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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

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Attitude, no problem pt.2, ~pt.1~

oral (f receiving), choking (light + consensual)...smut all around man

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. You toe off your boots, still tasting the spice of red curry on your tongue, and Simon’s jacket brushes your back as he follows close—too close. You barely get your coat half-off before his voice cuts in from behind, low and guttural.

“Been watchin’ you pick at your food all night,” he says. “Figured you’d either start talkin’… or you’d need to be reminded how to use that mouth.” The coat slips from your shoulders and hits the floor. You sigh, just feeling the weight of him behind you. “Simon just forge-“

“You were quiet,” he interrupted, fixing your eyes to him. “Not in a way I like, thought I told you to fix that.” Then his hand wraps around your throat, not tight. Just there. A promise. A warning.

He drops—drops—to his knees like he’s being called, like worship’s second nature. His hands grip behind your thighs, lips already parting as he yanks your pants halfway down your legs. “We're gonna have a little talk, isn't that right?” is he talking to my-

You choke on a moan when his tongue slides up your cunt in one long, filthy stroke. His groan vibrates into you like it pisses him off how good you taste. He tongues your clit with slow, brutal circles. Just enough pressure to drive you insane. No hesitation. No restraint.

You gasp, hips jerking, and his hands tighten, yanking one of your thighs over his shoulders. “You always get quiet when you’re like this?” he mutters into you. “Or just when you’re tryin’ to pretend nothin’s wrong?”

You tremble. Fingers in his hair. His tongue flicks just right and your head thumps back against the wall. “I—I wasn’t pretending,” you manage, breathless.

He hums, like he doesn’t believe you. Lips slick with you, tongue working in slow, punishing strokes. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls, voice nearly lost between your thighs. “You forget who the fuck you’re dealin’ with?” He sucks your clit hard and you cry out, back arching off the wall. Your hands claw at his scalp, and it only makes him groan louder, like he likes being pulled apart.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you whisper, broken and raw. “Was just a rough morning” His mouth pauses. Just a second. That’s all it takes. He feels the shift—the hesitation. Feels you go quiet. And he stops, just enough to make you notice. He licks once, slow and deep, then breathes against you:

“Say the rest.”

“there’s nothing more…” he fucking stops. With a forceful suck before he lets go and looks up at you.

“I—” You swallow; he continues.“Fuck—I’m… I’m drowning in reports. Price just keeps dropping shit on my desk like I’m his fucking secretary, and Soap—Christ—he keeps asking me to do his tasks ‘cause—fuck, Simon, slow down—‘cause his ego’s too fucking big to admit he can’t handle them”

Simon groans. Deep. Wrecked. Like your honesty just shattered something in him.

“That’s it,” he mutters, voice rough with something between hunger and satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for that. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

But then, He pulls back again. great. Just enough. Fingers still buried in you, but his mouth gone, heat gone, the drag of his tongue gone, and it’s a betrayal so sharp you actually whine, hips bucking, chasing the friction he just ripped away.

“Simon,” you gasp, dizzy, frantic. “What the fuck—”

“You think you get to come after the way you talked to me today?” His voice is low. Dangerous. Almost smug. “You think I forgot that fuckin’ tone? That little attitude you’ve been throwin’ around all goddamn day? Nah, sweetheart.” His fingers curl deep, just once, slow and devastating. “You’re gonna sit with it.”

“Are you…” You bite back a sob, thighs shaking. “You’re seriously punishing me?”

“Not punishin’.” His lips brush your inner thigh, featherlight, maddening. “Just remindin’ you who’s in charge of that pretty little cunt.” You glare down at him, wrecked and furious and dripping for him. “You’re a fucking asshole.” He grins. Licks his lips like he tastes your fury. “Maybe.”

And then he’s kissing you. Filthy. Deep. Letting you taste yourself on his tongue while he lays you back across the sheets, eyes dark, full of something too big for words. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’ve said it all. Not until you’ve come again with his name in your throat and your fears on your lips. You don’t even remember when he stripped— just the heat of his skin against yours now, the weight of him between your thighs, the thick slide of his cock dragging across your slit, smearing you open.

He doesn’t press in right away. He waits. Watches your eyes. Palm still cupping your jaw. Like this part—this slow unraveling—is what he’s been craving all along. “You sure?” he murmurs, voice pitched low, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s grounding you to the moment. “I need to hear it.” (a man of consent yes)

You breathe, shaky. Still wrecked. Still open. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Simon.” His name sounds small on your tongue. He groans, like it guts him. And then he presses in.

Thick, slow, unrelenting.

