've missed the action. 

then, with deliberate slowness, he tilts his head. just slightly. it unsettles something in your stomach. you didn't get creeped out easily—especially after years of working in psychiatry. but you would be lying if you weren't scared shitless.

his chest rises once, slow and controlled, the only sign that he was even alive beneath that mask. your skin crawls with unease as you swallow the lump in your throat.

dr. carver cleared his throat. "he's got a session with you in twenty. you'll be supervised, of course." he jangled his keys again, the sound suddenly too loud in the quiet hallway. "just... don't turn your back on him."

you nod in acknowledgment, but your eyes don't leave the his. you swear you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit—as of he's smiling under the mask. you don't need to see his face to decipher that he is amused. and if you've learned one thing from the little experience you had in this job—it was never a good think to have a sociopath amused. 

carver shifts beside you, uncomfortable, his keys jangling as he turns. "come on," he mutters, already walking away, his footsteps too loud in the suffocating quiet. "i'll show you the observation room."

you force yourself to step back, your knees slightly bucking as if you've forgotten how to walk. you can feel the shift in the air as you turn to walk away. the heat of his stare doesn't stop. if anything, it burns even stronger now. it settles between your shoulder blades, heavy as a hand pressed flat against your spine. 

it lingers, warm and intrusive, like the ghost of fingers trailing down the knobs of your spine. you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, though you know he hasn't moved from the cot.

he wasn't just watching. he was claiming. 

you follow carver in silence. you take slow and calculted breaths to re-regulate your nervous system. you weren't even in the same room as him but he somehow managed to completely throw your nervous system into overdrive by the simple act of eye contact.

your footsteps are unnaturally loud in the hush of the east wing. each step feels like it's pulling you deeper into something you won't come back from, and not even the heavens and the hells can chase away the fear pooling in your stomach.

your palms sweat by your sides, still feeling the phantom weight of riley's stare like a brand between your shoulder blades. it doesn't fade with distance, if anything, it grows more intense with each step you take away from his cell, as if the distance only makes his presence more palpable.

your skin prickles with the unsettling awareness that he's still watching, even though you know the reinforced, heavy metal doors and dozens if security measures separate the the two of you.

the walk to the observation room feels like it takes forever. the stillness and silence is broken by the occasional scream or bang. but other than that it seems eerily quiet. too quiet. 

carver pause in front of one of the doors, glancing back at you with an expression you can't quite read. his keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves. "almost there," he says, but his voice sounds distant, like it's coming through water.

you nod automatically, your tongue heavy in your mouth. some part of you wants to turn around, to look back down that long hallway, to see if—

no. you keep your eyes forward. keep walking.

but the weight of that stare stays with you, pressing insistently against your spine, a silent reminder that this isn't over. that it's only just begun.

the door to the observation room door creaks when carver pushes it open, the sound only further increasing this looming sense of dread. inside, the air is colder, the hum of machinery louder.

a bank of monitors flickers against one wall, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of observation area. the oneway window next to the monitors overlooks the bland room where a floor-mounted table and chairs sit bolted in place.

"session protocols are on the desk," carver says, gesturing to a stack of papers. "review them while i get the orderlies prepped for transfer."

as the door closes and carver leaves, your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging half-moons into your palms. 

you were nervous. and you were never nervous. nervous meant mistakes and stupid slip-ups. it meant giving him exactly what he wanted: the upper hand. yet here you were, pulse rabbiting in your throat, breaths coming just a fraction too quick. the file with the protocols felt slick in your grip. 

you forced your hands still. forced your spine straight. you were a professional. you'd handled worse.

the protocols blurred in front of you, words swimming together. maintain distance. avoid physical contact. terminate session at first sign of agitation. as if it were that simple. as if he wouldn't see right through the script, wouldn't relish tearing it apart.

your breath catches as movement flickers across the monitors. the feed shows the orderly team leading him in—three of them, all broad-shouldered but dwarfed by riley's hulking frame. 

the straightjacket strains across his chest, the thick canvas barely containing the width of him. his masked face turns slightly as they guide him forward, those pale eyes scanning the room even as his body moves with eerie compliance.

the chair creaks when he sits, metal protesting under his weight. the orderlies work quickly, securing the restraints—thick leather cuffs around his wrists, already buckled tight behind the chair, another strap crossing his chest. 

