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sgtslut69 · 2 days ago

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a ruined countess (simon riley x f!reader)

victorian london ish, SMUT, virgin reader, dubcon, historically INaccurate, 3.5k wc, gramatical errors abound

same universe as the courtship

quite honestly, life was much better after being ruined in society's eyes.

no more teas with ladies who would smile to your face just to stab you the moment your back turned. no more lords at balls who would offer to show you the gardens, just to accost you the moment you were outside. you could now like out the rest of your days as a spinster, your dowry granted to you on your next birthday, and find a cottage somewhere in the countryside. if boredom proved too tiresome, you could be a governess to your cousin's squadron of children. or maybe-

"daughter!"

you sighed, placing down the periodical out of sight of your mother's watchful eyes and tracked the voice of your father to his study. his hair, what was left of it, is only getting grayer. but for the first time in the eight months you had been founding kissing a baron in lord garrick's garden, and had faced a refusal of a proposal from said baron, there was something close to elatedness on your father's face.

"dearest, this is lord riley, the new earl of chesireforth. your betrothed."

there goes spinsterhood.

your cousin, gossip that she is, supplies the information. lord riley, a lieutenant of the queen's army, had fifteen distant relatives die within the span of two years before ending up with the earldom in his lap. with the suspected curse on the title, no self-respecting woman wanted to marry him, even with his 10,000 pounds a year. if it wasn't the curse, it was the scarf he wore on the bottom half of his face like a highwayman. or his brutish accent from growing up without elite education or any expectation of an earldom. but his inheritance requires an heir within five years, or it will go on to the next in line.

it seems you are the perfect candidate for a man without choice.

you only see him once before the wedding, scheduled in a mere two weeks. he eats dinner at your family's table with all the grace of a hound, shoveling food into his mouth at record speed before tucking the black bandana over his nose, all before you've even gotten through your first glass of wine. despite his manners, you can't ignore there's something...overwhelming about him. his stature, bigger than any man you've seen. his hands the size of salad plates, scarred and competent. the glint in his eyes everytime you meet them, almost cocking a brow in challenge.

it's, frankly, alluring. much more than that handsy baron phillip who gave you your first kiss and ruination all in one.

the atmosphere is full of your mother's chatter with your younger sister, something about the dreadful august weather. you keep your eyes on the quail eggs in front of you, ignoring how lord riley breathes beside your left shoulder. the wine is tempting, but too far for you to reach with the constraints of your corset. the new dress, a lavender to match the complimenting slippers on your feet, was tailored to your size months ago, before you were able to shed society's expectations and eat a proper appetite instead of the singular meals your mother would allow.

"sister, would you pass the-"

"'ere."

all gruffness and masculine, he blocks your view as he swipes the pitcher of white wine, imported straight from italy which your father was much too proud to declare earlier in the evening, and pours it into your empty glass. you murmur your thanks demurely, whispered breath escaping your lips as you suddenly find yourself unable to meet his eyes. lord riley stays turned, his knee knocking into yours, seemingly waiting for you to drink.

so you do. a ladylike sip, ignoring how the liquid is a bit too bitter for your tastes. when you place the glass back down, a gloved finger finds your chin and tugs until your eyes meet.

your mother goes silent in the corner. apparently, societal norms no longer apply to ruined women.

"ya don't like it." it's not a question, but an observation. you gulp and his thumb tracks the movement, trailing down your throat to follow the line down. he stops at your collarbone, above the necklace of pearls you found on your desk after the betrothal announcement.

an engagement gift. from him.

"my tastes lean sweeter, my lord." you answer. a lie feels almost illegal in his presence, his domineering shoulders taking up half of your view. he tugs on the pearls, as if to test their strength, and your younger sister gasps behind him.

"good t' know." he rumbles, nearly shaking the table. you track where the bandana meets the bridge of his nose, slightly bent as if it had been broken before. his gloved hand drops away, and you turn back to the table like nothing happened.

the heat on your face and the throbbing between your thighs says otherwise.

the wedding comes faster than expected. it takes place at the main church in hampston, the biggest town in lord riley's lands. thankfully, the location means the only ones present are your family and an odd collection of people on lord riley's side. there's lord price, seemingly itching to get home as you remember his wife is in confinement, not seven months after their wedding. the widowed lady laswell with lord garrick on her arm, the very same man whose lands you'd desecrated with your ruination. he doesn't seem to hold a grudge, simply winking when your eyes meet his. and finally mr. mactavish, done up in a kilt you assume is his family's plaid with the red and blue stripes. you've never seen a man's knees that weren't your family's, and the sight nearly knocks you off the wedding slippers you wear.

lord riley maintains his gloves during the ceremony, and it feels almost like sacrilege when he huffs at the priests who suggests their removal. then the feast, mr. mactavish visiting your table half the time to make jokes about your upcoming lack of rest that you don't understand. it's only in the carriage ride to your new home, alone with lord riley, do you truly take in the events of the day.

you're married.

no chance of a life alone, of spinsterhood, of something close to independence. hopefully lord riley will tire of you and provides you your own wing, but even that thought twists your stomach. you don't even know what you want your future to look like. might as well attempt conversation.

"is this estate your favorite, my lord?" you ask, eyes trained on the green fields outside the carriage. you can just make out the outline of an estate, though it's too far away to judge its size. "least stuffy of 'em." he grunts. though you're on opposite side of the carriage. your wedding skirts brush against his outstretched legs. his thighs are thick as tree trunks, and you suddenly wonder if mr. mactavish was referencing the lord's size with your upcoming wedding night.

"how wonderful," you reply, unsure how to continue. your hands fall from the window to your lap, and you trace the lace of your white gloves to have something to occupy your mind. should you attempt more conversation? most men don't prefer a talkative wife, you've heard, so maybe-

"anywhere's better than london." you snap your head up, and his eyes seem to be crinkling, like there's a smile under the scarf. "you don't like london, my lord?" he huffs like a horse, and you bite back a smile at how animalistic he is. not one to play guessing games or put on a show, your husband. "'s too loud. full of knobheads." well, you've found common ground. you've always preferred your country estate to the rooms your mother forces you to uptake during the Season, loving the wind tickling your skirts over the grime of the london street.

"i prefer the country as well." you raise your hand to play with the pearls against your neck, before remembering you are now a composed countess. "can pick whatever estate ya like. got ten or twelve of 'em." twelve. you blink, unthinking.

"which do you reside in, my lord?" you ask to buy time, still stunned by the number of properties at your disposal. he leans forward, a thick knee pressing into yours. unlike every man of means you've meant, this one doesn't smell like another lady's perfume or a pompous odor. your husband is sweat and musk and man, a somehow appealing mix that relaxes your shoulders.

"wherever ya are, i'll be." the carriage lurches, sending you stumbling against the side. "c'mon wife. we're here."

you don't have time to take in the dusty paintings or the staff of thirty or the hounds that nip at your heels. your husband's hand on your back guides you to the master's suite, where a bath is already steaming in the connected room. the sun has already set, the carriage ride long, and grime clings to every part of your body.

"go'on." he urges, already stripping off his giant boots to reveal socked feet proportional to the rest of his body. as candles reveal the rest of the room, its decor decades behind anything fashionable, you process your proximity. he's right there, lying in wait like a hunter as he fights with a button of his shirt. where he undresses. in front of you.

like a husband would.

"i require a maid, my lord." you tremble, sweat slicking under your gloves. "f' what?" you gesture at the buttons on the back of your dress. he huffs and all of sudden he's behind you, pawing at the back of your dress. surprisingly, he nimbly removes the buttons faster than a practiced maid, as if he's had to dress himself alone.

as if he's had to remove another woman's dress before.

you go still as he finishes, a hand at your hip guiding you out of the skirts. he unfastens underskirts and your corset in record time, and you can't even take a freeing breath as the reality of your situation sinks in. your cousin said it was painful, but nothing like childbirth. your mother simply said to what was required. your romance novels speak of happiness and clouds and completely abstract euphemisms.

in your chemise, you start to tremble.

the back of you is practically exposed, and one of his hands, ungloved, is heavy at your nape. "ya need to take this off f' your bath." he murmurs, fingers already playing with the scalloped neckline. "i- - do not require a bath, my lord?" you squeak it out like a question, unable to urge your body closer to the water. you'd likely drown.

"'ere."

you shriek as you're transferred from ground to air to bed, practically thrown on top of it. the hulking man seems to have no regard for the effort required from the exhilaration, already standing where the hem of your chemise ends.

"my lord, i-"

"quit yer squawkin' and give me a minute. then ya can complain." you shut your mouth, years of obeying lessons coming back. and then he leans down and your eyes widen and he's surely going to eat you and my, his scarf is off, and what is he-

oh.

he tugs down the neckline of your chemise down until your nipple meets cold air, then covers it with his mouth. its warm and wet and he sucks and suddenly your hips are tilting up, chasing something ingrained far into your bones. you whine, incessantly, and his mitt of a hand finds your other nipple and pinches, hard, until your foot catches the side of his leg. his teeth scrape your breast ("tits, sweetheart," he'll teach you later) and lightning courses through your body.

your hand finds his head of hair, shorn close to the scalp but with enough length to tug and you do just that. he growls and it reverberates against you, your body not yours any longer. as he adjust his stances, switches to your other breast without meeting your eyes, something hard finds the split of your middle.

"what..." you trail off as he pushes into you, and the friction against you is delicious. your treacherous hips move again, this time against the wall of man that has trapped you to the bed. something pounds below your stomach, and he moves against you in a practiced rhythm. the pounding gets louder and louder until your senses dull, until all you can hear is the spit that slicks your breasts and the grunts from your husband. it coalesces faster than any moment of pleasure, of a warm tea cake or a summer's day, you've felt.

something changes. turns. explodes, like the gunpowder you imagine he handled in the army. it thrums through you like a war drum and fades slowly, until the pounding becomes your heart in your chest as your body is pure butter.

"told ya." he smirks, and you finally notice the scars that cut through his lips. the chunk of cheek missing that sharpens his features even further. against your greater judgement, you cup that part of his face, breathless and wordless under him. your lord husband lets you stay there for a moment, refuses to nuzzle further or pull away, until demanding hands find the edge of your chemise.

"off."

he works you onto one finger, shushes you when you squirm, and grins when you sigh at two. three makes you impatient, for what you don't know, and four is torturous. you're dripping and pleasure-soaked and almost delirious when he finally rids himself of his wedding clothes. his nakedness feels like a beast released from his cage, more scars crisscrossing his body with burns interspersed. you don't ask, too scared it'll turn him away, but you take your fill until he slots himself between your thighs.

and then you notice the other thing.

"'s a cock. c'mere." he tugs your hand until it's on his...cock, velvet and angry at the same time. he squeezes your fingers, and you almost pull back for fear you've hurt him, but he doesn't let you flit away. "don't worry, sweetheart. feels good." sweetheart melts you like an ice treat, and you climb closer curiously as you tug his cock. it's like power in your hands, every pump making his voice groan and his chest expand.

"stop playin'." he pushes your back gently to the mattress, the most delicate touch you've experienced so far. until-

"it's not going to fit, my lord." he ignores you, tugging a naked leg up to his shoulder so your ankle brushes his ear. lord riley swipes a thumb through your folds and you squirm at the oversensitivity. "ya don't think it'll fit in this little cunt?" cunt. you shake your head, attempting to shimmy away from him. but he grips your hip hard and snares you in place, hunter with his prey.

"soft everywhere, aren't ya?" you open your mouth to respond, to plead reason, but he pushes his cock in and the air in your lungs is punched out. you pant, quiet ah ah ahs as he sinks in further, finding only the slightest resistance. "been a while since i fucked a woman. ain't gonna last long." he says crassly, sounding more like a workingman from manchester as his vowels reshape themselves.

the bottom of his stomach, slightly plush ontop of his hardness, brushes your thigh. he starts moving, in and out as your walls stretch to accommodate. it's not painful like your cousin said, just full, so full you might vomit. but the rhythm is inviting and you fall into it, gripping the bedsheets and letting him manipulate your body every which way.

it's quite pleasant as your body tingles under his gaze.

until his thumb finds the top of your cunt and starts to rub and suddenly your body is on fire. "no, no, my lord." you try to push him away but you can't even reach. he doesn't even attempt to swat your hand away, just finds a pattern that turns the burn into pleasure, your body reluctant to participate.

"simon, love. 's simon. an' you're comin' with me." you whine mindlessly at his order but comply anyway, this sensation gentler than the first two. it's more the rush of a stream than that of a river, but lightning all the same. your body goes boneless and warmth fills your cunt, simon's thrusts stuttering as he reaches his own end. you stay there for a moment, his spend dripping out of your cunt and over his cock, making an imprint on the bed.

then he pulls out and you're so so empty, a completely changed woman from who you were hours ago. a countess, a wife, a no-longer-virgin. now you just watch as your husband's naked body shines in the candlelight, as he finds a small towel to wipe you down with the lukewarm body in the bath.

"up." simon guides you into his waiting arms, tangling your naked body with his as he tucks the covers over the two of you. curious fingers find your puffy cunt and the spend that drips down your thighs, pushing it in until you claw at his chest. "hurts, simon." you whine, his first name rolling off your tongue for the first time. he squeezes your hip in apology, then adjusts you against him in a more comfortable position, your head tucked under his chin.

"do you need your scarf?" you whisper, glimpsing it on the bedside table. he's quiet in contemplation for a moment, before shaking his head. "do you think we made a babe?" you ask another question, not wanting to sleep just yet. "we'll fuck 'til it takes, love." fuck. your vocabulary seems to be expanding into vulgar words with the acquisition of a husband. you snuggle in further and finally allow your eyes to droop.

you decide on the estate with the most updated plumbing that's conveniently an hour carriage ride from your cousin. with every wifely duty, simon rewards you.

you replace the stuffier wallpaper, and he fucks you against the wall where the samples dry. the bug-eaten furniture is burned, so he lays you against the ground and takes you with your cheek against the wooden floors. when you leave to visit your cousin, a two-day excursion, he ties you to the bed for hours until you promise to make her come here next time.

four months later, you've missed your monthly course and there's a certain queasiness under your skin. you find him in the study, his body comfortable in the custom chairs you insisted he order. "simon?" you knock before stepping in. lord price is there, muttering something over simon's shoulder as the two look at a piece of paper.

"i can come back-"

"out, price."

the bearded man chuckles, feelings unharmed, and leaves your husband with a hand to his shoulder. when he approaches you, your gift tucked behind your back, there's a glimmer in his eyes. he looks down at your stomach, though you aren't showing yet, and finds a small smile on your face. "you'll have to come visit my wife for advice, my lady." his wife who delivered him triplets months ago, one heir and two girls to be doted on for the rest of their lives. the two of you share a look, and he's out the door, shutting it behind him.

"c'mere." you flounce into his lap, a new favorite cushion of yours. he doesn't wear his scarf at home at your request, so your fingers find your favorite scar and trace it to his lips. "i missed you." he murmurs, squeezing you tighter against him. simon's told you he likes the fat at your hips and your stomach and your tits, and you wonder if pregnancy will be his preferred state for you.

"i was only upstairs knitting." you say, a leading statement to the treasure tucked behind you. "too far." he grumbles, tucking his head into the crook of your neck so he can lick the sweat there. before he gets too far, you push at him with your free hand. "won't you ask what i was knitting, husband?" his eyes flash at the title, too omniscient for his own good.

"what were you knitting, my wife?"

you produce the yellow booties, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. he stares and stares and stares, and you wonder if you have to spell it out for him.

"we're havin-"

"christ, love. c'mere." he picks you up gentle to the reclining chair in the corner of the room, a favored spot of yours when you want to nap and be near him. his hands, those scarred things, are overly cautious as he lays you down. "simon, i'm not a teacup." he shakes his head, brushing his hands over your stomach. "you're carrying our child." his accent has softened in the months you've been together, but the gruffness is still there.

"lay with me." you tangle your hands together and pull, ignoring how his feet have to stay on the ground for stability. "you are a wonder." he whispers, nipping your jaw. you hook a leg around his hip and pull him further. until you're melded, two into one.

"teach me a new word. teach me to make love."

hi guys. ive been sick. not covid tho! but ive been writing my secret project and of course reading historical fiction which is where this thing appeared. enjoy!