You gasp, hips twitching, legs spreading wider to take him. He moves like he’s afraid to break you, but desperate to fill you, to feel every inch of you wrapped around him. “Fuck,” he breathes. “So tight—still fuckin’ twitchin’”

He sinks deeper. You claw at his shoulders, mouth parting in a soundless moan as he bottoms out, your walls clenching around him like you don’t want to let go. And he just stays there. Not moving. Just breathing against your throat. Letting you feel the weight of him. Letting you get used to it—to him.

Then his lips find your ear. “You don’t need to ask for help,” he murmurs, voice low and burning. “You need to take it. From me. Always.”

He rolls his hips. Once. Deep.

It knocks the air from your lungs. And then again. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against every swollen, sensitive nerve he already unraveled with his mouth. He fucks you like he’s trying to build you back up one stroke at a time- steady, grounding, anchored in something real.

Your nails dig into his back. You whimper. He groans, mouth at your throat.

“You needed this, didn’t you?” he rasps. “Needed me to shut your head up for you.” You nod, barely, eyes rolling back as your body tightens around him. “Yeah,” he mutters, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. “I know. I fuckin’ know.”

Your hips buck. Your eyes burn.

“Simon…”

You sob into his mouth when he kisses you again. This time deeper, tongue claiming yours like he’s desperate to steal your silence, your sorrow, your shame.

His thrusts grow harder, never fast, Just deep. Measured. Every one a promise.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, over and over, like a prayer. “You hear me? You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not leavin’ you to drown in it.” Your body starts to quake again. The pressure builds fast—your cunt fluttering around him, oversensitive from his mouth, your second orgasm rising like a flood. And he feels it. Of course he does.

“Let go,” he groans. “Don’t hold back this time.”

You fall apart with a cry. Clenching around him, back arching, fingers gripping his forearms like a lifeline as your body spasms through another high, softer than before, but deeper. Devastating. It leaves you wrung out, voice caught in your throat, chest heaving.

He buries himself to the hilt, head tucked against your neck, groaning like it splits him open. Warmth floods you, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe—just holds you like the world outside the bed doesn’t exist.

Minutes pass. His hand cradles your jaw. He kisses your temple, once, slow. “Next time,” he murmurs, breath still catching, “you ask for what you need, yeah?” You nod, wrecked. Quiet. And you don’t miss the way he holds you tighter after. Like he already knows it’ll take time. Like he’s not going anywhere until you believe it.

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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

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the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

Note

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE please do something ballet!reader x simon coded PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

(idk)

ballerina!reader x ghost 👻 (🌽 link)

dainty little thing you are. always clad in light coloured clothes and soft things, quite contrasting to ghost's range of shades of black and his toughness, hard all over, but specially on the exterior.

that isn't the case when it comes to you. willing to go the extra mile. as a ballerina, you sometimes need help to stretch properly. good thing ghost is always willing to lend a helping hand, but you know, he does it his way.

he for sure will help you stretch, but he didn't specify how. because you the only thing he will be helping you stretch is that thigh pussy of yours around his thick cock. your muscles as well, but seing you looking all lovley has his mind runing wild.

pulling your legs apart in such a way that makes that tingly pull settle in your muscles as he's balls deep inside of you. his strong arms looped under your thighs and lifting you up and down his dick as if you were a pretty doll for him to use.

those are some proper stretches right there.

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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

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it's a trap

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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

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Strangers for the Night

CW: smut, dirty talk, public teasing, semi-rough sex, possessive vibes Word count: 1.4 k

You’re already on your second drink when he walks in, and you don’t notice him right away—too busy stirring your straw around the melting ice, letting your eyes lazily scan the room for something remotely interesting.

You’d been sitting there for maybe twenty minutes, half-listening to the quiet music playing overhead and trying not to get annoyed at the couple making out in the corner.

The bar wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t empty either, and you were just about to give up and head back to your hotel when you felt someone watching you.

He’s tall. Broad. Wearing black. The kind of guy who draws attention without trying, even if he doesn’t look like he wants it. You pretend not to stare, but you do anyway, catching little details.

The scuffed boots, the stiff line of his shoulders, the way he leans against the bar a few stools away and orders something without looking at the menu. He doesn’t look at you, not yet. But you know he saw you.

And then he turns his head just slightly and lets his eyes drag over to you like he’s finally making up his mind.

“You waiting on someone?” he asks, voice low, accent unmistakably British, a little rough around the edges.

You blink and turn to him slowly, feigning mild surprise. “Not anymore.”