one orderly kneels to fasten the ankle restraints, hands moving with practiced efficiency. riley watches them, head tilted just slightly, that grotesque mask hiding whatever expression might lie beneath.

when the last buckle clicks into place, the orderlies step back. one of them wipes his brow—you don't miss the way his hand shakes.

on screen, riley tests the restraints. not violently, not even urgently. just a slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, a flex of his arms. the leather groans but holds. the chair doesn't budge. then, as if sensing your gaze through the camera, his head turns. those dead eyes lock onto the lens causing your stomach drops.

a knock at the door made you flinch. one of the orderlies gruff voices, muffled through the metal: "we're ready."

your breath hitches, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk as you force yourself to look away from the monitor. the cold metal bites into your palms, sharp enough to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever unsettling feeling had taken root in your chest.

you exhale slowly, counting the seconds in your head. four in. seven hold. eight out. the rhythm steadies you, brings the world back into focus.

nervousness was a luxury you couldn't afford. not here. not with him.

when you open your eyes again, your expression is schooled into something neutral, professional. the slight tremor in your hands is gone, tucked away where it can't betray you. you smooth the front of your coat, adjust the clipboard under your arm and brace yourself as you enter the room. 

the scent of antiseptic and metal with a hint of smoke lingers in the stale air of the room. the orderlies file out of the room one-by-one leaving you alone with him. you can feel the hunger of his stare grazing over you leaving goosebumps in it's wake. you swear that your knees buck for a second as you take slow strides towards the chair across from him. 

the chair groans as you lower yourself into it, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. you keep your movements measured, controlled, placing the clipboard on the table with deliberate care.

across from you, he's a study in contained violence. the straightjacket pulls tight across his chest, the thick canvas straining against the sheer bulk of him. even sitting, even restrained, he looms. his thighs spread slightly, taking up space he doesn't need, the chair creaking under his weight.

the mask hides his expression, but his eyes—god, his eyes—never leave yours. dark, piercing, tracking your every breath like a predator savoring its prey.

you clear your own, flipping open the file. "mr. riley," you say, and your voice is steady. professional. you hope to the heavens and the earth that he didn't here the slight tremor in your voice.

his fingers twitch against the armrests, the leather cuffs groaning. a small, almost lazy flex, as if testing the give. as if imagining how easily he could break them. 

the mask tilts slightly, that eerie grin seeming to sharpen. "doctor," he rumbles, your title rolling off his tongue like something illicit. "you're shaking."

you don't look down at your hands. "it's cold in here."

a low hum vibrates through his chest. "liar." the word curls around you, warm and knowing. his knee presses firmer against the table—not an accident this time. the contact burns through the fabric of your slacks.

you exhale sharply through your nose, forcing your fingers to relax around the pen.

"let's focus on your evaluation, mr. riley," you say, clicking your pen with deliberate calm. "how would you describe your current mental state?"

his chuckle is dark, velvety, the sound vibrating through your bones. "frustrated," he purrs, rolling the r like he's savoring it. his knee presses harder against yours beneath the table.

"restrained. pent up." the leather cuffs groan as he flexes his fingers again. "tell me, doctor - does it excite you? seeing me like this?"

your pulse jumps traitorously. "this is a professional setting," you remind him, though your voice wavers slightly. "let's keep it that way."

the mask tilts further, shadows pooling in those hollow eye sockets. "professional," he echoes, mocking. "is that why your cheeks are flushed? why your breathing's gone shallow?" his voice drops to a whisper. "i can see your pulse racing in that pretty neck of yours."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "do you always flirt with your doctors, mr. riley?"