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sgtslut69 · 3 days ago

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JACKET (John "Soap" MacTavish/Reader)

requests are open! word count: 3.2k mdni please, 18+ warnings: NSFW, sexual content, minor manhandling, oral sex, praise kink, dirty talk, marking (hickeys/nipping), clothing kink, edging, furniture sex, minor pet names, idk if i missed anything else idk what depths of my brain this came from oh well

The house always felt too quiet when he was away. You’d learned how to live with it - filling the hours with laundry, cooking, anything to keep from counting the days. But the quiet of his absence was heavier. It clung to the walls, settled into the corners, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for him.

And when he did…

The first thing you always noticed was his laugh. Not because it was loud (though it is, it's almost impossible to miss) but because it carried warmth in a way no other sound could. Even when he was bone tired, even when there was a shadow in his eyes that you knew came from the places he’s been, things he’s seen, Johnny’s laugh was the thing that told you he was home. Safe.

This time, you were in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, halfway through rinsing dishes when you heard it.

The scrape of a key in the lock.

“Bloody hell-” came a mutter, followed by a thump and a laugh that made your chest ache. You stepped into the hallway just in time to see him half-hopping on one foot, trying to toe off a stubborn boot without using his hands. His duffel sagged on the floor where he’d dropped it, keys still dangling from the lock.

Then his head popped up.

The grin that split his face was brighter than the weariness hanging under his eyes, pitched high like he could chase the weight of travel out of the house by sheer force of cheer. You blinked at him, dish towel still in your hand, startled into a breathless laugh.

“Johnny!? You’re early!”

“No better kind of surprise, aye?” He didn’t wait for permission. The boot finally gave way, and in two strides he was on you, arms wrapping you up so fast you nearly dropped the dish towel. He smelled like airports and leather and hours of travel, but underneath it all was him - soap and smoke and the kind of warmth you only ever breathed in when he was home. You sagged into it, the silence of the house shattering all at once.

“Miss me?” he asked, his voice muffled by your hair but grinning all the same.

“Maybe a little,” you teased against his shoulder, still dazed.

“A little?” He drew back, feigning outrage. His hair was cropped shorter than last time, his eyes red-rimmed but still wicked bright. “Crushed my heart, lass. I was hopin’ for tears, fainting, at least a dramatic monologue about how you wasted away without me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the grin tugging your lips betrayed you. “I’ll save the monologue for next time.”

He clutched his chest dramatically, staggering a step back like you’d mortally wounded him. “Unbelievable. No respect for the war hero.”

But then his forehead tipped against yours, his breath slipping out heavy, the theatrics fading into something softer. You felt the weight in him then - in the slack of his arms around your waist, the exhaustion pressing through his bones - and it mirrored your own, the ache of waiting easing only now that he was here.

“Missed you,” he murmured, low and quiet.

Your thumb brushed the rough stubble on his jaw. “I missed you too, Johnny.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you—like he was memorizing everything, from the towel still clutched in your hand to the sound of his name in your voice. His grin softened, faltered, and then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate, not the way you might expect after weeks apart.

No—it was slow. Deliberate. Like he had all the time in the world now that he was home. His lips were warm but a little chapped, rough with travel, yet underneath was something steadier: relief, need, a quiet promise pressed into the way his hand slid up the back of your neck to keep you close.

You melted into him. The duffel bag lay forgotten by the door, the house no longer hollow. The kiss wasn’t about lost time—that would come later. This was about grounding, about him anchoring himself to you after drifting too far, for too long.

When he finally drew back, he rested his forehead against yours again, his laugh cracking under the weight of it. “God, I needed that,” he whispered, accent heavier now, thick with exhaustion and truth.

You smiled against his lips, thumb brushing against his cheek. “You and me both, soldier.”

Neither of you moved. His arms stayed locked around your waist, like letting go might undo it, might send him right back to where you couldn’t follow. But eventually the duffel at his feet reminded you both he hadn’t even made it through the doorway.

He let you tug him into the kitchen, only to slump into the chair like a man twice his age. The sight of Johnny MacTavish, the larger-than-life sergeant, sagging into the familiar wood with his shoulders dropping inch by inch was enough to make your chest ache. His mohawk was mussed, eyes ringed with fatigue, but here, at last, he was safe enough to be tired.

“Stay put,” you said gently, nudging the duffel with your foot. “I’ll unpack this for you.”

“Don’t spoil me now,” he cooed, voice warm but thick with exhaustion, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Man’ll get used to it.”

You tossed him a look over your shoulder as you trudged into the bedroom. “You already are.”

The bag was heavier than you expected, the canvas worn and stiff with travel. Inside was the mess you always found: fatigues folded with military precision, t-shirts bunched into tired lumps, socks that looked like they’d fought their own war. You shook your head, muttering, “God help us all…”

Last came his jacket. Heavier than the rest, smelling faintly of gun oil, leather, and travel. You meant to drape it over a chair, but your hand lingered on the bold black patch stitched above the chest: MACTAVISH.

Before you could second-guess it, you slipped it on. The weight swallowed you whole - broad shoulders, sleeves hanging well past your hands - but the warmth was grounding, the scent familiar and unmistakably him. You tugged it tighter, breathing him in from the fibers.

The floor creaked.

You spun, heart lurching - and there he was, eyes on you.

You spun, heart jerking, only to find him leaning in the doorway. Arms folded, one shoulder braced against the frame. His grin faltered the second he saw you, eyes going wide before the cheeky curl of his lips returned.

“Well now…” His head tilted, eyes raking shamelessly over you from head to toe. “If that isn’t the best bloody thing I’ve ever seen.”

Heat rushed to your face as you clutched the lapels like a shield. “It’s huge on me.”

“Aye, but that’s the charm.” He pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance with lazy steps. “All wrapped up in my name like that. Practically advertisin’ you’re spoken for.”

You rolled your eyes, though your throat tightened. “Spoken for? It’s just a jacket.”

“Oh, love…” His voice dropped as he leaned against the dresser, close enough that you caught the faint spice of his aftershave. “With my name stretched across your chest? That’s better than a weddin’ ring. Might start introducin’ you as Mrs. MacTavish.”

Your jaw fell. “Johnny!”

He laughed, delighted at your outrage, and tugged at the sleeve dangling past your wrist. “Look at you- standin’ tall with my name. Never thought I’d see the day.” His tone softened then, still playful but with something raw edging in. “Could get used to it, though.”

You tried for a glare, but his smile was infectious. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Aye, maybe.” He pinched the fabric between his fingers, thumb brushing over the stitched letters of his own name. The grin faltered into something smaller, unguarded. “Still. You don’t know what that does to me. Comin’ home to you—seein’ you wearin’ somethin’ of mine. Never thought I’d—” He broke off, shook his head like the words were too heavy. “Never thought I’d have someone waitin’, truth be told.”

The room went still. The jacket was suddenly more than cloth; it was him, stitched into every seam. He was looking at you like he couldn’t believe his luck - like he’d walked into a dream he didn’t dare trust.

You stepped closer, fingers bunching the fabric at your chest as if holding it could hold him together too. “Johnny…”

His name came out quiet, almost a plea. You reached up, brushing the rough stubble on his jaw, and his eyes fluttered shut at the touch. When he opened them again, the bravado was gone. All that was left was honesty - raw, aching, beautiful.

“I used to think,” he admitted, voice low, uneven, “that the lads, the uniform… that’d be it. That’d be my whole life. Never thought there’d be anyone at the end of it. Someone I could come home to, someone wearin’ my name like it belongs to them.” He gave a shaky laugh, almost embarrassed. “But then there’s you. And Christ, hen… I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”

Your heart raced, a rush of warmth and ache all at once. “Johnny…” You smoothed your hand over his cheek, grounding him, and whispered, “You don’t have to deserve it. You just have me.”

Something cracked open in him then. He dipped his head, closing the scant distance, and kissed you - slow at first, reverent, like he was still learning the shape of the word home against your mouth.

But reverence burned quickly into hunger. The weeks apart, the sight of you in his jacket, the way you whispered his name like a promise - he couldn’t hold back. His mouth pressed harder to yours, coaxing you open, his tongue sweeping against yours in a kiss that stole the air from your lungs.

You gasped, and he swallowed it greedily, hands sliding beneath the heavy fabric to grip your waist, anchoring himself to you. The jacket fell open around you both, his name stretched between you, and the low sound he made - rough, almost a growl - set your knees trembling.

“Christ, hen,” he muttered against your lips, nipping before kissing you again, harder. “You’ve no idea what you’re doin’ to me, wearin’ this.”

“Maybe I do,” you teased breathlessly, tugging him closer by the lapel.

His answering laugh was ragged, shaky with want. Then he had you stumbling back until your hips hit the dresser, his body flush to yours, hands restless under the hem of the jacket like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you still or strip it away.

“I missed you so bloody much,” he said, words hot against your throat as he trailed kisses down to your collar. “Not just your voice, not just your letters - you. This.” His teeth grazed your skin, enough to make you shiver. “Can’t think straight seein’ you like this, knowin’ you’re mine.”

The jacket slid lower on your shoulders as his mouth moved along your neck, each kiss hungrier than the last, until you were clutching at him just to stay upright.

A low growl vibrated from his chest as he pressed you harder into the dresser, the edge biting into your hips. His thigh slotted between yours, firm and insistent, while his hands explored beneath the jacket, gripping your waist possessively.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back to drink you in - lips swollen, breath shaky, pupils blown wide. His hand bunched the fabric at your chest, right over where his name was stitched. “Wearin’ my jacket, beggin’ me without a word.” He leaned down again, voice curling hot and thick in your ear. “You want me to take care o’ you, bonnie? Show you just how much I’ve missed this sweet body?”

He didn’t wait for your answer. His mouth was on yours again, rougher, tongue sliding against yours as he swallowed the sound you made when his thigh pressed higher between your legs.

“Yeah,” he muttered, grinding just enough to tease. “That’s it. Let me hear it. Been dreamin’ of those little noises for weeks.”

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, desperate, tugging him closer. “Then don’t tease, Johnny,” you panted. “I’ve been waiting too.”

His breath caught, heat flickering sharp in his eyes. “Fuckin’ hell… you’ll be the death of me.” He caught your chin between his fingers, forcing your gaze to his. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you whispered, voice wrecked with need. “Want your hands all over me.”

That broke him. With a growl, he hoisted you up onto the dresser, wood creaking beneath the weight. His broad frame crowded between in, spreading your thighs open like he owned them.

“Forgot how soft you are,” he muttered, lips dragging down your jaw to nip at your ear. “Thought about it every damn night. Touched myself like a fool, pretendin’ it was you.” His thigh pressed hard between yours, right where you needed him.

“Johnny—please.”

“Patience, love.” His teeth scraped your throat before latching on, sucking a mark above your collarbone. He pulled back to admire the bloom of red, smirking. “That’s mine now.”

His hand slipped lower, cupping you through your clothes, rubbing slow and deliberate. He groaned when you bucked against his palm.

“Fuck, you’re soaked already. All this just for me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, clutching at his shoulders. “Always for you.”

A curse ripped from him, rough and low. Then he dropped to his knees before you could blink, tugging your bottoms down in one desperate motion. The jacket slipped lower still, gaping open around you like you were gift-wrapped just for him.

Johnny’s hands gripped your thighs as he looked up at you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. “Stay just like that, love. Need a taste before I lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You barely managed a nod before his mouth was on you. One long, slow stripe of his tongue had your head tipping back, a broken sound spilling free before you could bite it down. His laugh vibrated against you, smug and hungry.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he groaned, diving back in. His stubble rasped your thighs with every pass, the scrape a sharp contrast to the hot drag of his tongue. “God, I missed this cunt. Thought about it every damn night.”

“Johnny,” Your voice broke on his name, one hand clutching the dresser edge, the other buried in his hair.

He hummed low, pleased, tugging you closer until you were almost hanging off the edge, his mouth buried deep. “That’s it, love. Use me. Ride my face if you need it. Want you drippin’ down my throat.”

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders as his tongue worked you open—circling, thrusting, flicking until you couldn’t think straight. He alternated between slow, teasing licks and quick, devastating sucks, pulling whimpers from your chest until you were gasping for air.

When he pulled back just far enough to speak, his lips were shiny, his grin wild. “Look at you… already a fuckin’ mess. And I’m not even close to finished.”

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his grin reckless. “Look at you… already a fuckin’ mess. And I’ve barely started.”

He shoved the jacket further open, tugging your shirt up until your breasts spilled free. His gaze darkened, reverent and filthy all at once. “There she is,” he rasped before closing his mouth over your nipple, sucking until you arched against him. His hand never stilled between your thighs, stroking you through the slick until you were trembling.

“Johnny, oh god—”

He smirked against your skin, then kissed lower, leaving a trail down your stomach until his mouth found you again. “That’s it, hen. Let ‘em hear you. Let the whole block know I’m home.”

His tongue was merciless, his eyes locked on yours as he licked, sucked, and teased until you were right on the edge, thighs tightening, vision blurring-

And then he pulled away.

“Johnny!” Your voice cracked, desperate and wrecked.

His grin was wicked, lips and chin shining with you. “Easy, love.” His hand stroked your thigh, steadying, though his voice was rough with need. “Not yet. I’m not lettin’ you come ‘til I’m buried inside you.”

You whimpered, hips grinding against nothing. “Cruel bastard.”

“Aye,” he said with a shaky laugh, already fumbling at his belt, “but I’ve been dreamin’ of this too long to rush it.” The buckle clinked, his hands clumsy with urgency. When his cock sprang free - thick, flushed, already leaking - you sucked in a sharp breath. He groaned, catching your mouth in a messy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, voice raw and reverent. “My jacket hangin’ off your shoulders, tits out, legs spread for me. Christ, I’ll lose my mind if I don’t get inside you.”

Then he was there - gripping your hips, lining himself up, chest pressed to yours as the jacket brushed between you. The first push had you gasping, nails biting into his back as he sank into you inch by inch.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder. “Weeks without this, and now- Christ, hen, you’re gonna ruin me.”

You moaned his name, rocking against him instinctively. “Johnny… please.”

His hand caught your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You’re mine. Gonna fuckin’ remind yout.” His thrusts started slow, deep, stretching you until your toes curled, before slamming in rougher, faster, each one knocking the air from your lungs.

The dresser rattled beneath you. His mouth found your throat, teeth scraping before sucking marks that would last for days. His hands gripped so hard at your hips you knew you’d wear the bruises like proof.

“Please - harder!” you gasped.

He gave a broken laugh, hips snapping harder, harsher, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. “God, listen to you. Beggin’ for me. You’ve no idea what you do to me, love.

Your body arched into him, the jacket brushing across your bare chest with every thrust, his name stitched across you like a brand.

“Gonna come for me?” he hissed, teeth grazing your ear. “Say it. Say my name.”

“Johnny - oh god, Johnny!”

He groaned, pounding harder, chasing you over the edge. Your release hit like a wave, your whole body clenching tight around him as you cried out his name. He held you through it, thrusting deep until his own groan tore free, hot release spilling inside you as he buried himself to the hilt.

For a moment, there was only the sound of ragged breaths, sweat-slick skin pressed together, the jacket hanging off your shoulders like a shield.

Then his forehead dropped to yours, voice soft, unsteady. “Been waitin’ weeks for that… for you.” His hand stroked your back, gentle now, grounding. “You alright, love?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shaky but smiling, tugging him closer by the jacket.

He kissed you softer this time, slow and reverent. “Love you,” he murmured, almost shy. “Missed you too damn much.”

And there you stayed - spent, tangled, wrapped in his jacket and his arms. The world outside could wait. Johnny MacTavish was home, and he was yours.

tysm for reading! requests are open!

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sgtslut69 · 3 days ago

Text

Lace

18+ MDNI Porn and horny plot.

Pairings: Poly141 x Reader (once again I tried to write reader with no specific gender/sex but I also write as an afab/fem soooo idk anyway) Short Vers: You wear lingerie for yourself (like a liar) and finally. Finally the boys of the 141 get a look. Dom!Price, service top!Ghost, bratty/flirty!Soap, sweet talker!Gaz. They surprise you. And keep surprising you. WC: 3955 Warnings: SMUT. Reader gender nuetral, described as wearing lingerie/pretty undergarments. Oral sex (m and unspecified reader receiving). fingering. penetrative sex. light d/s dynamic. light voyeurism.

You wear pretty things under your clothes. Always have.

Silk, lace, satin, mesh. Cool against your skin in the morning, soft and warm by the time the day winds down. Every color chosen. Every strap adjusted with care.

If anyone ever asked, you’d shrug and say it was for you.

That it made you feel good. Made you feel grounded, put-together, comfortable in your skin even when the days were long and the fluorescent lights made your eyes ache. You’d joke that it was practical. Affordable. Just another harmless indulgence, like flavored chapstick or nice pens.