He lets out a small laugh, shifts closer, and sets his drink down on the bar with a quiet clink. You glance at the glass and then up at him. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“Shame,” he says. “Could’ve been someone lucky.”

You tilt your head. “That so?”

He nods once. “Yeah. Pretty thing like you, sittin’ here on your own. Bit dangerous.”

You let out a short laugh and take a slow sip of your drink, holding his gaze over the rim of the glass. “And you’re the danger?”

“I might be.”

You look him up and down. “What if I don’t scare easily?”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes darkens a little, like he’s getting interested. “Then I guess I’m in luck.”

You lean back in your chair and cross one leg over the other, letting your dress slip just a little higher on your thigh. His eyes drop for half a second, then go right back to yours. No shame in it. Like he’s used to getting what he wants.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you say.

“I didn’t give it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Mystery man, huh?”

He gives a lazy shrug, taking a slow drink. “Names get in the way. You really need one?”

You think about it for a second, then smile. “No. I guess not.”

He watches you for a beat longer, then leans in just a little. “What about you?”

You grin and shake your head. “Same deal. No names.”

He seems satisfied with that answer. For a while, you just sit like that—talking, teasing, brushing fingers along the edge of your glass, and letting the silence stretch between you while the buzz of the bar hums around you.

Every time he speaks, his voice slides right into your skin, and every time you look at him, you feel a little bolder. There’s something about him, something dangerous, and it makes your pulse quicken every time he moves closer.

Eventually, he stands, tosses a few bills on the bar, and looks down at you like he’s giving you a choice even though he already knows your answer.

“Coming?” he asks.

You don’t hesitate. You slide off the stool and follow him out.

The hotel room door barely clicks shut before he has his hands on you. It’s fast, rough, like he’s been holding back and doesn’t want to anymore.

He pulls you in by the waist and kisses you hard, not wasting time with soft touches or sweet words. His mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sliding past your lips while his hands roam everywhere—up your back, down your sides, squeezing your ass as he walks you back toward the bed.

You’re both still mostly dressed, but it doesn’t last long. He reaches under your dress and pulls it off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere over his shoulder. His eyes drop to your chest, and he mutters something under his breath as he leans down to mouth at your neck.

“You’re unreal,” he says against your skin, voice lower now, breath warm. “You’d let me take you home without even asking who I am.”

“Guess I like a little danger,” you whisper, tugging his shirt up.

He lets you pull it off, and you run your hands across his chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the scatter of scars he doesn’t try to hide. He unbuckles his belt slowly, eyes on you the whole time, then shoves his pants down and kicks them off.

You sit back on the edge of the bed, legs slightly open, just watching him. He looks you over like he’s already imagining what you’ll look like when he’s done with you.

“Lie back,” he says.

You do.

He crawls over you, settling between your thighs, and kisses you again—slower this time, but no less intense. His hands run down your sides, hooking into your underwear, dragging them down your legs.

He doesn’t stop teasing, just lowers himself until his mouth is right where you want him, spreading your legs wider with firm hands and licking into you like he’s been dying to taste you all night.

Your back arches, fingers twisting in the sheets. He’s good—really good. Confident. Focused. And he doesn’t rush. He listens, adjusts, and groans low when your hips buck against his face.

When you whimper, he wraps an arm around your thigh and keeps you still, tongue circling your clit until your legs are shaking and you’re coming with a choked moan, hand clamped over your mouth.

He kisses your thigh, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbs back up your body.

You can see it in his eyes, the way he’s already positioning himself, the way his cock presses against your thigh, thick and hard and leaking at the tip.

“You want me?” he asks anyway, voice rough.

You nod quickly. “Yes.”

He grabs your chin and makes you look at him. “Say it.”

“I want you.”

He groans and lines himself up, pushing in slowly. You’re still sensitive, but he’s careful, one hand on your waist, the other pressed into the bed by your head.

He doesn’t stop until he’s all the way in, and when he finally starts to move, it’s slow at first, grinding into you with deep, dragging thrusts that make your breath catch every time he hits that spot.

You cling to him, nails digging into his back, moaning into his neck as he picks up the pace. He’s got one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding up to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there possessively.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters. “You feel so fuckin’ good around me.”

You whimper something back, barely able to think straight. He fucks you harder, hips snapping into you, jaw tight, breathing harsh in your ear. He doesn’t hold back, and you don’t want him to.

When he feels you getting close again, he moves faster, grunting with each thrust, burying his face in your neck.

“Come on,” he says, almost begging. “Come with me. Wanna feel you.”