"only the ones who squirm for me," he counters smoothly. his thigh rubs against yours in slow, deliberate circles. "ask me your next question, doc. i know you're dying to."

your fingers tighten around the pen. "do you experience violent urges toward staff members?"

his laugh is dark, delicious. "only the pretty ones who lick their lips when they look at me." your tongue darts out instinctively, and his eyes track the movement hungrily. "there she is," he purrs. "was that so hard, doctor?"

your grip tightens on the clipboard, knuckles going white. "we're getting off topic, mr. riley." you force your voice steady, but it comes out breathier than intended. "let's discuss your sleep patterns."

he leans back slightly, the chair groaning under his weight. "sleep patterns?" his voice is all rough velvet, the kind that slides under your skin. "i prefer to stay awake. more... interesting things happen at night." his knee presses harder between yours, the heat searing through your slacks. "don't you agree, doctor?"

your pen hovers over the paper, ink bleeding where you've pressed too hard. "insomnia is a common symptom in your condition," you say, keeping your tone clinical despite the way your pulse jumps at your throat. "we should explore that further."

his chuckle vibrates through the table between you. "oh, i'd love to explore things with you, doc." the way he says it makes your stomach flip. "but we both know you're not here to talk about my sleep."

you force yourself to meet those pale eyes behind the mask. "then enlighten me, mr. riley. why am i here?"

his fingers flex against the restraints again, the leather creaking ominously. "because you couldn't resist." his voice drops to a whisper. "because you saw my file and thought 'i can fix him'." the mask tilts. "or maybe... you thought 'i want him to ruin me'."

your breath catches. "that's—"

"true?" he finishes for you, triumphant. his thigh rubs slow circles against yours, the friction making your skin burn. "tell me i'm wrong."

the clipboard trembles in your hands. you should stand up. you should call for the orderlies. you should do anything but sit here, letting him unravel you with nothing but words and the press of his knee between yours.

"cat got your tongue, doctor?" he murmurs, leaning forward as far as the restraints allow. his breath is warm through the mask's grin. "or are you just imagining all the things i could do to you if these cuffs weren't here?"

your lips part, but the intercom crackles to life before you can respond. "session time elapsed," a bored voice announces.

neither of you acknowledge it.

his eyes gleam behind the mask. "tick tock, doc. better run along before you do something... unprofessional."

you stand abruptly, your legs unsteady. "we'll continue this next session," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

his low laugh follows you to the door. "counting the minutes, sweetheart."

when the heavy door clicks shut behind you, you realize you're shaking. and worse—you're already counting the minutes too.

the next morning, when you walk into the facility, it's with the weight of heavy guilt on your shoulders. your skin still burns with the memory of last night—the way your fingers slipped between your thighs, the way you bit your lip to muffle his name as it tumbled from your mouth in a broken whisper. 

simon riley. 

his voice, rough and mocking, playing in your head like a taunt. his muscles straining against the restraints, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you'd do the second you were alone. 

it's insane. you've known him for a day. a single day. you've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and here you are, trembling like some desperate thing, already ruined by a man who's done nothing but toy with you.

maybe you're the one who belongs in this place. maybe you should check yourself in, let them strap you down, let them study whatever sickness has taken root in you so fast. but then you think of his laugh, dark and knowing, and your stomach twists. he'd love that, wouldn't he? seeing you unravel. seeing you break. god, you're pathetic. 

the moment you step inside, the head nurse gives you a sharp look.

"riley's in solitary," she says, voice clipped. "attacked an orderly last night. broke the man's nose before they got him down."

your breath catches. "is he—"

"fine? unfortunately." she hands you a file. "session's still on. carver's orders. but you'll be in the black cell. no cameras. no interruptions." her eyes narrow. "you sure you're up for it?"

you don't trust yourself to answer.

the black cell is exactly what it sounds like—a concrete box swallowed by shadows, the only light a dim flicker from the hall. the air is thick, humid, pressing against your skin like a hand. you feel clusterphobic the second you step in. your heels clack against the damp concrete as you in closer. 

it takes your eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness before you see him. you feel your pulse quicken and your breathe hitch as soon as your eyes catch his.

the door clangs shut behind you, the sound final. the air is thick, pressing in from all sides, making your pulse throb in your throat. you force yourself to take a step forward, heels clicking against the damp concrete. "mr. riley," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "care to explain last night's incident?"

in the center, restrained tighter than usual in a straight jacket, is him. even in the darkness of the cell or room or whatever this was, you could feel the depraved darkness in his eyes. they must've sedated him or given him something to calm down because his pupils were the size of saucers.

his head lifts slowly, those blown-out pupils swallowing nearly all the color in his eyes. even in the dim light, you can see the way his gaze drags over you—hungry, possessive. "got bored," he rumbles, voice rough like gravel. "figured solitary was better than staring at the same four walls."

you click your pen, feigning indifference. "so you broke a man's nose for a change of scenery?"

his lips curl, slow and knowing. "worth it."

you swallow hard. "that's not an acceptable answer."