You’d lie, because it wasn’t just about you. Not really.

Not when Task Force 141 walks by.

Not when Ghost moves like a mountain, quiet and unreadable, and your pulse stutters just a little. Not when Gaz flashes that grin, sharp and bright and aware. Not when Soap throws a wink over his shoulder and your thoughts scatter like marbles on a tile floor. Not when Captain Price speaks and his voice curls around your spine like smoke, low and rough, and inexplicably patient.

You’re not stupid. You know it’s a fantasy.

You’re just the tech. The admin assistant. The glorified secretary with clearance high enough to hear things no civilian could, but not high enough to ever be noticed like that.

They probably don’t even see you. Not the way you see them.

Still… you wear the good ones anyway. Every day. Just in case.

And when your fingers linger over the clasp in the morning… when you glance in the mirror and think about how it would feel to have one of them tug the delicate lace aside—no, tear it off—just to see what was waiting underneath… Well.

No one has to know.

The halls had gone quiet hours ago.

Most of the base had gone dark, just low buzz lights and the hum of old ventilation systems left to keep you company. The conference room’s ancient projector flickered weakly in the corner, and your laptop screen glowed blue across your tired features as you scrolled through yet another comms log.

You shifted in your seat. Adjusted your shirt. The edge of your waistband pressed against lace again—today’s set was emerald green, dark and soft and stupidly decadent under the plain button-up you hadn’t bothered to change out of.

You were still pretending it didn’t matter.

Still pretending you weren’t wearing it for anyone but yourself.

A fantasy. That’s all it was. Something to keep you warm when you brushed shoulders with Ghost in the hallway, or when Gaz called you dove without thinking, or when Soap caught your eye from across the mess with that knowing tilt of his head.

You didn’t know what it meant when Price lingered just a second longer when he came asking for your help with some random piece of new tech that would work. Didn’t know how they moved around each other so easily. Didn’t see the looks they shared behind your back.

You just kept dreaming.

Which is why you didn’t notice the door open at first. Just a soft click.

Then a low and amused voice. “Burnin’ the midnight oil, are we?”

You startled, spinning to see. Soap stood in the doorway.

His hair was tousled, like he hadn’t meant to be out this late either. T-shirt stretched tight over his arms, tanned and unfairly attractive. There was a glint in his eye. Something that made your gut twist hot and sharp and dangerous.

You tried to play it cool. “Had a few reports to clean up. Didn’t realize the time.”

He stepped in. Didn’t ask permission.

“Diligent.” He looked you over, not leering, just… looking. Like he knew what to expect but was double-checking the details. “Looks good on you.”

Your throat went dry. “What does?”

“Workin’ hard.” His mouth curved. “Wearin’ that little green number under all this.”

Your heart stopped. He knew. And as your mind scrambled to catch up, denial, panic, arousal, all at once, the door creaked again, another shadow entered. Ghost, this time. Silent, massive. And then came Kyle. And finally, Captain Price. Four of them. All inside now.

No one spoke for a beat. The door shut behind them with a soft click.

You backed up a little in your chair, hands bracing on the table. “What’s going on?”

Price’s voice was smooth. Low. “Just passing by. The sergeant saw you still working.”

Kyle’s gaze flicked to your hands. “Didn’t expect you’d be in here alone.”

You tried to steady your breathing. “Well. I am.”

Soap stepped closer. “And dressed to kill under all that cotton.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Ghost moved behind you. You could feel him there.

Price folded his arms. “Been wearing those pretty things for someone, haven’t you?”

You shook your head automatically. “I—I just like them. It’s for me.”

Soap leaned in, eyes locked on yours. “Liar.”

You swallowed.

Kyle smiled softly. “S’alright. We like ‘em too.”

And suddenly there were hands. Ghost’s gloves brushing your shoulders. Kyle’s fingers tracing your wrist. Soap right in front of you, heat rolling off him. Price, steady and quiet, watching from above you.

“I—” you tried. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think—”

“That we’d notice?” Price murmured. "Please, Love, we know that was the point."

Kyle laughed, rubbing his fingers up your arm gently. "Or is it that we share?"

Your eyes went wide.

Soap grinned, slow and wicked. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Price stepped in close now, his hand cupping your cheek, tilting your head up so gently it made your eyes sting.

Your breath stuttered in your chest. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. And yet you could feel them.

Soap, close enough that your knees bumped his thighs. Gaz’s fingers, gentle at your wrist. Ghost behind you, warm and looming. And Price cradled your cheek like you were something cherished.

“I—” you started, voice weak. “I didn’t actually think—.”

“We know,” he murmured, thumb stroking along your jaw. “We’ve been watching. Waiting.”

“For how long?”

Gaz chuckled. “Since the red lace. You remember that?”

You did. God, you did.

“And the black mesh,” Soap added, his voice low and warm. “The one with the little cross straps over the hips? Nearly killed me.”

You flushed hot. Shame curled tight in your gut, twisted with heat and need. It surged under your skin like a fever, coiled tight between your ribs. You swallowed thickly, and your legs tensed where they were together between Soap’s thighs, his body heat rolling off him like a fire barely banked.

He saw it. Saw that need building in your eyes, and he smiled.

“Don’t go shy on us now,” he said softly, leaning in, voice thick as honey. “We’ve thought about this. A lot.”

You licked your lips, mouth dry. “You have?”

“All of us,” Price answered, dragging his knuckles along the slope of your jaw. “Talked about how we’d do it. How you might look beneath all that office cotton. How pretty you’d sound when we finally got to hear you.”

You made a soft sound, something like a whimper, helpless and sweet.

“Wanted to give you time,” Ghost added from behind, his voice rumbling low in your bones. “But you kept showing up… in lace.”

“In bows,” Soap echoed, reverent.

“In silk,” Gaz breathed, and his hand moved, his fingers sliding along the underside of your wrist, curling delicately toward your palm. “You wore it like you were asking for us.”

Your thighs pressed together.

Soap’s hands were already there. One of them dropped to your knee, nudging your legs apart. The other slid under your shirt, over your waist, up to the bare skin above your waistband. His fingers brushed lace, and he groaned, deep and guttural.

“Fuck me,” he whispered. “It’s this one. The green set. The one with the—” He looked up at Price. “It’s the one with the lace and extra tie, Cap.”

Price made a sound like a man satisfied. “Knew you’d be wearing something sweet tonight. You’ve been putting on a show for weeks.”

“I wasn’t—” you tried to lie.

“Don’t,” Ghost growled, and you felt his breath ghost over your neck as he leaned down. “Don’t lie. Not now.”

And God, you didn’t want to anymore.

“Gonna take our time with you, alright love?" It sounds like the Captain is asking a question, but you're already nodding your head quickly.

"Let's get you undressed then," Price said gently.

Four sets of hands moved. Kyle helped you stand, kept his hand close to your elbow, his lips close to your ear. They unwrapped you like a gift, like they'd agreed long ago to do this slow. Soap tugged open the last few buttons of your shirt, his knuckles brushing skin with every careful movement. Kyle pushed it off your shoulders, murmuring things under his breath, compliments you couldn’t even process, only feel.

Ghost reached around, popped the button on your trousers, slow and deliberate. You gasped when the zipper came down, when his gloved hand brushed your hip, tugging the fabric down past your thighs—revealing the full set they’d fantasized about.

Emerald green. Soft mesh. Lacy edges hugging the swell of your hips.

Soap let out a choked breath. “Jesus fuck.”

“Don’t touch yet,” Price warned, sharp but low.

Soap stilled immediately. His hands flexed, but he didn’t disobey.

You were trembling, breath coming fast, nearly bare now save for the lingerie, the exact thing you had always said you used to wear for yourself on lonely mornings. Now exposed, adored, surrounded.

“Look at you,” Gaz murmured, brushing hair from your face. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“You like this?” Price asked, eyes steady on yours. “All this attention?”

You nodded.

“Good,” he said.

Ghost’s fingers skimmed along your ribs, teasing. “You want us?”

You opened your mouth.

“Say it,” Soap begged. “Please.”

“…Yes.”

Soap surged forward, lips on your stomach, mouthing over lace. His teeth scraped, tongue flicking out to taste the fucking fabric. He groaned, hands sliding up behind your thighs.

Kyle kissed you, deep and slow, tongue stroking yours with practiced ease. His hand found your chest, pressing, splaying, thumbing over the peak already tightening there.

Ghost was at your back, dragging a chair away from the table with a sharp scrape, his knee forcing your legs open wider for the others. His arms bracketed you, head beside yours, breath heavy, his bulge thick against the small of your back.

Price watched carefully, and at some point he sat close. One hand gripped the edge of the table and the other stroked slow and possessive over your thigh, just above the edge of the lace garter. His eyes drank you in. Every reaction. Every moan.

“Let them taste,” he said roughly. “You’ve teased long enough.”

Soap didn’t need to be told twice.

He hooked his fingers under the gusset of your undergarments and dragged them aside, breath shuddering.

“Look at this,” he muttered. “All dripping for us already.”

You whimpered as he leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue was wicked, flat, slow. His groan was filthy. It vibrated against you.

"Fuckin’ hell,” he murmured into you.

You nearly arched out of Ghost's arms.

Kyle’s hand caught you, grounding you. His mouth left yours to kiss along your neck, your shoulder. “That’s it. Let him take care of you.”

Ghost’s hand found your chest, squeezing gently, pinching. “Relax,” he murmured. “We got you.”

And Soap—John fucking MacTavish—his tongue was relentless. Licking, teasing, sucking. He wrapped his arms under your thighs and held you open, his face buried between your legs like he could live there. Like he’d die happy like this.

You were shifted again, moved lower until you were sitting in Ghosts lap. Soap's mouth never went far. Chasing your heat like a starving dog. His hands pushed your thighs apart and Ghost helped keep them there. Kyle knelt to follow. Kissing your hand. Your arm. Your neck.

Then Price knelt with them. His beard brushed the inside of your thigh, his tongue joining Soap’s, both men licking you together, taking turns sucking, licking, kissing like it was sacred.

You sobbed. Shook.

The heat between your legs had tipped past pleasure and into something ragged, relentless. You couldn’t keep your thighs still, not with Soap’s mouth moving like that, slick and dirty and eager, nor with Price dragging the flat of his tongue along the inside of your thigh like he was trying to taste the imprint of your skin.

They paused, leaving you whining and shuddering in Ghost's grip. Their mouths wet and breathing heavy.

Price placed a kiss right against your center, then said, “Let Gaz have a go.”

You barely registered the movement of Soap standing, wet-mouthed and flushed, sliding back so Gaz could drop between your legs. Ghost shifted under you again, tilting you more. As if you weren't already beyond exposed.

Gaz looked up at you once.

You’d never seen eyes like that, focused and intent. His pupils wide, lips parted, fingers already stroking the slick entrance Soap had left glistening.

“Still with us?” he asked.

You nodded, words stopped by a needy moan.

“Good.”

Then he kissed you. Open-mouthed and slow. His tongue lapped gently at first, circling, teasing. One hand braced on your thighs, and the other slid lower… lower…

His fingers pressed inside you with that perfect curl. You gasped. Squirming in Ghost's hold.

“That’s it,” Price murmured beside your ear, still crouched low. “Let him open you up. Need you ready.”

Ghost growled behind you, hands gripping your thighs from behind.

“Need you ready,” Soap repeated quietly, already stroking himself just inches from your face, cock flushed and heavy in his fist. “Can’t wait to fuck that pretty mouth, sweetheart.”

You moaned shamelessly.

Gaz worked you open. His tongue was devastating, flicking in all the right little bursts, barely-there licks that made your hips jolt, while his fingers moved with the rhythm of someone who knew what you could take. One. Then two. Then three.

“I can feel you squeezing,” he murmured, voice muffled against your cunt. “God, you’re so close.”

“I—” You choked on your breath.

Soap’s cock pressed gently against your lips, his free hand tipping your chin up. “Open wide, pretty. You don’t need to think. Just take.”

You obeyed.

He slid in slow groaned as your lips closed around him.

“Fuuuuck,” he hissed. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Price watched it all. Still on one knee, one hand on your thigh. Ghost leaned forward behind you, mouthing at your neck, dragging his teeth along your throat, grounding you as Kyle fucked you with his fingers and Johnny fucked your mouth and your whole body tensed.

The orgasm hit fast and hot, a full-body convulsion as Gaz kept going, kept licking, even as you trembled and choked around Soap’s cock.

You moaned. Your thighs tried to close, and your tilted back into Ghost’s chest, and Soap followed, persistent.

Kyle finally pulled his fingers free with a filthy wet sound. Pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh. Whispered, “Beautiful.”

Soap eased out of your mouth, thumb brushing your spit-slick lips, eyes full of wonder.

Ghost released your wrists but didn’t move. Just stayed at your back, solid and warm.

Price finally stood

“You ready?” he asked, voice low. “You want us to fuck you now?”

You couldn’t form words.

So you just nodded all desperate ruin and aching need.

"Atta way, love."

You weren’t sure how you made it to your feet. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was Price’s hand at your back, guiding you, or the way Ghost’s arm caught you around the waist and held you upright like you were something worth holding.

They brought you to the edge of the long conference table. Cool wood pressed against your hips.

Price stepped around you, his gaze serious now, measured, like the full weight of command had just settled behind his eyes. His voice stayed low and cut through the heat still clouding your mind.

“We’re going to take care of you,” he said. “But we’re going slow.”

You nodded, breath still ragged.

“Tell me your safeword.”

You blinked. He waited.

Behind you, Ghost’s hand rubbed slow circles into your lower back. They’d surprised you once again.

“I—” You swallowed. “Uh. ‘Signal.’”

Price nodded once, firm. “Good. If you say it, everything stops. Doesn’t matter who, doesn’t matter when.”

“Understood,” Ghost rumbled behind you.

Kyle and Johnny echoed it softly from the side.

Price stepped forward. Touched your jaw again. “What do you want right now?”

“I want you,” you whispered. “I want you both.”

He smiled then, small, warm, and just a little crooked.

“Then you’ve got us.”

Ghost leaned in close, his breath brushing your ear. “Hands on the table.”

You obeyed instantly. Your palms met cool wood, chest lowering slightly as your hips were nudged back, ass angling up. You felt bare and vulnerable and safe.

Ghost stayed behind you, body heat radiating close, hands running over your sides. His voice was quiet, only for you.

“We thought about this,” he said. “Talked it through. How we’d do it. How we’d keep you safe.”

“How we’d take you apart,” Price added, now naked from the waist down, his cock heavy in his hand, glistening at the tip. “You ready?”

You nodded. “Please.”

Ghost knelt behind you. Large hands spreading your cheeks. You flinched at the first swipe of his tongue, but it was so gentle, a worshipful taste.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured.

“Loosen up,” Price said, stepping in closer. His hand wrapped around your hair, not pulling, just holding. “Nice and slow.”

You could feel Ghost’s mouth on you again, wetter, deeper, as his tongue teased just beneath your entrance. Then one thick finger, glove removed, pushed in slowly.

You moaned. Opened for him. And above you, Price just watched. Let you feel it.

“Look at them,” Kyle whispered behind you, somewhere off to the side. “Fuck, Tav. Look at that.”

You turned your head just a little and saw them.

Soap on his knees, mouth open around Kyle’s cock, both of them watching you like they were starving. Kyle had one hand in his mohawk, the other pressed flat to the table right beside yours, pinky brushing yours each time he rocked forward. His eyes never left your body.

Neither did Johnny’s.

He looked drunk on it all, on you, on the way Price held you and Ghost fucked you open with thick, wet fingers.

“You’re doing so good,” Kyle said to you, voice hoarse. “So fucking good.”

Ghost pulled his fingers free with a wet sound and stood. “Ready, Cap.”

Price stepped forward, one hand guiding his cock to your entrance. The other held your hip steady. You gasped as the thick head pressed against your entrance, rubbing through the mess Ghost’s tongue had left behind.

And then he pushed in slow, stretching you inch by inch until you couldn’t breathe. You sobbed out a sound, and Ghost caught it with his mouth, his hand cradling your jaw as Price sank deeper.

“Breathe,” Ghost whispered. “Let him in.”

You took a deep inhale. And a moan followed it out. You let Price fill you, bottoming out with a quiet groan of his own, his chest pressed to your back now, breath against your neck.

“So fuckin’ warm,” he muttered. “Takin’ me like you were made for it.”