You do. You cry out, clenching around him as your second orgasm hits, and he groans something filthy against your skin and comes inside you with a deep, rough thrust, staying buried in you until he’s done.

You’re quiet for a minute after, both of you catching your breath. He stays on top of you, head buried in your neck, his body heavy and warm.

You run your fingers through his hair lazily, and he eventually rolls off, pulling you with him until you’re curled up against his chest.

There’s a pause.

Then he mutters, “Happy anniversary, love.”

You smile into his skin, nose pressed against his collarbone. “Thanks, babe.”

There’s another pause, then you lift your head with a cheeky grin. “Next time… I want Ghost.”

He snorts, clearly amused, brushing his fingers down your spine. “Yeah? The mask too?”

You nod, already laughing. “The whole thing. Scare the shit out of me.”

He huffs, grinning against your forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”

You kiss his shoulder. “And you love it.”

He pulls you closer, one hand sliding under the sheets again like he’s already thinking about round two. “You’ve got no idea.”

----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

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Lando and Jon, 2013 - (forever)

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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

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📷 oficialmarianabecker

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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

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the dream

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m-artemisa-c · 2 months ago

Text

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m-artemisa-c · 3 months ago

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Simon still watches the videos you made together

!cheating

Simon still watched the homemade videos, even after the breakup up. The ones you made when still together.

The one where you were on your knees between his thighs, lips wrapped around his cock, eyes glassy, your soft little moans caught on the audio as his hand gripped the phone with shaky fingers, the other tangled in your hair, guiding you, while murmuring “That’s it, sweetheart. Look at me.”

And you did.

The one where he was fucking you from behind, knuckles white from gripping your hips, skin slapping against skin, and your breath hitching every time he bottomed out.

The one where his mouth was buried between your thighs, licking you up like he needed it to survive while you clutched the sheets like they were the only thing grounding you to the earth.

He still jerked off to them. Still spilled into his hand with your name in his mouth.

Used to be only when he was gone on missions— weeks away, stuck in cold beds and colder countries. But now?

Now it was in his apartment.

In his bed. The bed he should’ve been fucking you in. The one he should’ve been holding you in after, your bare skin pressed against his, lips brushing over your shoulder, murmuring stupid shit like, “Still with me, sweetheart?”

But you weren’t in his bed anymore.

No, you were somewhere else. With someone else.

Your new boyfriend. The one you posted on Instagram. The one with perfect smiles and vacation filters. Simon wouldn’t even have known if he hadn’t made a burner account to keep watching. User28707.

Pathetic.

He didn’t even follow you. Didn’t like a single post. He just scrolled. Watched. Stared.

And maybe he did it out of spite. Or maybe it was exhaustion. Some fucked-up combination of the two. But that night, he typed in your number, the one he never deleted, the one he still knew by heart and sent you a string of those old videos.

No warning. No shame.

Just you, falling apart under him. Legs shaking. Eyes rolling back. Spilling his name like it was a prayer.

Along with one message:

“Can he make you feel this good?”

When morning hit, the regret did too. It crawled in slowly, like it always did, the bitter taste of too much whiskey still on his tongue.

But that was before he saw your text.

“Meet me at the bar tonight.”

He didn’t even hesitate. Was already out of bed, halfway to the shower, wiping sleep from his eyes like a man getting ready for war.

You didn’t waste time either.

“Why do you still have the videos, Simon?” you asked the second he sat down across from you, the bottle of beer untouched between his fingers.

“Better question,” he muttered, voice low, “Was I right? Can that bastard make you come like I did?”

“No. Your wrong”

A bitter sound broke out of him, something between a scoff and a chuckle. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

You answered. He couldn’t remember exactly what you said. Maybe it wasn’t even words.

All he knew was how it ended.

Back in his flat. You in his lap again, bouncing on his cock like you’d never left. Moaning his name. Coming undone around him for the third time that night.

By the fourth round, you were asleep in his arms, body limp and soft against his chest.

And maybe that should’ve been enough. But Simon reached for your phone anyway.

Snapped a photo.

Sent it straight to your boyfriend. Your bare back along with the way your face tucked into his chest.

“Tucks in real nice after four rounds. Thought you should see what that looks like.” He added

Recent

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m-artemisa-c · 3 months ago

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Dancer

tw: porn w/ small plot; smut

Minors Do Not Interact!!!

I usually type my chapters and stuff on Tumblr, but I wanted to see about the word count for this one, so I used Microsoft Word. You'll notice things like the dashes "—" are different than my other stuff, and I think I'm going to continue using Word from now on lol!