"no?" the straightjacket creaks as he shifts, testing the restraints. "then give me a better one, doc."

you take another step closer, ignoring the way your skin prickles. "try this—you acted out because you struggle with impulse control. because you—"

"because i wanted you alone," he interrupts, voice dropping to a growl. "no cameras. no orderlies. just you. and me."

your breath hitches. "that's—"

"true." his eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. "admit it. you thought about it too."

your fingers tighten around the clipboard. "this isn't appropriate."

"neither was what you did last night," he murmurs, tilting his head. "i know you touched yourself."

your face burns as you attempt to feign innocence and indifference. "we're not discussing that."

"why not?" he leans forward as far as the jacket allows, voice a dark whisper. "scared i'll tell them how you were squirming in your seat like a little whore for a —"

"enough." your voice cracks. "we're here to evaluate your behavior, not—"

"evaluate this, then." his knee brushes yours, the contact deliberate. "i fought my way in here because i knew you'd follow. because i knew you wouldn't be able to resist." his gaze drags down your body. "so tell me, doctor—who's really in control here?"

the clipboard nearly slips from your sweaty palms as his voice wraps around you like smoke, low and dripping with sin. "you wanna know why i really did it, doc?" he leans closer, the straightjacket straining against his shoulders. "because i knew they'd put me in here. no windows. no guards. just you, me, and that pretty little mouth of yours."

you force yourself to take a shaky breath, gripping the clipboard tighter. "let's... let's focus on last night's incident, mr. riley. what triggered the violent outburst?"

his laugh is dark, curling around you like smoke. "oh, doc. still playing pretend?" he shifts in the straightjacket, the material straining against his broad shoulders. "i already told you why i did it. wanted you alone. wanted you...vulnerable."

your throat goes dry. "that's not—"

"not what?" he interrupts, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "not true? then why are your thighs squeezing together like that? why's your breath hitching every time i move?"

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach. "this is inappropriate."

"inappropriate," he echoes mockingly. "like you rubbing your clit last night, thinking about me? imagining my hands on you? my mouth?"

your face burns. "stop it."

"or what?" he challenges, tilting his head. "you'll walk away? we both know you won't." his voice drops even lower, rough and filthy. 

"you wanna know what i'd do to you if these restraints were off, doc? i'd start with those pretty little fingers of yours—pin them behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself. then i'd bend you over and spank that swollen, desperate clit of yours until you were sobbing. just light taps at first, enough to make you squirm. then harder. harder. until you're begging me to let you come."

your knees nearly buckle.

"you'd love that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs, watching your reaction with predatory satisfaction. "being at my mercy? taking whatever i decide to give you?"

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

"that's what i thought," he purrs. "such a good little whore for me."

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you can hear your own pulse roaring in your ears. his gaze burns into you, unrelenting, waiting.

"show me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. "show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

your breath hitches. "i—i can't—"

"you can," he growls. "and you will." his eyes darken further. "unless you want me to rip out of this straight jacket and force you.."

the clipboard clatters to the floor as your fingers tremble at the hem of your skirt. his dark chuckle vibrates through the humid air between you, those blown-out pupils swallowing you whole. "that's it," he purrs, voice thick with approval. "show me how desperate you really are."

your breath comes in shallow gasps as you slide your hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over damp silk. a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

"louder," he growls, straining against the straightjacket. "let me hear what i do to you."

your fingers slip beneath the waistband, finding yourself already embarrassingly wet. the first brush of your fingertips against your clit has your hips jerking forward.

"fuck," he breathes, watching with rapt attention. "just like that. pretend it's my fingers, doc. my thick fucking fingers working that tight little cunt open."

you moan, circling your clit faster as his filthy words wash over you.

"you thought about this, didn't you?" he continues, voice rough. "alone in your bed, fucking yourself on your fingers like some cheap slut? imagining it was me?"

"yes," you gasp, arching into your own touch.

"say it." his command leaves no room for argument. "say you're my little whore."