He pulled out slow. Then thrust back in, harder.

You cried out. “Fuck—!”

He kept going.

Beside you, Ghost’s hands held you steady, his mouth on your side, kissing each rib. Price fucked into you with a rhythm that felt designed. The slick sound of skin and breath and moans filled the dark room.

When you cried out again, Kyle came with a needy little grunt, Soap still on his knees. Then they came closer. They were close enough to kiss your shoulder. To stroke your arm. To press kisses to your neck and shoulder as Price picked up pace.

You didn’t remember saying please, but it must’ve slipped out, somewhere between Price’s cock dragging against the spot inside you and Ghost’s hand steady on your hip. You were so far gone now, too full of sensation.

“Please, please—” you whispered again. It barely sounded like you.

Kyle was the first to move, his mouth brushing your temple, hand on the back of your neck, grounding you. “I got you,” he murmured. “You’re almost there, love. Just let go.”

You turned toward him on instinct, lips parted, wanting.

He kissed you. It wasn’t the teasing from before. was needy, breathless, so tender it made your chest ache. His tongue swept yours, his fingers stroked along your arm, his body close, steadying yours against the rhythm of Price’s thrusts.

And then Johnny was there too, kissing the back of your shoulder, down your back. One of his hands cupped your face, tilted it so he could kiss you next, sloppier and wetter. He tasted like heat and sweat.

“Look at you,” he groaned against your lips. “Fucked full. Takin’ him so well. We’re gonna break you open someday, sweetheart.”

“I want it,” you gasped, dizzy.

Price groaned low in his throat. “Not yet.”

You whined. Ghost’s grip on your hip tightened.

“Come on, dove,” Kyle whispered, thumb brushing your lip. “Let him feel it.”

Your whole body locked down, a pulse of white-hot heat ripping through you, sharp and blinding. Your thighs shook. Your vision blurred. You cried out, and Price fucked you through it, his hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you grounded.

You didn’t know when your orgasm ended.

All you knew was that the moment your walls clenched around him, Price cursed, deep, helpless, wrecked, and slammed in to the hilt one last time, spilling inside you with a ragged groan.

“Fucking hell,” he bit out, forehead pressed to your back. “That’s it. That’s it.”

You were gasping, trembling, wrecked.

Ghost leaned over you, his hand dragging down your side. His cock, still hard and heavy, pressed against the curve of your ass.

You whimpered.

“Please,” you whispered. “I can take more. I want, want you too.”

He kissed your shoulder. “I know.”

“Then—”

“Not tonight.”

You blinked, hazy. “Why not?”

He pulled back slightly, pressing another kiss to the nape of your neck.

“Not tonight.”

Soap chuckled softly, mouth by your ear now. “We talked about this, love. You trust us, aye?.”

“You’re okay, love,” Gaz added, voice low and warm, brushing hair from your face.

“You did so good.” Price said, still catching his breath, still inside you, softer now. “And now we’re going to take you home.”

You blinked again. “Home?”

He smiled. “Ours. Clean sheets. Warm bed.”

“Hot food,” Johnny added, already tugging his shirt back on. “You’ll eat, yeah?”

You nodded, slow.

“Good to hear, lovey.”

Price finally eased out of you. The shift was slow, deliberate. You whimpered softly, the emptiness a stark contrast to the fullness that had just undone you.

Ghost caught you before your knees gave out.

He lifted you easily, hands strong and steady. “Got you,” he murmured.

You sagged against his chest, half-clothed, half-conscious, every nerve ending thrumming.

They were already moving together seamlessly, gathering your things, wiping you gently with a warm cloth Johnny fetched from somewhere, wrapping your body in someone’s oversized hoodie and their steady hands.

You didn’t know whose arms carried you out of the room.

But you felt them, whispering soft praise, kissing your forehead, holding your hand, buttoning your shirt with gentle fingers.

And Johnny made sure to grab any lace left behind.

thanks for reading

no one look at me i'm still getting over the fact that I thought these thoughts and actually managed to write about it. 🙈 asdjfhasghosldf anyway.

94 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 3 days ago

Text

Tattletale

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

Simon is a stubborn man. He fucked you once but wanted you to initiate the second time. You on the other hand were too stubborn to give in to the man staring daggers at you from across the bar. So in an act of desperation, Simon cooks up a plan starring his favorite Sergeant. Too bad you're a very clever girl.

Contains: very little plot, unprotected sex, d/s ghoap dynamic, filming during sex, orgasm denial, oral, daddy kink, semi public fingering, double penetration, not edited in the slightest

Word Count: 6.3k

Masterlist

You'd let him fuck once.

A fuck that Simon had earned by getting in between some drunk dickhead and you, his chivalry manifesting itself as wetness in your panties. You let him walk you home and split you open on his cock, two things you normally didn't do.

Not saying it hadn't been worth it, it absolutely was.

He fucked you like an animal in heat, arching your back with your ass in the air as he pounded his long cock inside you over and over again. One hand was gripping your hip so hard he left bruises. His other hand was wrapped around your face, covered in the spit and drool you were leaking out as you moaned into his calloused palm.

You swore you weren't normally like this, and part of you was flaring in humiliation at letting a stranger do this to you, to fuck you raw in your own bed and bend you in ways you felt for days after. He spewed nasty filth in your ear, but was gentlemanly enough to heed your warnings and pull out to paint his cum on your lower back.

He didn't stay the night, and you were a little thankful he didn't. But now every time you and your friends went back to that bar he was always there, sometimes alone sometimes with friends but always staring daggers at you. The hulking freak never approached you, despite having already fucked you. Your friends encouraged you to talk to him, and while he did give you the best sex of your life...you were honestly a little annoyed. If he wanted you so bad why the hell was he being so weird about it?

Tonight was another one of those nights, where you were earnestly trying to have a good time despite the holes being burned into your back by Simon's eyes. You had pulled out all the stops tonight, low cut top and push up bra to shelf your tits pleasantly below your collarbone. A tiny excuse of a skirt, so tantalizingly short it was practically screaming to be pushed up to reveal your black lace panties. And he still hadn't moved an inch.

So when you stood up to head to the bar, dizzying a bit as the alcohol rushed to your head, you were surprised when you were intercepted by another man that hung around Simon sometimes. He was handsome, not as big as Simon but still dwarfing you, and had a mohawk buzzed into his hair. He sidled right up next to you and purred a bit in your ear as he introduced himself as Johnny.

At first his pushy flirtations were a little disarming, and you fought back the urge to place a hand on his big chest and push him back where he came from. But then it dawned on you as you looked over at Simon, perched on the edge of his barstool and ready to pounce.

Simon had sent his friend to bother you, so he could fake an intervention and take you home again. Coward.

You interrupted Johnny's rambling by grabbing his face tight, your hand barely able to fit across the broad expanse of his jaw. He shut up immediately, looking at you with a glint in his eye as his legs shifted, clearly chubbing up in his pants.

"You know that guy?" you asked, nodding to Simon. Hopefully Johnny was drunk enough that he forgot any script Simon had put in his head. He halfway glanced back at Simon, who narrowed his eyes at the Scot.

"Ye, thas my Lt." Johnny said, a grin breaking out on his face when he saw that the answer he gave had satisfied you.

"Mmm." you hummed, "And he sent you over here to bother me, is that right?"

That made him pause, clearly not wanting to tattle on Simon, "Uhhh..."

You pulled his face in closer to yours, giving him your best bedroom eyes as he breathed in the smell of your perfume, "If you tell me the truth I'll let you fuck me."

His expression went blank for a second, clearly wanting to get his cock in you more than he cared about any plan his friend had concocted.

"Ye. He did." he nodded, his pupils had swallowed up the bright blue of his irises as you pulled his squished face to yours and placed a light kiss on his lips.

"Good boy." you smile at him, appreciating the way his lids flutter a bit. You shot Simon one last look, and if looks could kill you and Johnny would both have evaporated on the spot. His body language remained as stoic as ever, but even from across the bar you could see his dark eyes swirling with anger as he watched you drag Johnny out of the bar.

Johnny on the other hand, was following you like a puppy, hot on your heels as you led him by hand down the few block to your apartment. Once the two of you were inside he was looking at you like a cannibal, practically drooling at just the sight of you. Before you could get a word out he was on you, pushing you back until you both tumbled onto the stairs where he mounted you and pressed a wet kiss on your lips. You moaned into him as his big hands roamed over your clothes, his body heat already making sweat prick at your hairline.

He pushed your panties to the side and groaned when he found you already wet and sticky for him, pushing a finger inside without any warning. Your back arched up into him as he sped his hand up, his big thumb rubbing mean and irregular circles on your needy clit.

"Johnny," you gasped the second his lips unlocked from yours, "Upstairs, now."

He grinned and obliged, removing his fingers and wrapping his arms around your back to lift you as if you weighed nothing, trekking his heavy boots up your stairs and heeding your guidance to your bedroom.

Given his reactions to being called a good boy, and the fervor with which he was following your commands, you foolishly thought you'd be in control. Figured that be was probably more submissive than his friend who had rearranged you, and that you'd be able to ride him until he was begging you for a break. But the second he tossed you on the mattress all his pretenses were gone as Johnny stared at you, his bright blue eyes holding something dark behind them. The dynamic had shifted in a fraction of a second, the air thick with the anticipation that was oozing from your pores.

You were frozen in place as he stripped you, then himself, revealing a strong broad chest carpeted with a layer of dark hair, hair that led all the way down to the base of his thick cock and covered the heaviest set of balls you'd ever seen. You mouth watered at the sight, eyes flickering up to his again as you licked your lips in a silent plea to please let you get your mouth on him. In a mirror image to what you had done to him at the bar, he reached down to clasp your face, not a hint of submission in his eyes as he squeezed the fat of your cheeks.

"You want 'im in yer mouth?" he crooned, voice low and dark. You nodded as best you could in his grip, limply letting him pull you up and force you down on your knees in front of him. His other hand came down to cradle the other side of your face as his cock rested heavily on your face, making him smile at the sight.

"S'pretty." he grinned, "Balls first, love."

Your body was on autopilot, your only goal to please him. So you opened your mouth for him to shift a bit and let his sack fall on your tongue. He groaned as you let your tongue wet both of them, before sucking one in your mouth as you palmed the other. They were warm and full, and his musk was egging you on as you tentatively reached a hand up to grip his shaft. He eyed you, but allowed you to stroke him slowly as you moved to the other ball. You batted your eyelashes at him and he hummed, pulling you off and guiding his tip past your lips and across the muscle of your tongue.

His hands found their purchase in the hair at the base of your scalp, lazily fucking into your open mouth as he let you adjust. Simon was big, but Johnny was thick, and your throat had no room for air flow as he pulled your face all the way down to his base. You coughed around him, the thick hair tickling your nose and making him laugh at you. He thrusted once to test you, and laughed again when you gagged around him, a string of spit leaking out and falling onto your bare breasts.

Johnny pulled out and let you get a quick breath of air before he was fully inside again, and again and again. His pace was borderline relentless now, not paying any mind to the tears that were falling down your face as you sobbed around him. Your body kept trying to expel him, but his strong hands held you in your place as he fucked your throat.

Finally, he pulled out completely, a mess of saliva, snot, and precut all mixed together in a string that connected your lips to his tip.

"Can see why he wanted ye so bad," Johnny said, using his cock to smear the mess all over your face, "Pretty bird."

You whined as you felt yourself leaking out onto the floor below you, and once he was done defiling your face he tossed you back up onto the bed and flipped you onto your stomach. You barely had time to get your bearing before you felt his hands on your ass, spreading you wide open as he pressed his face directly onto your cunt. You let out a long, drawn out moan as his muffled voice told you how good you tasted. He lapped at you like a dog, eventually adding his fingers back in. He brought you right to the edge, before cruelly pulling off and standing up behind you.

Now a whining mess, you begged him to let you cum, only to have him tut at you. Rough hands moved your legs into the exact position he wanted before cramming half his cock into you with zero warning. A brief shot of pain rocketed up your spine and you yelped out, only to have his thick fingers enter your mouth and gag you. As he pulled back and sheathes himself into you again, your walls finally spasm and relax, allowing him to slide all the way in with a grunt.

"Thought Simon woulda stretched this cunt out," Johnny groaned, snapping his hips up and making your whole body jiggle, "He's losin' his touch."

You couldn't muster anything more than a moan in response, the stretch from Johnny burning in the pit of your stomach as he fucked down into you. His thrusts were nonstop, setting a brutal pace that left you drooling into the duvet beneath you as grey matter oozed out of your ears. His hand was putting a delicious pressure on your back, keeping you pressed in place beneath him. He suddenly gathered your hair in a fist and pulled you upright so your back was flush against his chest.

"Y'wanna cum, pretty girl?" he asked, his teeth nipping at your earlobe as you nodded frantically. "Earn it then."

His voice was blunt as he pushed you back down, pulling his cock out from your hole and once again snuffing out your building orgasm. At this point you were not above begging, now turned into a blubbering mess of please please please and I'll be good I promise.

He hummed, not satisfied with your pleas as he manhandled you onto your back with your legs spread wide for him. One hand guided his cock back into you while the other gathered your wrists and held you down, forcing you to lay still and take him while he fucked back into you.

Despite the mess still on your face, he leaned down and pressed a searing kiss on your lips, licking it off your lips as you whined into him. Your hips were aching as he kept pounding, his grip on your wrists only releasing when he moved to hike one leg up over his shoulder. The new angle hit something inside you, and he grinned at you knowingly.

You felt like you were going to perish right there underneath him if he didn't let you cum, begging him for you release. He smiled through the sweat on his face, pinching your clit and making you sob again.

"Good girls cum when they're told, aye?" he said, your voice coming out in a blubbering yes yes yes!

You clenched down on him, trying to stave off your release as he built you back up once again. His fingers were exploring ever inch of your wet cunt that wasn't occupied by his own cock, his hand suddenly pressing down on your lower belly as he felt himself bulging inside you. Your hands were clawing at his wrist begging and pleading with him silently.

"Use yer words," he urged, applying more pressure to your already taught abdomen.

"P-Please, oh fuck," you said, "Please Johnny, I wanna cum so bad please."

"Ya gonna let me fill this pussy up? Hmm?" he asked, smirking at the immediate YES! that escaped your lips at the promise of an orgasm.

"Should record this, show Lt. how it's done." he growled, leaning to the side to quickly grab his phone from your bedside table. Both of you knew that you'd agree to just about anything at this point, delirious as you could see the cliffs edge right in front of you. So you put up no resistance as he pressed record on his phone, aiming the lens right at where his cock was bullying your hole, a sticky white ring around his base proof of your want and arousal.

"G'head baby," he croaked, close to his own release, "Show Daddy how good ye feel."

Once the words left his lips you let go of the tension you had been holding, letting your core relax as the rubber band in you snapped. You threw your head back and screamed out his name at the feeling of his cock dragging along your walls as they pulsed, milking him as he finished deep inside of you. Acutely aware of the camera now pointed at you, your hands moved to grope your hard nipples as you squirted a bit around Johnny's base.

"Fuuuuuck." Johnny moaned out, shifting back and pulling out of you, focusing the camera on where his cum was messily leaking out of you. One more push down on your belly had it spilling out of you in one go, your thighs shaking at the feeling of it running down along your ass.

Simon had fucked you good, but Johnny had fucked you dead.

Your one orgasm felt like three all at once, and your muscles were absolutely spent. Johnny chuckled to himself as he left your room, coming back with a warm washcloth after finding your bathroom down the hall. He started with your face, cleaning up the mess he had made, half of which had been wiped off on your duvet when he pressed your head into it. He cleaned the sweat off your chest, and most importantly he wiped away the stickiness between your legs, shamelessly cleaning every inch of you.

After he went back to the bathroom to clean himself off, Johnny came back in the room yawning as he stretched his arms dramatically. He picked you up, tucking you into bed as he crawled in next to you, maneuvering you to drape you over his chest as he rubbed your back.

"Y'did so good, baby." he said softly, getting a small mewl in response from you. Your throat was going to be sore tomorrow. Hell, your whole body was going to be sore tomorrow. His warmth and the gently rise and fall of his chest lulled you to sleep in a matter of moments, too exhausted to tell him he didn't need to stay the night.

The morning after your night with Johnny, you woke up to an empty bed. You sighed, figuring he probably woke up before you and saw himself out. Tentatively testing your muscles, you stretched and laughed as your body protested. Every inch of you was delightfully sore.

Sighing into a pillow, you were prepared to drift back to sleep when you smelled coffee. Your brows furrowed in confusion, surely he wasn't in your kitchen...

That is exactly where Johnny was. Happily cooking up eggs, toast, and some breakfast sausages he found in your freezer. He was too busy whistling to himself that he didn't hear you pad into the room behind him, only seeing you when he turned to plate the food in the pan.

"There she is!" he beamed at you, "Mornin' beautiful."

"Morning..." you said slowly, trying to piece together why the hell he was still here. He raised a brow at you expression, rounding the counter to walk up to you with his head cocked to the side.

"I got two heads or somethin'?" he asked quizzically.

"I just wasn't expecting you to...be here." you gestured around the kitchen, offering him a small smile to let him know it wasn't an unwelcome sight. He nodded, stopping short for a second when he asked you something.

"Simon didn't stay?"

His question made your cheeks burn a bit, remembering you had now fucked two men on the same military unit. You shook your head, not wanting to make Simon seem like a bad guy, it truthfully wasn't a big deal...was it?

"Didn't see the need." you said, not sure whether you were indicating to yourself not needing Simon to have stayed, or that Simon clearly didn't see the need to stay. Johnny frowned at that.

"Shame." he tutted, "Gonna have'ta teach that boy a lesson."

He shook his head while he said it, and something about his tone piqued your interest. Maybe you had Johnny's rank mixed up in your head? But you could have sworn he had mentioned being a sergeant, a lower rank than lieutenant, so what the hell could he possibly do that would teach Simon a lesson?

You didn't push the issue, opting to just sit down and eat a much needed meal. Johnny watched you carefully, encouraging you to eat all of it. Even just eating with him you felt the need to submit under his gaze. He insisted on getting your phone number, assuring you that your performance last night already had him itching for more. So he gave you a light kiss and a wink as he left out your front door.

While you remained at home resting up on your couch, Simon was waiting at the base with sweaty palms awaiting Johnny's return. He hadn't accounted for you wanting to fuck Johnny instead of him, and when he checked the sergeant's location early this morning he was still at your flat. He also awoke to a notification from Johnny, a text containing a shaky video of his cock splitting you open as you moaned like a pornstar in the background. Blood rushed to his cock as he watched the camera pan to your face, sweaty and covered in what looked like spit and mascara. His grip on the phone tightened as Johnny finished inside you, his cum leaking out of your gaping hole as if to taunt him for what he was not allowed to do.

So now he was lifting weights in the base gym, waiting for Johnny to arrive and regale him with how much better he fucked you or whatever stories he wanted to boast about. Then again, maybe he'd have more videos to share...

"She sniffed ye out, Lt." he heard from across the room, Johnny's grin plastered on his features as he made his way over to Simon's bench. "Figured out yer whole plan. Sorry but she was too pretty to pass up."

"You came inside her." Simon said flatly, making Johnny's grin just a tad more smug.

"She was beggin' for it." the man shrugged. "Heard ye didn't stick around after ye were done with her."

Simon's back straightened a bit at Johnny's change in tone. He was all too familiar with that.

"She didn't ask me to." he gruffed, scratching behind his neck.

"Not how you treat a lady Simon." Johny chastised, turning to walk out of the gym, "Come on Lt."

Simon sighed, dick chubbing up in his boxers as he followed Johnny to an empty barrack room.

So as you were in your apartment, settling into a warm bath to ease your muscles, you had no idea that Simon was enduring exactly what you had hours ago. Ass up in the air he groaned into the rough bedding on the sorry excuse for a mattress as Johnny pounded into him relentlessly.

"Not nice to leave a lady high and dry, aye?" Johnny said, eliciting a whine from Simon's lips.

"M'sorry." he muttered into the bed.

"No yer not." Johnny said, snapping his hips up and making Simon's aching cock dribble out as it was left unattended. "Next time we see our bird yer gonna apologize like a man."

Simon's brain went fuzzy as Johnny's hands gripped the flesh of his ass, spreading him open so he could spit down onto his hole. He feeling reached a hand around to reach for his own cock, but Johnny swatted it away. Tears formed at the corners of Simons eyes as he begged Johnny for just one stroke. Johnny did not budge, leaving Simon's cock aching and soaked.

Johnny played with his own balls, squeezing the sack and rolling them in his hand as he reached his peak, shooting his load deep inside of Simon as he groaned out. He stilled, placing a hand on Simon's sweaty lower back to steady himself.

"Ahh," he sighed as he pulled his cock out of Simon's gaping hole, "Good boys don't get to cum, Simon. Remember tha'."

The empty feeling of his hole and the taught, full feeling of his balls was torturous, and Simon twisted slightly to look up at Johnny.

"Please." he croaked before pulling out a card that always worked in his favor, "I'll be a good boy, I will."

"Prove it." was all he got. Johnny stuffed himself back inside his cargo pants and left Simon to clean himself up.

Simon groaned to himself, collapsing on the soiled sheets as Johnny's cum leaked out of him. He should have known better than to involve his sergeant.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

None of your friends were available to come to the bar with you, but Johnny had texted you asking if you'd be there so you were dolled up anyway. Walking in, Simon was already in attendance, and for once he actually stood up when you walked in. He hurried over to you before you could even get to the bar to order a drink.

"Hey!" you protested as he grabbed your elbow, dragging you through the mingling crowd and towards the bathroom. He remained silent as he dragged you into a stall in the men's room and locked the door.

"Enjoyed making that little movie huh?" he spat, pressing you up against the grimy wall. You sputtered for only a moment before realizing that Johnny must have shown the video he recorded to Simon like he said he would.

"I did." you spat back, "He fucked me real good, Simon."

"You let him come inside you." he growled, clearly upset that you had held up that rule for him but not Johnny.

"He cooked me breakfast." you shrugged, knowing it was a bullshit excuse.

"I fucked you first."

"He fucked me better."

"Bullshit. I know he's not bigger than me."

You raised a brow at that. Sure, it was probably because they'd seen each other in the showers or something, but the corners of your lips turned up as your brain went somewhere else. Surely teasing a big macho military man about having gay sex wouldn't lead to any retaliation.

"How would you know? Huh?" you teased, "He fuck you too?"

You expected a snarl, a biting comment, hell maybe even a hand around your neck. But before he grunted out a simple "no", something flashed across his dark eyes, something truthful.

"Oh my God." you said, grinning, "He does. He fucks you like he fucked me, doesn't he? I bet you're a whiny bitch when he-"

"Enough." Simon said, his hand coming up to grab your neck as he shoved your head back flush with the stall wall.

"Oh God if you're listening please let me watch that." you laughed, looking up tp the ceiling and lifting your hands in a mock prayer.

Before he could get another word in, the door to the bathroom opened, and a familiar set of boots walked up to the locked stall, easily turning the lock open with a knife. Johnny swung the door open, bumping it into Simon's shoulder as he had you pinned against the wall.

"What did I say about apologizing?" Johnny said flatly, making you blink in confusion. Simon faltered, and when you looked back at him he was staring wide-eyed at Johnny. The air was thick, tension brewing between all three of you as Johnny's eyes moved from yours, to Simon, and back to you again. Simon only moved when Johnny nodded towards the door, dragging you with him.

You thought the car ride to Johnny's would be dead silent, especially since Johnny had banished Simon to the back seat. But he made sure the big man sat directly in the middle seat so he would have a good view for when Johnny reached over and stuck his hand up your skirt and into your panties. He lazily fucked his fingers into you, barely looking your way as he unraveled you with just one hand. You could feel Simon's eyes on you, watching every twitch of your facial muscles as you moaned quietly.

While stopped at a traffic light, Johnny sped up, angling himself to pump further into you and bring you up and over the edge, letting you cream all over his fingers as you gripped his wrist and keened out for him. Once he pulled his hand out from between your legs, he sucked his fingers clean and turned around in the seat to look at Simon.

"See what good pets get?" he questioned lowly, making your breath catch.

Your mind was spinning with the fact that you had been correct about their dynamic. You had meant it just as a jab to what you thought was Simon's hyper-masculinity, but that clearly wasn't the way it landed. Can't always judge a book by its cover, sometimes the giant hulking behemoth who fucked you to so hard you cried also enjoys being submissive to big hairy men. You kept your giggle to yourself, wanting to stay in Johnny's good graces for tonight, but you couldn't help give him a dopey smile. He winked at you and pinched your cheeks as the light turned and he continued driving, Simon crossing his arms and pouting like a child in the backseat.

Simon was still pouting when Johnny finally got you in bed. You could barely register where in the room he was, Johnny had you folded so intensely you couldn't decipher left from right anymore. But when he flipped you onto your stomach, you were facing where Simon was sat, relegated to a chair in the corner of the room, forced to watch as his sergeant bullied his cock into your already sore pussy with double the ardor he had a week ago. Johnny pulled your face up so you were staring directly at Simon, and leaned his face down next to yours with a big grin on his face.

"Boy's conflicted, pet." he said, loud enough for Simon to hear. "Doesn't know if he wants to be in my place or yers."

The thought of that drew a long moan from your lips, and Johnny laughed in your ear. His thrusts had shown down, just enough so that Simon could hear everything that Johnny spoke to you.

"What do you say?" he cooed at you, "Should I let him replace me? Hmm?"

Though you would love for them to both take turns on top of you, there was something you wanted to see more. You whined and shook you head, a little to Johnny's surprise.

"No? What do you w-" you cut him off before he could finish the question.

"Me." you said, unable to form a full sentence.

"You? Tell me what you want baby, use your words." he urged, rolling his hips once to encourage you.

"Want him- ah - t'replace me." you croaked out, and you felt his brows raise as he laughed again.

"Dirty girl." he murmured into your neck before sitting up and pulling his cock from you. He pushed you to the side, rolling you onto your back as he beckoned to the man in the corner.

"Yer lucky day big guy. Birdie wants to see how I taught you your lesson."

If being fucked by Simon was good, watching him come undone under another man was heavenly. Johnny was a bull, and when he got into a rhythm fucking Simon on his back, you clambered over Simon's chest and peppered his face and neck with kisses as he let out the sweetest moans you'd ever heard. Looking to Johnny for permission, you glanced at Simon's leaking cock, hard and red as it went unattended once again.

"Not yet." Johnny grunted, making you frown.

"Please?" you whined, getting a shake of his head in response as he pushed Simon's legs apart farther, earning a groan from the man.

"Sit on his face." Johnny said, making you freeze. "He can cum if he can get you off."

You swung your leg over Simon's chest, still facing Johnny at his request. Simon's arms came up and gripped you around your hips, pulling your cunt down onto his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed as he suctioned onto your clit, and you felt Johnny's lips on yours as hen leaned in to kiss you. The three of you had formed an erotic triangle, hot and sticky as the you all moaned in tandem.

Soon enough, you lost control of your lower half, you hips rocking along Simon's nose and face at their own pace. He was eating you with a fervor, knowing that when you came on his face Johnny would allow you to service his cock finally. A light yelp escaped you as he gently teethed at your clit, applying pressure that made you leak out so he could lick you clean. Your shaky arms were reaching out for Johnny who was lost in a cloud of his own pleasure and the sight of you.

You looked at him, silently asking for permission to cum before you did anything out of line. He nodded at you, and the sight of his cock stretching Simon and making his cock bounce ripped an orgasm from your abdomen that surprised even you in its intensity. You felt a small stream flow out of yourself and Simon greedily lapped it all up, and you were unsure if that was to please you or Johnny.

"Good lad." Johnny said, reaching out and slotting his hands under your arms and dragging you closer towards him. He guided you down onto Simon's cock, making Simon jump a bit at the sudden sensation.

Johnny moved you up and down, almost as if you were a flashlight for Simon, and your poor cunt had no time to recover from your orgasm before the veins in Simon's cock were rubbing all the perfect spots deep inside you. The two you you moved in sync, and Simon was a mess under the two of you.

Suddenly, Johnny pulled you off and himself out, hauling you up and over his shoulder as you watched Simon's legs shake as he nearly sobbed.

"You said-" he started, only to be cut off by a look from Johnny.

"Clean me off before I go back inside her." Johnny demanded, and from your position dangling upside down you couldn't see Simon licking and cleaning Johnny's cock but you could hear all the wet, needy sounds his mouth was making. You wiggled a little, desperate for a better view, but Johnny swung a palm around and sharply smacked your ass to make you stay still.

Once he was satisfied with Simon's work, Johnny told the man to lay back against the headboards as he let you back down onto the mattress. He gave your ass a little tap, encouraging you to climb back onto Simon but the other way around. Johnny let himself rest for a moment, enjoying watching Simon fuck up into you while you straddled his wide frame in a pathetic attempt at cowgirl.

Just as you and Simon were both nearing your peaks again, you felt the bed shift behind you as Johnny loomed at your backside.

"Let's see how far she can stretch, huh Lt?" Johnny said, the smile evident in his voice. Simon chuckled and it became very evident that it was no longer Johnny fucking you and Simon, rather Johnny and Simon were fucking you.

At first you thought the Scot was going to try and press into you ass, so you squirmed a bit only to be met with Simon's big hands holding you in place as Johnny mounted you from behind. He told you to relax, and your brows furrowed as you felt his tip press at the entrance of your cunt rather than your ass. Simons massive length was already buried inside of you, and Johnny was trying to join?

"No, no, no, Johnny please," you sobbed as he pressed harder, his wet tip burning the edges of your hole as he stretched you further and further until he finally notched it inside you.

"Shhh," Johnny shushed in you ear as you begged him to have an ounce of mercy on you, "Just relax baby you can do it."

Not like you had a choice. There was no where to run with Simon's wide waist keeping your legs perfectly spread and Johnny's weight now anchoring you in place. So you sat there, trembling and unable to breathe as Johnny pressed further and further inside of your already occupied hole. Once he had as much in as he could stuff, the two of them moved as a team, one fucking in while the other pulled out. Your brain was completely fried, absolutely no thoughts in your skull as the overwhelming feeling between your legs was making your vision go white.

They were speaking to each other, but you couldn't decipher what they were saying as they sped up, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as they allowed you to collapse forward onto Simon's chest while they fucked you. As you felt another orgasm building it felt so close yet so far away, almost as if you were looking down at the scene instead of taking an active part in it. All you nerves were so overstimulated you might have missed your own orgasm if you didn't feel a river flowing out of you and onto Simon's pelvis.

The scream that left your lips was sure to cause a neighbor to call 999, a loud sound that felt foreign to your ears. They are fucking in time with one another now, and they both had their massive mitts on your hips as they released inside of you.

Simon was first, letting out a guttural noise that vibrated the entire bed as his hips snapped up into yours one, two, three times as his seed finally met your walls. Johnny wasn't far behind, adding his own spend to the mess between your legs as he rutted into you. They both fucked their cum into you, letting it spurt messily out around their bases.

You were totally limp laid across Simon's chest as Johnny eased out of you, coaxing Simon out after him. He let the two of you lay there while he sat back and caught his breath again, Simon's hand coming up to stroke your back. You had never felt so utterly ruined in your life, and a part of you wondered if one cock was ever going to be enough again. You groaned as you tried to move, both men shushing you and telling you to stay still.

Johnny was the first to get up, leaving the room while you lay strewn across Simon like a throw blanket. Eventually, Simon swung his legs around with a small huff, standing and carrying you into the bathroom where Johnny had run you a warm bath.

They let you soak as they cleaned themselves off, before Johnny reached into the water to clean you himself.

"Ye did so good." he said softly, a small smile cropping up on your lips as he gazed at you, "Did ye have fun?"

Your voice was completely shot, so you gave him a nod in response. He told you Simon was getting the bed ready, so he helped you out of the tub and toweled you dry. It was so interesting to watch them working as a team to take care of you, and it made you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

That night you fell asleep sandwiched between them, happily snuggling your face into Johnny's chest hair while your legs were tangled with Simon's behind you.

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sgtslut69 · 3 days ago

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simon is very, very experienced in sex and when he fucks you, he fills you up and stuffs you swollen that you swear that you could feel his cock nudging at the back of your throat.

while stumbling over your words, you tell this to him one night, your voice splintering because of your ripping euphoria, and it's not even meant to be dirty talk or to tease him, but it hits simon so hard, he just fucking cums preemptively.