"i'm—" your breath hitches as you press two fingers inside yourself, "—i'm your whore."

his groan is animalistic. "good girl. now come for me."

your orgasm crashes over you violently, thighs trembling as you ride out the waves against your own fingers. when you finally come down, panting and boneless, his smirk is downright predatory.

you're still trembling from your orgasm when his voice cuts through the haze, rough with command. "come here." 

your legs move before your brain catches up, knees hitting the cold concrete as you shuffle forward. your fingers fumble with the waistband of his pants, breath hitching when you finally free him.

and fuck—

a jacob's ladder. of course he has one. the metal glints even in the dim light, each barbell making your mouth water. you're delirious, mind fogged with lust and shame, but you can't stop.

"that's it," he growls, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. "take what you need."

your tongue darts out, tentative at first, tracing the underside of his cock. the taste of him—salt and musk and something darkly him—has you moaning before you even take him fully into your mouth.

"fuck," he hisses, hips jerking slightly despite the restraints. "just like that, doc. such a pretty fucking mouth."

you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, the metal bars dragging against your tongue in the most delicious way. your fingers dig into his thighs, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"you like that, don't you?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "my little professional doctor, on her knees, gagging for it."

you whimper around him, the vibration making his cock twitch.

"bet you've never had anything like me," he continues, rolling his hips just enough to nudge the back of your throat. "bet you're already thinking about how it'll feel when i finally fuck you raw."

you are. god, you are.

your free hand slips between your own legs again, fingers circling your clit as you suck him off with desperate, sloppy bobs of your head.

"that's it," he praises, voice rough. "get yourself ready for me. gonna ruin you so good, you'll forget your own fucking name."

you're climbing into his lap before you can think better of it, your skirt hiked up around your waist, his cock glistening with your spit. the straightjacket rustles as he strains against it, his eyes black with hunger as you hover over him.

"do it," he growls, voice rough. "use me. take what you fucking need, doctor."

you sink down onto him with a gasp, the stretch burning in the best way. the metal bars of his ladder drag against your walls, sending sparks up your spine. your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders as you start to move, your hips rolling in slow, desperate circles.

"fuck," he hisses, his head falling back against the wall. "look at you. riding me like you were made for it."

you whimper, your nails digging into the thick material of the jacket as you bounce harder, chasing your own pleasure. his cock hits that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, the metal bars adding an unforgiving edge that has you seeing stars.

"that's it," he rasps, watching you with dark, blown-out pupils. "take it. take every fucking inch." his voice drops to a whisper, filthy and rough. "wish you could see yourself right now. fucking yourself on me like a desperate little slut."

you moan, your thighs trembling as you grind down harder, your clit rubbing against the base of him with every movement.

"you're lucky i'm strapped down, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk. "because if i had my hands free?" his hips jerk up, forcing a choked cry from your throat. "i'd have you bent over, screaming my name."

you're close—so, so close—your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you chase your release.

"come on," he goads, voice rough with command. "let me feel it. let me feel that tight little cunt squeezing around me."

you shatter with a sob, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your walls fluttering around him as you ride it out. he groans, low and satisfied, as you collapse against his chest, boneless and spent.

his mask brushes against your ear, his whisper sending a shiver down your spine. "good girl."

you whimper, still trembling, as his smirk grows darker under the mask.

you scramble off him with shaky legs, your skirt falling back into place with a rustle that sounds obscenely loud in the heavy silence. your fingers fumble as you pull his pants back up, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the way his smirk burns into you even through the mask. the straightjacket strains as he shifts, watching you with those dark, knowing eyes. 

your hands tremble as you smooth down your blouse, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. you must look wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, thighs still sticky with the evidence of your shame. thank god for the darkness. thank god no one will see.

your breath hitches as you bend to pick up the clipboard, your knees still weak. the pen rolls away from you, and you flinch when he nudges it back toward you.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. "wouldn't want you to leave anything behind."

you snatch the pen, your face burning. your mind races—what the fuck did you just do? you fucked a patient. a dangerous, unstable, manipulative patient. a fucking killer and sociopath. and worse—you loved it. you came harder than you have in years, and the guilt is already curdling in your stomach like poison.

you straighten, forcing your voice steady. "this—this can't happen again."

his chuckle is low, mocking. "sure it can't."

you turn toward the door, your legs unsteady beneath you.

"great session, doctor," he calls after you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "can't wait for the next one."

[scaleniusrm]

ever since i was a little girl i knew i liked problematic tropes