"si- whu'-"

"shit," he puffs out, pressing his face on the column of your neck, heaving deeply and tensed in his sudden orgasm. "shit, i- give me a sec, hun. give-"

you feel his face heat up from where it's pressed on your skin, his warm breaths turning even more feverish, and, god, how cute. but you stay still, breathing through your mouth, because simon may not be moving but he's still so big inside of you, plugging his cum in that you wonder if you should start worrying now because it's not a safe day, then--

simon moves, a little humping motion, and you squeak, dragging your dull nails along his back at the feeling of him fucking his spunk further in you and it's so debauched and it feels so dirty but, christ, it feels good.

you don't even care that it's simon's way of distracting you from his little "embarrassing" moment -- later, you'll tell him how hot it is actually to just feel him lose it and cum prematurely but for now, you'll enjoy this dance.

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sgtslut69 · 3 days ago

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John Price and his controversially younger girlfriend that the rest of his team judges him about.

18+Minors DNI!!

He loves you, especially when he comes home tired and in need of some kind of comfort.

He’d sit on the sofa and manspread his legs while smoking a cigar. Calling you over with a hand motion so you could sit atop him and make him feel good. Its been so long since he felt nice, his work making sure he was stressed and on his toes constantly. You were the thing that made him melt the tension off.

You’d sit on him and he’d just look at you. He wouldn’t help even a bit while you slowly moved yourself over to connect your bodies like he asked. Hips rolling slow and painfully while he exhaled smoke into your face and leaned his head back into the soft backrest of the sofa, meaty fingers holding your thighs.

He was a traditional man, loved being on top and making you cry out, and the fact that you were riding him and atop him in the moment didn’t mean you were in charge. He still was. Just that simple hold on your thigh made sure you knew he had the upper hand here.

He’d let you go on for however long you could go, until he came inside and made sure you staid on it afterwards. He absolutely loves doing it. When you would start to lift yourself up to get off him, thinking he would want you off, his hand would just pull your thighs back down followed by a small sloppy sound. Secretly hoping his seed would take root inside your small womb.

You’d lean down to hide your face in his neck, his beard tickling your skin as he shifted his hips a bit, still full of him as his hands went up and down your spine. Comforting you while he talked about his day and missing you.

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sgtslut69 · 3 days ago

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Simon Riley who despises pet names. Snarls and sneers in the face of terms of endearment. Everyone already knew him as his call sign, ‘Simon’ was intimate enough for him.

Then, you came along with your sweet words and a soft voice. Melted in saccharine honey, clung to him in ways he couldn’t explain. Bloomed warmth from his fingertips to his toes, coiled tightly around his heart, and found a home in his veins.

Felt it when dainty fingers snaked under his balaclava, slipped the mask off his face as you straddled his lap.

“There’s my pretty boy,” You would murmur, trace the pads of your thumb over his cheek bones and jawline.

Simon knew he wasn’t pretty, not nearly when scars decorated his face. But there you would sit spread over his thighs, kissing sweet words into his skin, and how wasn’t he supposed to enjoy that?

Or when he would snuggle deeper into the sheets on his leave, protesting leaving the warmth of your bed.

But then you would pull him up anyways, purring syrupy words of “Come on, big boy, we have plans today!”

Those moments were intimate enough for him, all you had to do was call him something sweet in your silvery voice and blink your doe eyes at him, and he would do anything you asked. At your beck and call.

Though his favorite might be when you were perched on your heels between his thighs, peering up at him with glassy eyes. One hand fisting his fat cock, the other wrapped around your chin as he leisurely stroked over his shaft.

Lips parted as you squeezed your thighs together, desperate for any stimulation, breathed a soft “Baby, please.”

He had been teasing you all day, left you needy and wet that morning before he left for base, but it was over the moment you started whispering sweet names to him.

And you knew it.

Fluttered your pretty lashes at him, knew you had him wrapped around your finger. Hoisted you in his lap soon after, lowered you on his throbbing cock until your ass pressed against his hips.

Banding your arms tightly around his shoulders as he finally slid home, lips pressed close to his ear as you whimpered so sweetly for him.

“Oh— baby.”

“Yeah, ‘m right here, pretty,” He murmured, pulling your hips up, “I got you.”

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sgtslut69 · 4 days ago

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cw dubcon / noncon voyeurism

Ghost keeps fucking you in the safe houses at night. He swears none of the other men can hear you guys despite all uncomfortably packed into one small room, they all sleep like the dead. Just let him fuck you a little, he swears he can't sleep without it. Peeling your sleep pants off to pull you onto his lap, making you ride him reverse cowgirl.

Spearing you on his cock and you're clapping a hand over your mouth from how full you feel in this position, hips jerking when you feel Ghost grab your ass in the dark. He's thrusting his hips up and into you, all you can do is lean back against him and take it. Trying to keep your mouth quiet but you can't control the lewd schlicking noise that accompanies every thrust.

You're getting fucked too good, too deep to notice Gaz stroking his cock slow and thorough under his blanket, to see Soap’s eyes glinting in the moonlight staring you down as he ruts into his makeshift bed, to catch Price as he's cupping his balls and rolling his hips to thrust into his other hand.

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sgtslut69 · 5 days ago

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I just saw a reblog about pushing your reader into monsterfucking AND LET ME TELL YOU!! I’ve been a certified monsterfucker for A LONG TIME… that being said… I’m sorry for being horny on main but I gotta ask now..

THOUGHTS ON OVIPOSITION??!!! I think I’d die(happy) if monster141 had me pinned by tentacles and being bred with many eggs and I could do nothing but drool, whine, moan and take it like a good girl.

Pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls, pls.

Bless me with your thots and your thoughts you beautiful, magnificent, wonderful person.

I have many thoughts on oviposition...

I think squishy slimy eggs probably feel better coming and going, probably give you just enough pressure on all the lovely soft spots inside you to make you whine, but not hurting the way a hard shell egg might. I like when they're sort of blobby and see through, like you can see where the little thing inside it might grow if fertilized. With all that nice slick slime to make sure they pop into you nice and easy. Like you're made to take them, made to be a sweet little incubator for whatever sunk its teeth into you.

As far as tentacles go, I think the most likely in my current cannon to have them(or make them) is fae!Ghost, just as a little treat for you. Making the shadows squirm over your body, sending out long seeking tendrils that wrap around your tits, around your waist, lifting your hips so another can prod at your slick cunt. Maybe there's a little one, whip thin, that wraps around your clit and tugs on it meanly, making sure you're slick enough that the bigger tentacles can wiggle their way inside you.

So cute getting stuffed full, Ghost wouldn't hesitate to push a finger or two inside with the tendril that fills your pussy. Just enjoying the feeling of you clenching and dripping down the long shaft of shadow. You grab for his hands and another lash of shadow wraps around your wrists, tugging them up towards the headboard. Two more grabbing your ankles to hold your legs apart, let Ghost see all the good work his magic is doing. He's really so greedy with you, a second tendril attempting to squeeze into you beside the first, the tip just lapping at your stretched hole. If it gets too frustrated trying to push inside your tight little cunt it'll just try your ass. It's not as big as the first one, and it's as magically slick as Ghost wants it to be, it should be ok, right?

No sense in wasting the opportunity to fill all your little holes, make sure you get the full experience. Lift you up a little higher so you can't try to kick him when the second tentacle pushes against your tight ass, easing itself with little taps and a steady pressure. You're whine and whimper and moan until a third shadowy appendage pushed its way into your mouth. Nice and tidy and filled. Taking its time thrusting in and out of your throat, alternating with the slimy thing in your pussy as the one pressing into your ass finally slips inside and you arch your back so aggressively it hurts.

But fuck doesn't it feel good. All tight heat and pressure, pushing against things you never thought to try, tentacle sliding against twisting tentacle, only separated by a wall of muscle. And they do twist, twist and squirm and writhe inside of you, pushing in as much as they can, letting Ghost push his hand against your stomach to feel where each of his tendrils is :( he'd be too drunk on seeing you wrapped up in his magic to care if he was overloading your system. He likes the way your muscles shake and your stomach jumps, loves the way you clench and gurgle out moans around the tendril down your throat. He drags his hand over your skin, petting you and cooing what a pretty little toy you are for him, what a fucking slut taking his shadows in each of your holes.

Would you let him do that baby? Would you let him fill you up like this? Maybe some toys would be needed but he could do it. Fuck your face first, then your pussy, finish in your ass, plugging each hole as he goes so you're stuck squirming with pleasure by the time he's done. God look at you... pathetic cock-drunk thing, you asked for this, so you'll take it until he's bored.

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sgtslut69 · 5 days ago

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period sex with older bf!simon x chubby!reader (tattoo artist!simon)

part 2 to this (can totally be read as a standalone)

cw: smut, p in v, daddy kink my fav

it had been a couple days since that first night on his couch, when your body was all wound tight and sore, skin breaking out and cramps threatening but not quite there yet. now, the worst of it had hit—you were on your period, achy and bloated and uncomfortable in ways that made you curl into yourself.

and simon hadn’t left your side once.

you were stretched out across his lap, his hoodie still drowning you, a heating pad tucked against your stomach. he sat there steady beneath you, one hand moving slow circles over your belly, the other stroking your thigh through the fabric.

you shifted, wincing a little, and felt it right away—hard and unyielding under you.

“you’re hard,” you mumbled into his chest, your voice muffled and thick with exhaustion.

his hand stilled. “ignore it.”

“i don’t want to.” your fingers trailed down, brushing against the bulge in his jeans before he caught your wrist, careful but firm.

“sweetheart, you’re bleedin’. you’re hurtin’. i’m not—”

“i want you,” you cut him off, lifting your head to meet his eyes. “even like this. especially like this.”

his jaw flexed, breath leaving him slow and uneven. for a long moment, he just looked at you—like he needed to make sure you weren’t saying it out of guilt, or softness, or anything but wanting. then he pressed his forehead to yours.

“you sure?” he asked, voice low and rough.

you nodded.

he swore under his breath, then kissed you—slow, deep, like he’d been starving for it but too afraid to take. his hands didn’t leave your belly, your hips, your thighs, grounding you, soothing you. when he finally eased you back against the couch, he moved careful, reverent, pausing every time you winced or shifted.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, kissing down your throat, across the sore swell of your chest. “i’ll stop the second you say.”

finally, he was taking the minimal amount of clothing remaining off both of you. you could have whispered his name, desperate, longing and aroused but of course you couldn’t. suddenly, he hears it, it’s small, quiet, but it’s there “daddy” his resolve broke, he let out a deep groan—one that just makes you wonder “is he even real?” (spoiler alert: he’s not). he helplessly pressed himself into you, moving slow, steady, careful, like every inch of you deserved patience.

if it weren’t for your current condition, you’d be more worried about not being able to move tomorrow than normal. considering the situation, you weren’t moving anyways so it didn’t fucking matter. all that matters is how he feels inside you, he’s stretching you so good.

it was almost primal how he pushed into you. but he was so gentle at the same time.

yet it wasn’t frantic. it wasn’t rushed. it was relief—aching and heavy and full of him, his mouth pressing kisses into your hair, his hands stroking your belly like he could ease the cramps right out of you.

by the time you were coming on him, it wasn’t sharp or harsh—it was soft, uncoiling, like your body finally let go of every ache and knot inside you.

“thaaat’s it babygirl. right there yeah? daddy’s making you feel so good huh baby?” he teases.

how do you even answer that? you can’t. all you can do is throw your head back and let him hear how good he makes you feel.

afterward, he stayed wrapped around you, one big hand still protective over your stomach, the other tangled with your fingers. his voice was rough when he spoke, pressed into your hair:

“not gross. never fuckin’ gross babygirl.”

and you believed him.

ENJOY POOKIES

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sgtslut69 · 5 days ago

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polarity | ghost x f!reader

maybe we're not so different after all.

type: one-shot (8.3k), AO3

cw: this piece is actually super dark proceed with caution, dark!ghost, dark!simon, sunshine!reader, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence + gore, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, meet-cute until it's not, background breeding kink, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, references to simon's past canon trauma, 18+

Ghost does not believe in love at first sight.

The concept is for children; even when he was a child, he doesn’t think he would’ve believed it then, either. There was no love where he went, even to the places where it was owed to him. In his own house, he feared what love felt like. The kind he knew was pain and misery and the terrifying reality of what it meant to always be looking over his own shoulder.

Love at first sight chewed Simon Riley up—and what it spat out was terrible, big, and caged-off from the rest of the world.

Ghost is built of many layers. Not like an onion, no—onions are easy to manipulate. With the tip of a knife, you can cut right through its skin and tear it apart, but Ghost is not built the same way. He laid concrete out in front of himself a long time ago. The things around him are rotten, curled in on itself, and it would take too long to unbury him for anyone at all to want to spend the time and try. He prefers it this way. He likes it this way. Being alone means there are no surprises, and there is no one waiting for you. There is no one to disappoint, and there is no one to prove right or wrong. There is only today and tomorrow, because yesterday has already passed, and he doesn’t care to think about what already was.

It’s Johnny that’s brought him here. In a pub too loud, with watered-down drinks that cost a quid too much. He didn’t have an excuse today to turn him down. Johnny’s got a sister he needs to see, and his sister has got a friend—someone from her uni, taking the same chemistry courses, or something like that. He can’t really remember, he wasn’t paying attention too closely, but Johnny offered to pay if his lieutenant just gave him company in the long drive into the city.

The booth is too small. His bourbon tastes off. All he wants to do is smoke a cigarette, but he’s been staring daggers at the “No Smoking” sign that’s posted behind the bar. There’s a ringing in his ears that’s been following him since they got off their last op just a few days ago, and it feels strongest here in this room, with too many unknowns in too many dark corners.

“Johnny!”

A soft voice squeals. Simon’s eye twitches, and he looks over Johnny’s shoulder to see a pretty brunette with bright, blue eyes smiling wide as she hurries towards them. Johnny slips out of his seat to cradle the woman to his chest, rocking back and forth as he hugs her. His baby Emily, he hears Johnny mutter. She’s got that same square jaw and strong brows, and Ghost imagines that if Johnny were to grow out his hair, it’d grow in the same matching, bouncy curls that Emily has. She sounds so happy to see him, and Ghost swirls a gloved finger around the rim of his glass as he watches.

It tastes sour, looking at something that he used to have. He wishes that he didn’t want it as much as he thinks he does at this very moment.

“Oh! Sorry, forgot for a wee second there. This is who I told you about—”

Emily steps aside, and there you stand.

Glossy, pink-tinted lips. A cardigan that hugs your frame with a knit, sunflower pattern. Light wash jeans, baby blue boots. Your fingertips are painted glittery and pink, and your baby blue purse matches your shoes.

Emily says your name, and you hold out your hand for Johnny to shake. It’s then that your eyes move to the shadow behind him, and Ghost licks over his teeth, satisfied, when you visibly swallow and your eyes widen a little.

“Ach, don’t mind ‘im. Tha’ scary bastard is just my lieutenant, Simon,” Johnny nods his head over his shoulder. “Simon, would ye introduce yerself, fer fuck’s sake? Stop brooding over there.”

Naturally, Emily sits next to her brother, already squeezing his shoulders and excitedly telling him about some fellowship opportunity she was up for. You slip your purse off your shoulder, shuffling towards the space next to Simon. You grip the edge of the booth to hoist yourself up onto the high seat, and you smile a little when Simon holds out his hand for you.

You take it, smooth palm in his gloved one, and it takes no effort at all for him to tug gently and get you up to sit. He sniffs, looking up when he finds himself staring a little too long at the curve of your jeans, but it’s hard not to when both of you take up the entirety of the booth. Just to fit, Simon has to lean back, and you adjust your cardigan over your shoulder when Simon stretches one big arm out behind you.

“So, uh…” You clear your throat. “What are you drinking, Lieutenant?”

“Piss water,” Simon says lowly. He cringes a little at the bite of his tone—he never means to be curt, but it always comes out that way. You purse your lips, tapping your nails on the wood, and you look at him over your shoulder.

“Hmm,” you make a face, “so Johnny made it?”

It takes a few moments for Simon to realize you’re telling a joke. The silence must mortify you, because you’re looking down and tearing a piece of yarn out of your sweater, and Simon realizes he’s wearing his mask, and you can’t see his face, and she’s trying to break the fucking ice—

“Nah,” Simon shrugs, shaking his head. “His tastes more like right shit.”

Your eyes flicker up, and you stare at him for just a few moments under your lashes before your hand goes up to cover your mouth. You giggle, cheeks warm, and he blinks at you slowly as your entire body relaxes. Your thigh touches his, and his fingers flex on the hand that’s thrown behind you, twitching as he thinks about letting them graze the skin peeking out from under your sweater.

When he gets the urge to touch you under your chin, he nearly curses out loud because fuck—

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Simon knows it as soon as he lays his eyes on you again. Staring right into yours, hand fidgeting behind you as it wants so desperately to cup the back of your neck and tangle into the strands of your hair—fuck, fuck, fuck—he’s so fucked.

He knows it, too, when you’re in his bed. Sunflower sweater draped across his floor, boots in the hallway, glittered nail-polish piercing his biceps as he tilts your head back, bares your throat, sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh there. You giggle, and it’s the rainbow after a storm. The drink of water after days in the desert, the stitch that holds the seams together, the pins that will take his broken bones and put them all back together again—

He’s feeling his cum dripping between your thighs when you ask him about his scars. He adjusts the edge of his mask as soon as you ask, sniffing under it as you smooth a finger over a puckered scar on his chest left behind by the ricochet of a stray bullet, one of many. You squeeze your thighs together when his long fingers move in squelching circles over your cunt, and your back arches when he slips them inside of you. You take his jaw between a few fingers and grip it tight, pressing your lips against his mask as you whine and kick your feet in overstimulation.

He doesn’t want you to ask questions. He doesn’t want to burst this bubble of warmth and goodness and intimacy that he’s created, because then this will be something else. Right now, he’s the mysterious, black ops military man you’ve spent an incredible night with, and if you start talking, you’ll learn. You’ll understand. You’ll find out why he doesn’t want to talk much. You’ll discover what he is under the skin he wears, and he already knows he’ll terrify you. There is nothing good about what someone uncovers under the lid he keeps over his head.

“Where did you get this one?” You point to a particular nasty white gash on the side of his ribs. He rubs a thick hand down your bare back, cupping your ass and squeezing gently.

“Op in Baghdad,” Simon murmurs. “Hand to hand.”

You touch a small circular scar on his arm.

“And this one?”

“Cigarette.”

You push the blankets down a little and bring your knee up. Simon grips the side of your thigh, and you hike your leg up to give him a better look at the puffed scar across your kneecap.

“Look at this,” you giggle. “I fell off my bike when I was little.”

“Tha’ right, swee’eart?”

“Mhm. Just like you.”

“Just like me.”

You’re still there in the morning. Cheek smushed against his chest, leg tangled between his, arm curled around his middle. There’s a little drool drying on the side of your mouth, and Simon thumbs along your jaw as he watches you sleep. The glittery eyeshadow you were wearing last night has smeared across your cheek a little, and you’re glowing. A good shag and a good night’s sleep, and you look like a right angel in the early hours.

You look like one on his couch, too. You look like one in his shirt that barely fits over your tits, watching his telly, eating the shit plate of eggs he made you since he’s never bothered to learn how to cook. You look beautiful getting your clothes back on and smelling just like him as he drives you back to your flat.

You look like his when he crowds you against the door of your place, masked mouth against your open lips as you fumble for the doorknob and yank him inside to get his pants off.

Your flat blinds him. There’s different colors scattered across the place. A fluffy pink carpet in the living room. String lights hung everywhere, in different colors, twinkling gently. There’s plants of all shapes and sizes hanging from the ceiling and overflowing from their brightly colored pots. No plate or cup is the same shape or color or even matches one another, and there’s lamps in the shapes of mushrooms and fish sitting on your mismatched coffee and side tables. You collect everything—movie posters of all kinds on the walls, an entire wall of funny clocks, another wall of arts and crafts that must be homemade, framed and hung up.

Your home is what you are. Fun and colorful and happy and bright, and Simon hikes his mask up so he can bite and lick and nearly eat you as he tries to absorb all of it. There is nothing inside of this place that doesn’t incite joy, and he feeds on it like a leech. He must have it, because he never has before, and whenever he lets go, he feels it less, and that cannot happen, he won’t let it go.

If it isn’t your smile keeping him close, your pussy is the next best thing. You look incredible on your knees—perched on your elbows, ass up, pushing back against him as he fucks into you lazily. You’re so beautiful, in every position, but there’s something about getting to push your thighs apart a little and watch you take his cock that makes his belly clench as he watches you suck him in again and again and again. There’s a ring of slick gathering at the base, making it nice and easy for him to kiss your cervix, and you sound so pretty—soft whines of his name, little mewls that make his jaw tick.

“Simon—Simon, please—”

He doesn’t like to hear you beg. You deserve whatever you ask for, whatever you want. Those big eyes should never desire anything. He never wants to see you pout or blubber—he wants you relaxed and pleasured and incoherent from how fed you are in every aspect, and he’s going to fuck you right into this mattress until he gets you right where you’re meant to be.

You tell him he looks funny in your bed, surrounded by the squishmallows and fluffy teddy bears, but he doesn’t mind. He didn’t realize what a proper bed could do for his back, because yours has springs and memory foam, and his body just sinks into it just right.

He gets woken up in the middle of the night by his phone. Wheels up at 0500, and now he’s dreading getting into his truck. There’s something warm on his chest, and for a moment he thinks it’s you, but then he blinks into focus when the thing on his chest moves and stretches, staring down at him with curious green eyes. It’s a chunky tuxedo cat, and it’s wearing a black bedazzled collar.

“‘ello,” Simon mutters, scratching under its chin. The big thing just nuzzles against his hand before moving to the end of the bed to curl up between your feet.

Simon tries not to think about you on the drive back, and he tries not to think about you as he puts his gear on; but there’s a bouquet of fake sunflowers on a secretary’s desk mocking him, and when he goes to put his gloves on, there’s still glitter on his fingertips.

You are everywhere. You are in the warmth of the sand that gets under the fabric of his mask. You are in the water that sustains him on hour fifteen of sitting on a rooftop. He sees you in the bright red that trickles from the hole in his target’s forehead, matching the red of the strawberry plushie that you were holding the morning he left.

He notices himself more. How much space he takes up. How loud his voice is. He compares the way his cock looks in his hand now to the way it looked in yours, and he has to swallow the groan that threatens to break when he thinks about the way you thumbed at the tip and cooed about how pretty he was. Delicate, pretty hands, not at all like his own—not at all like the roughness of his palms, the scars along the backs of his hands, the blood against his raw knuckles from beating a hostile into the ground just to feel something.

Just to feel anything.

Standing next to you, it is all too clear what kind of man Simon Riley is. He’s not a man at all—he’s nothing more than an extension to his rifle, and when the trigger isn’t getting pulled, he’s just not that fucking useful.

Johnny is in a mood. Scowling like a brat. Glaring at the back of his head. Hitting him with his shoulder whenever they pass by each other. Simon is indifferent, and Simon pretends not to care, so he takes it in stride, but it makes his teeth ache with how annoyed he is.

“What the fuck is wrong with ye?”

He doesn’t like being scolded, especially not by his sergeant; but he sits there, and he takes it, because what Johnny is telling him isn’t a lie. There’s a girl that woke up in an empty bed—a sweet one, with glassy eyes, and she thinks he’s a two-faced asshole that slipped out when she wasn’t looking. A girl that can do casual, but not a girl that can tell him about the dreams she’s too scared to write down and lets him rest his head on the same pillow where she rests her own. Too intimate, too many words, too many times he came inside of her and told her that’s where it’s supposed to be—in y’r pretty pussy, baby, right there—

He’s never done this before. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t stick around where he knows he doesn’t belong, and he never thinks he’s done anything wrong enough to warrant some kind of apology. With Simon, you get what you get, and he doesn’t think he advertises himself as someone warm, empathetic, considerate; but he’s sitting here, his truck still running, and there’s a decaying plastic-encased bouquet of yellow tulips resting haphazard in the passenger seat.

He’s been waiting on your doorstep for more than five minutes. He sees you peeking through the window in your kitchen, and his eyes find yours through the blinds. He narrows his eyes at you, squeezing the bouquet until the plastic crinkles under his fists. It takes a couple more moments before you open the door, and Simon sniffs under the mask when he sees your eyes again. They’re big and wet and sad.

He never wants to see them like this again.

You’re sweet, so you take the flowers from him. You purse your lips as you stand there, trying to keep your lip from wobbling, but it’s very clear you’re trying not to cry. You hug the flowers close to your chest, and Simon brings his hand up, tucking his gloved fingers under your chin and tipping it up.

“‘ello, swee’eart,” he murmurs. “Were y’lookin’ for me?”

“N-No.”

“Y’r a bad liar, baby.”

It takes a few minutes to get you settled. Sitting on your couch, batting at your tears with the sleeve of your sweater as Simon turns the kettle on in your kitchen. The cat weaves between his legs as he steeps the tea bags, and when he comes back into your living room, you’re staring at the droopy tulips, rubbing a thumb over the petals.

“‘ere,” Simon murmurs, setting down a mug in front of you.

“I…” You wipe under your nose. “I-I don’t need your pity, Simon.”

“Not here for tha’.”

“I know Johnny said something to you, and I really don’t want to talk about it—a-and if that’s why you’re here, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

You pick up one of the stuffed animals that sits on your couch. It’s a goldfish, fat with stuffing around the middle, with a comical smile and rainbow-colored scales. You hug it, resting your cheek on it, staring at Simon through wet eyelashes as he stiffens uncomfortably. Crying, emotions, talking—he doesn’t do any of these things. This complicates things. Relationships make things more difficult, and connections mean he has obligations, and he’s already seeing now what this kind of thing will be between you.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

“He did say somethin’,” Simon mutters. He sniffs, looking down at his gloved hands. His fingers curl into fists as they rest on his thighs, and he lets out the breath he’s holding harshly, shaking his head. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing here, but the thought of getting up and leaving seems worse. “Didn’t sit right wit’ me.”

You tuck your legs underneath you, and he watches as you absentmindedly knead the stuffed fish. You hum lowly, sheepish, and then you open and close your mouth as you try to find the words to say.

“I know we…” You flinch a little. “It was just…I know it was just a day. A night.” You rub your nose. “I feel so stupid. I don’t want you to feel bad. I don’t want you to feel…like you h-have to come here and…explain, I…” You close your eyes. “I-I just…I really like you, Simon.”

I really like you, Simon.

He leans his head back against the back of your couch. Something in his chest squeezes tight, and he swallows hard as he listens to you say it again and again in his head.

I really like you, Simon. I really like you, Simon. Don’t you like me?

“Oh, love,” Simon breathes. He turns his head to look at you, and you’re already looking at him. You have the fish to your chest, hugging it tighter, and he reaches over and touches under your chin gently. “Y’don’t want this. Y’don’t want me. I know y’think y’do, and ‘s sweet, but y’don’t want this.”

“Tell me why,” you say softly. “Convince me, then.”

“Do you…do you even know wot we do?” He asks. “The kinds of things they ask us to do? Wot I’ve done t’get here?”

You shake your head, and when his hand opens up, your cheek finds his palm, resting there, nuzzling.

“We’re murderers with fuckin’ passes,” he whispers. “There isn’t a line we don’t cross. No boundary we don’t ignore. They killed my whole fuckin’ family, and then I came back for more, because tha’s the kind of life I live, and tha’s the kind of work I do. When I come home, I have someone else’s blood on my clothes, do y’understand tha’?” He leans closer, touching his nose to yours. “We go places tha’ no one comes back from. Even now—” He pinches your chin between two fingers, “—I strangled someone with these very hands, love, tha’s the kind of man I am. Look at me—”

You flutter your lashes, meeting his eyes, and he shakes his head.

“Tha’s wot I do, love,” Simon grunts. “And the worst part of it is tha’ I fuckin’ like it.”

You lift a hand up and wrap it around his wrist. There is no resistance as you draw his hand off your face and hold it instead, intertwining your fingers and resting them in your lap. His hand dwarfs yours—long, deft fingers and spread palm that covers your own completely. You scoot a little closer, getting up onto your knees, and Simon’s eyes follow you as you abandon the stuffed fish to put one hand on his shoulder and the other cupping his masked cheek.

“You didn’t say no.”

“Wot?”

“You won’t say no,” you whisper, sliding the hand on his shoulder up to caress the back of his neck. “To me. To this.”

“Because I can’t,” Simon groans. “Need you t’do it.”

“But I…” You lean down and press your forehead to his. “I-I do want it. I want you. You’re…” You kiss him through the mask, a soft press of your lips against his. You feel him kiss back, and you pull away slowly. “Please. Please, Simon?” You kiss down his cheek, thumbing under his eye, and he lets out a shaky breath as you fall into his lap, knees on either side of him. His hands come up easily, cupping under your thighs, and you whine as he drags your hips forward, a slow grind that makes you shake. “Won’t you try? For me?”

Getting Simon into your bed is too easy. He looks nice here, underneath you. You press down onto his chest for leverage, using it to help throw your hips back against his. He’s deep, pulsing inside of your cunt—your rhythm stutters every time he touches your cervix, but his tight grip on your ass keeps you moving.

You’re so wet. You’ve never been wetter with another man. Sweat, tears, slick—every part of you leaks when you’re with Simon. You dig your nails into his chest, and he grunts, when you start to feel your orgasm creeping up on you, you arch your back to get friction onto your clit and squeal when Simon gets the hint; he lifts you up and plants his feet against the bed to fuck up into you and force your eyes into the back of your head.

He tastes like you after awhile. After spending days in your flat, his kisses start to taste as sweet as the pastries you make, and he starts to smell like the citrus soaps you keep in your bathroom. You get a whiff of lavender from his clothes after using your laundry detergent, and he sleeps like the dead after round two inside of you. Cum cooling between your thighs, mouth fixed to your throat, fingers stuffed inside of you to keep warm as he breathes in a sigh of relief until he’s deep asleep. He still doesn’t take his mask off, but he gives you his mouth, and you fix yourself there, mouth against his, kissing him feverishly whenever he exposes his lips just for you.

“Will you miss me?” You ask. He’s standing at the door, pulling his jacket on. He flips the hood up over his head, clicking his tongue as he fits a hand into the back pocket of your jeans and squeezes, pulling you towards him and into his chest.

“Mhm,” he mutters. You giggle, cupping his cheeks, and when he puts his thumb between your lips, you let him open your mouth, tilting your head as he spits onto your tongue before kissing you wetly. You wrap your arms around his neck, charmed bracelets jingling as you try to climb up to him. He bends, gripping you under your thighs before he hoists you up and against the wall. You moan, scratching along his back.

“Do you really have to go?” You whisper between kisses, and he hisses in response.

“Got to,” Simon sighs, but you smile wide when you hear the sound of his belt buckle. “But I can be late.”

Like you, Simon feels like he’s seeing the world for the very first time—all in color. Food has taste. Views have beauty. His gun feels heavy, and his cot is cold to the touch. Time finally has duration—it hangs and drags now, minutes and seconds taking too long as he sits in a dark room and listens to his captain explain an op he could care less about. His leg bounces impatiently, fingers twitching as he watches the screen and tries to pay attention.

Complicated. Difficult. Not enough and too much.

You are so beautiful. Your name lights up his phone, several pink and yellow emojis beside your name that you entered yourself.

we miss u! xoxo

There’s a picture of you and your cat. You’re seated on your couch, a pink blanket in your lap, a selfie of you holding up your cat in one arm. Simon clenches his jaw when he sees that you’re practically naked—in just a yellow lace bra, blanket covering your lower half. You send another picture after a few seconds, and Simon licks over his teeth. Another selfie of you, cleavage on display, and he can see the little rhinestones that are sewn into your bra. He can also see the little butterfly clips you have in your hair and the darling smile you wear.

He comes in his fist later, selfie on display in one hand, his mind on the sound of your voice. It’s never happened so fast—just a few languid tugs, and he’s spilling over his thighs like a teenager.

It’s all he thinks about. The blood runs warmer, easier. His gun fires quicker. He’s got tunnel-vision now, eyes on his prize—the sooner he finishes, the quicker he gets home, so he sinks his blade into throats and keeps his feet moving. He keeps quiet, keeps steady, and as soon as he’s got his target in his sights, he pulls the trigger without a second thought.

“Got somethin’ on yer mind, LT?”

Simon narrows his eyes. Johnny looks smug—a ghost of a smirk on his face, face red from sweat and his own cheekiness. Simon just leans his head back against the side of the helicopter, looking outside as the ground gets farther and farther away.

“Never pegged ye fer the type.”

Simon’s hands dig into his rifle.

“Always liked tha’ one,” Johnny continues. “Got a sweet face. Always wondered why she never liked me. Guess she likes ‘em big ‘n scary.”

“Careful, Johnny,” Simon warns, glaring at him.

“I just—”

“No, listen ‘ere,” Simon snaps. “We don’t talk about ‘er. We don’t mention ‘er. She is off limits, to you or anyone else. As far as y’r concerned, she doesn’t exist, yeah? Repeat it back t’me.”

“Don’t know who yer talkin’ about, LT,” Johnny says after a few moments. Simon looks away, shaking his head.

“Good boy.”

He doesn’t go back to his flat. There isn’t anything there that he wants; everything he needs leads straight to you. You’re cooing when he comes through the door, murmuring lowly as he drops his duffel bag and shoves his masked face into the crook of your neck. He crowds you against the door when you shut it, and you giggle as he takes deep breaths of your perfume. His hands grab at your waist, sliding down the backs of your thighs, feeling over the soft skin and biting at your throat even through the mask.

“What happened, teddy bear?” You mumble, scratching the back of his neck. “What did they do to you, huh?”

Dog, mutt, devour. He’s been away for too long, been starving ever since he left, and you take it with a smile. Simon is never too much for you. Simon is never too rough or too loud, and he is never too far into your space or too attached. You drink it so lovingly, and you never push him away.

He watches you carefully as you help him take his gear off. You start with the weapons. You slip the gun out of its holster on his chest, emptying the chamber and taking the magazine out. His grip on your waist tightens at the sight of you handling it with such ease, and you just shrug as you set it aside.

“I’ve been practicing.”

You unload all of his throwing knives, from his thigh holster and from inside of his boot. You find another small pistol attached to his boot, and you sigh as you unload it the same. Your hands find the buckles of his thigh holsters, and when you slide it off of him, you settle on your knees and tip your head back to look up at him.

He caresses the back of your head, and you swear you hear him purr. You lean forward, pressing your cheek to where his belt is. You kiss there, right against his zipper, and his fingers tangle into your hair just enough for you to feel a little pressure. He’s still gentle, still kind, but his eyes are so dark. You wonder if the way he looks at you now is the way he looks at his targets. Is this hunger the same—the same for you as it is to get the job done? They say love and hate are so alike, so intertwined; is that why he keeps coming back? Does he chase this feeling all the time?

What is it that you are?

An addiction? Or a necessity?

You take his dirty clothes from him as he undresses in the bathroom. Shirt, jacket, belt, pants, socks, boxers—you eye him with a smile, biting your lip, and Simon winks at you from under the mask as he slides a big hand down his middle.

“Wot?” He asks. “Like wot y’see, love?”

It would be impossible not to. Thick arms, tattoos on display. Unforgiving muscle and fat. His hands ungloved, you can see the split of his knuckles and the bruising from where he must’ve hit something—someone. Then your eyes skim over the curls just over his cock, which hangs heavy and red between his thighs. Simon has no shame—his nakedness is not something he cares to hide, especially not to you. You stand on your toes and gives his cheek a kiss before taking his clothes to the laundry room.

You’re at the sink when he’s freshly showered. There’s a bottle of peroxide next to you, and you’re wearing gloves, and he watches as you have his pants half in the sink as you work on scrubbing at the fabric.

“Wot ‘appened?” Simon asks. You hum, shrugging, ringing out a bit of the fabric.

“Just some blood. I’ll get it out. What do you want to eat for dinner, baby?”

Simon thinks that’s the moment he knew he was in love with you. Hair pinned back, baby pink matching lounge outfit with the tiniest shorts he’s ever fucking seen, scrubbing out the blood from his clothes as you talk about supper.

He knows he was fucked from the moment he met you—but it’s now that he knows he’ll never leave.

He’s reminded again of that feeling when you call him angrily from your flat. He’s pushing a trolly in the store, eyes sweeping over the selection of chocolate in the baking section. You were baking chocolate scones and would be making some ganache tomorrow, and he’s squinting at the paper you gave him with your list when his phone starts ringing.

“‘ello, love?”

“Simon, are you serious?!”

“Wot happened?”

“There’s—Simon! There’s a grenade in…in the jar!”

“Wot’s tha’?”

“The jar with my powdered sugar. I found a grenade in there!”

“Oh. Mmm. Right. Leave it there.”

“Simon! And are you taping ninja stars under my tables? I found two already!”

“Dunno. But sounds like someone ‘ad a good idea, wanted t’be prepared, y’should leave them there.”

“Simon, you are—” There’s a pause, and then he smiles under the mask when you laugh. “Just get my chocolate and get back here, please.”

You have no idea what Simon was talking about. You don’t understand what it is that he was running from. There’s so much of himself that he was meant to show to someone else. He’s been hiding for so long, and not just underneath the mask he wears—but there’s a man under it all, and you love when he comes out to meet you.

Maybe he is a little terrible. Maybe he really is just the thing you don’t need. You think about that a little too long when the water in the sink runs red again, his shirt an entirely different color from whatever it is that he had done before he got home. Maybe he really is wrong for you—it crosses your mind when you’re dusting the shelves and find a loaded pistol in the vase that used to hold your apology tulips.

He lives an entirely different life than you. He drags colors into your home that you tried so hard not to embrace, all the black and blue and grey that you’ve always felt could swallow your entire self—but you don’t know what the alternative is. There is no one else in the world that looks at you the way that he does. There isn’t anyone’s hand that feels the way his does when it’s against the side of your face or tangled between the strands of your hair or warm between your thighs.

You don’t think anyone else would mean it if they saw you crying and threatened to kill whoever had made you so sad; because he does mean it, doesn’t he? He would do it if you asked, wouldn’t he?

That’s love; you’re convinced it is. Love is the boundaries you say you won’t cross that you step right over without thinking. Love is the places you say you could never go that are already behind you. Love—real love—is the doorway that Simon keeps passing through even though he promises you that this is the last time whenever he leaves.

“Look at me—ha, Simon!—look here.” You fit the headband onto over his head, fitting the cat ears on top of his head. He grunts a little, sighing through his nose, and you warm up the makeup remover between your hands. Delicately, you start to rub it into his face. He closes his eyes, and you carefully work your fingers against his skin as the eye-black begins to run easily. “Almost done.”

You use a warm cloth to wipe his face. The eye-black comes off, but the scars remain, and when he opens his eyes, you know that you haven’t really taken anything away from him. There’s still something that weighs heavy on his shoulders, and you lean forward to get closer to him, keeping your voice quiet.

“What was it this time?” You ask, putting both hands on his face and keeping his eyes on yours. He blinks, and he goes somewhere else. He’s thinking about it. There’s something he’s looking at, somewhere far away, over your shoulder.

“He begged me not to,” Simon murmurs. “Told me their names.”

Moms. Dads. Partner. Children. They always have names at the end—as if attaching themselves to another will make their deaths harder. Men are singular beings. Rarely are they life support for another.

“It’s okay,” you tell Simon. You close your eyes as you rest your cheek against his.

“It is?”

“Uh huh.” It’s so warm here, arms around him, face tucked against his. “I forgive you.”

It’s okay. I forgive you. Everything is just as it should be.

“Y’don’t know wot I did,” Simon counters. “Wot I…got outta him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say softly. You squeeze the towel out, wetting it again with warm water before passing it over his face again. You hold him under his chin, catching the droplets of water, and you smile as you kiss his nose gently. “It never does. Never will.”

“But—”

“I made your favorite,” you interrupt, plucking the cat ears off of him and tossing everything into the laundry basket. “There’s brownies in the kitchen. I want you to try.”

Is Simon really committing heinous war crimes when his reward is chocolate decadence and wet pussy?

You look so cute. You’re wearing a flowery pajama set, tiny shorts and cropped shirt, something that leaves nothing to the imagination as he pulls the gusset of your panties to the side and sinks into you easily. You brace yourself against the back of the couch, sitting up in his lap. Simon groans when your tits are right in his face, pebbled nipples poking through your shirt fabric, and he reaches up to pinch them between greedy fingers as you sit right down on his dick and take him to the tilt.

“Fuuuuuuuuck—” Simon breathes. The wet squelch is making his head spin. His wet girl, his pretty girl, his sweet girl. He sharpens his teeth when he leaves, and you dull them when he comes home, letting him sink his teeth into you and eat. You keep him in balance; the push and pull that he always felt he struggled with is nonexistent now that you’re here. When Ghost used to get put back into his duffel, Simon felt like what was left behind was almost too much to take. The nightmares, the torture, the disregard for what was moral in favor of what got the job done—it is gone with you. Your absolution resolves him of this debt.

How can he feel he’s done anything wrong when you’re calling him teddy bear and taking his cock like this?

You drag the hem of your shirt up slowly, and when your tits are bouncing, bare and sweaty in front of his face, Simon loses his train of thought. His mouth falls open, tongue hanging out, and you cup the back of his neck to draw him close until his lips wrap around your nipple and suck. You whimper, keeping him there, slowing your hips to watch him let go for just long enough to spit on your chest and lick it right back up.

“Feels so good, teddy bear,” you whine. “You’re so big…” You wiggle your hips until just the tip of him is inside you, and then you sit back down, drawing out a long moan from the both of you. His hands fall to cup under your thighs, and you feel like you’re melting as his tip prods against a squishy spot inside of you and makes you see double. You grab onto his shoulders, digging your nails in, crying. “Oh—right t-there, baby—right there—”

“Right there, swee’eart?”

“Mhm! M-More…”

“My sweet girl,” he mumbles, and you squeak when he grips the fabric of your shorts, grunting as he tears the fabric apart. His fingers cup both sides of your ass, spreading them, using the new leverage he has on you to start picking you up and bouncing you with nothing but sheer strength. You’re thick everywhere that he needs you to be—hips, stomach, thighs, all the perfect places he hopes any girl he’s with will be. They never quite had it the way you do; when his fingers dig and feel nothing but softness, he hisses because it feels so good to grab onto you. It makes his mouth water. It makes him so fucking hungry. It makes his cock ache and his balls heavy, and he’s going to come if he keeps seeing your breasts sway like that as you take his cock so well. “Fuck—” He shakes his head. “Fuck!”

You lick into his mouth just as he loses control. Fingers under his chin, tongue around his teeth as he holds you down on his lap and fills you nice and warm. Your hips stutter, and he lets you lean back just enough so you can touch your clit and squeeze around him. You look down between your bodies, touching tenderly where you’re connected, like you’re fascinated by how much of him fits inside of you.

You settle after a few minutes. You rest your palms on his chest, squishy muscle supporting you as you lift your hips and let him out. You lean over him, whining when you feel fluid slipping down your thighs and gathering underneath you.

“You’re thinking too much,” you whisper as you slip your shirt back on. Simon hums as he holds you in his lap, cock twitching as he watches you move your hair out of your eyes and lick your own fingers.

“Got a lot on my mind,” is all Simon gives you. You let your knee fall open, and you use your fingers to swirl between your folds before you guide them up and into Simon’s mouth. He chuckles, taking them, and you lean forward to kiss his cheek just as you pull your fingers back out.

“You’re not supposed to think about things,” you murmur. “How many times do I have to tell you, Simon?” You cup one side of his face, making him look at you. “You could never do something wrong. Everything is okay.” You smile. “You believe me, don’t you, teddy bear?”

It’s so easy to believe you when you look at him like that. You’re so pretty—you always are. There is nothing terrible about your mind. Your brain isn’t rotten between the flesh as his must be. There is no blood forever under your fingernails, and you don’t sleep thinking about the graveyards you fill with your heavy hand. You don’t know what it feels like to have a gun burn in your palm, and you’ve never heard the screaming of someone who only has one limb left to spare. You don’t know how long it takes before a father will give up his children, and you’ve never seen your tombstone so clearly that the callous of your hands feel like the rock it’s made of.

Whatever you say must be true. Whatever you forgive him of must be good enough. There is nothing you cannot give, and there is nothing you can say that won’t be absolute reality. He feels like he poisons you every time he touches you, but when he takes his hands away, the skin underneath looks the same, and your smile never fades. You don’t bruise like other people do when he puts a hand on them. You don’t flinch when he raises his arm. You don’t scream when he comes close to you.

He hears your laughter wherever he goes. He’s kneeling now, bone digging into the ground as he lifts up his arm that holds a blade high. The bullet would be quicker, but this feels better. It pierces the neck, flesh giving away to its sharpness like a hot knife through butter, and Ghost licks over his teeth as he watches something sacred leave their eyes. For a moment, he feels bad about what he’s done. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, looking for his alternate reality.

I am no good. There is nothing good in me. I am not made of it.

There you are. Sitting on your knees between his thighs, cheek nuzzled against his jeans, sparkly, glossy lips curled into a wicked smile as you fist his cock and coo up at him. When you kiss his tip, you leave it shining, and then your tongue comes out of your mouth, and it’s over for him. There is a heaven inside of you. When you suck, his mind blurs, and his jaw aches with how hard he clenches it as you dip your head and take him deep. You whine because you like it. No one’s ever liked Ghost the way you like him. No one’s ever seen the mask and giggled the way you do. There’s no one that looked at the layers he’s made of and thought to use their fingers to lift them up to tuck themselves inside. His shell is not a barrier, it’s merely an illusion, and there you are—blinking up at him, bouncing in that sunflower sweater, wet eyes like diamonds. He feels warmth in his hands, and he thinks it’s from how hard he’s just come, but when he opens his eyes, it’s merely blood soaking into the fabric of his gloves.

The house is dark when he comes home. The cat is staring at him from her spot by the window, blinking slowly as he toes off his boots and passes by her with a soft scratch under her chin. He finds you in your bed, face against your silk pillow, wearing fuzzy purple pajamas and hugging a well-loved stuffed bear. Your nightlight is on, casting soft shadows of a moon and her stars, and Ghost finds himself watching you for more than just a moment. He stays there in the doorway, rooted to the spot, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you snooze.

You wake up when the bed dips from his weight. Groggily, your hand moves, searching for him, and when you find the fabric of his hoodie, you close your fist around it and pull him until he’s nearly on top of you.

You taste sweet. When you kiss, Ghost chases the sugar sweet that still lingers on your lips, and you seek the ash from the cigarette he smoked outside. Your knees fall open, and Ghost settles between them. Too big, but he forces himself there anyways, one big arm wrapping around you and under your back before he yanks it into an arch and bites against the side of your neck. Where he saw blood earlier, all he sees is the give of your skin under his teeth. Instead of begging, instead of screaming, he hears your soft whine, a breathy call of his name that makes his cock so hard, he has to yank down the zipper of his jeans before he cuts himself on it.

Where he saw death in their eyes, he finds nothing like it in your own. When he is inside of you again, he tells himself he’ll never leave. His body has new purpose, and this is it.

You’re sleepy all over again once you come. Draped over his chest, palm rubbing against his solid middle, legs tangled between his. You smile at him as he turns his head to look at you, and he slips his hand under the hem of your shirt to caress you at the base of your spine.

“Good day at work?” You mumble, snuggling into his side. Simon tightens his grip on your middle. When he feels the flesh squish under his hand, he breathes nice and easy. Just what he expected. Exactly as he prefers.

“Good day, love.”

“You got all the bad guys, teddy bear?”

Simon licks his lips. He thinks about who had the unfortunate opportunity of being at the end of his scope today, and he thinks about who it’ll be tomorrow. He likes this routine. It satiates something nasty in him, but he’s never been quiet about the way it makes him feel. It’s what drew you to him, wasn’t it? He told you about all the horrible things that exist in his head, and you’re still here, you’re still in his bed—it wasn’t enough to push you away, so there’s no need to hide this dark truth from you. If anything, you might want to go again.

His cock twitches at the thought.

“No,” Simon tells you, and you shrug, closing your eyes.

“That’s okay. There’s still tomorrow.”

Simon feels something ache under his ribs when you say it—like taking the words straight out of his mouth. You are so in tune, it would scare him if he wasn’t already convinced that you were meant for him.

But even if you weren’t, I’d chain you to this bed. Never let you go.

He wonders what color your blood runs. He doesn’t think it would be red—you’re too pretty to have blood be such a color. Maybe it’s pink. Purple. Maybe it’s yellow. Maybe it glitters just like the sparkles you love to wear.

Maybe it runs black. Maybe, underneath it all, you and Simon are one and the same. Maybe you are rotten inside. Maybe you’re an illusion, too, maybe what he sees is just a mirror-view, and the real you hides and plays your limbs with puppet strings and masks the horrible, terrible, evil things that live inside of you—

You pat his chest a little, pouting, an annoyed breath leaving you as you close your eyes.

“Go to sleep, Simon. It’s late.”

It is late. You’re right. Always right, his smart girl, always telling him how he needs to hear it so his mind settles and his body relaxes.

It’s okay.

Isn’t it?

I forgive you.

He can never do anything wrong.

Everything is just as it should be.

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