Word count: 3344

You needed the space. A quiet moment that only came with music blasting through your headphones and the pole cold beneath your hands. Being off base was your one true escape, and the little studio tucked between a café and a laundromat was your sanctuary.

No titles. No orders. No Ghost.

The walk was routine. Your duffel bag slung over your shoulder, boots hitting the cracked pavement, and the sound of a distant bus engine fading behind you. You'd texted no one. Told no one.

And yet...

Simon had been watching. Not in a way that was calculated—at least not at first. He'd just noticed you leaving base with that focused look in your eye. Something about how your shoulders didn't read as casual, and he was good at reading people.

Especially you.

He didn't meant to follow—not really. Just happened to be walking the same way, and that's when he saw you slip into the building.

A dance studio?

He frowned behind his mask, pausing across the street. It didn't make sense. Not for you. Not for the Sergeant he knew... hard-edged, capable, cool under fire...... but he couldn't shake it. Curiosity itched under his skin, and before he could reason himself out of it, he was standing at the studio door, hand braced on the glass, peering in.

You stood in the middle of the mirrored room, back turned to the window. Your jacket was already discarded, and your leggings halfway passed your thighs. His eyes dragged down the bare skin of your legs, seeing the slow reveal of your body suit. It wasn't scandalous—not exactly —but it clung to every curve like it was painted on. Black, sleek, high-cut on the thighs, backless.

He swallowed hard.

"Fuckin' hell..." He muttered under his breath.

He knew he should've turned around. Should've walked off like he never been there. But instead, he stepped inside. The soft creak of the door didn't register with you—headphones on, music pulsing in your ears as you gripped the pole, took a breath, and launched upward. You twisted with practiced ease, legs hooking high as your body inverted, spun, and slid with that effortless strength you always kept hidden under fatigues and sarcasm.

He stood frozen by the door, eyes locked on you and his breath got shallow. He'd seen you in combat... seen you take down grown men twice your size.

But this. . . . . this was something else.

This was you on fire.

And it did something to him. Pulled at something feral in his gut.

You dropped gracefully to the floor, still in rhythm, back arched, hips rolling with the beat as you flowed into a new set.

Then you turned. Saw the figure in the mirror causing your body to still and yanked your headphones off, heartbeat thrashing in your ears as you faced him.

"Sir?!" He didn't move; just stood there—tall, massive, balaclava hiding most of his face, but not his eyes. They were wide, caught, and dark. "I—I..." You stuttered, grabbing your hoodie. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

He responded, voice low and almost rough. "Could ask y'the same."

You stepped back, pulling the jacket over your arms, but it was too late. He'd seen everything.

"I just wanted a break." You sharply said, annoyance blooming in your chest.

He took a step closer, hands at his sides, and not in a rush to leave. "Didn't know y'could do tha'." He peered over toward the pole, then back to you. "You're. . .good."

You glared. "Were you following me?"

"No.... Not really." You scoffed, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest. He tilted his head slightly, gaze trailing slowly over your body before locking eyes with you again. "Didn't peg ya for the type."

Your brows furrowed. "And what type is that?"

He stepped forward again, voice dropping a bit lower. "The type tha' gets under my skin."

You sucked in a soft breath.

That tension—always humming under the surface—curled tight in the space between you. His words hung in the air, dangerous and loaded.

You swallowed, heat rushing to your face. "You've seen what you wanted. You can go now." He didn't budge, but just tilted his head again, a subtle squint in his eyes.

"Think I might stick 'round. Learn a few things."

"Sir.." You warned, fingers trembling.

His gaze darkened. "Y'keep callin' me tha'. But y'don't say it like y'mean it." Your stomach dropped. "Don't want m'here?" He asked, stepping even closer. "Say it."

You opened your mouth..... then closed it.

He knew the answer. And so did you.

His eyes never left yours, and for a beat, neither of you moved. You could see the his brown eyes blown out, yet still unreadable. You could feel the pull—the way he was fighting the urge to cross that last inch of space between the two of you.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

His phone vibrated in pocket, the noise faint but somehow slicing through the thick tension in the air. He didn't move at first, jaw twitching as he tore his eyes from yours long enough to pull it out and glance at the screen.

His expression shifted. Hard. Serious.

Whatever it was, it pulled him right back into Ghost—not Simon—not the man who had just stood there watching you like he was starving. But the lieutenant. The soldier. The mask.

"Fuck." His fingers hovered over the screen before he finally answered. "Yeah?" He turned slightly, jaw clenched as he listened. You couldn't make out the voice on the other end, but it had his full attention now. A beat passed. Then another. "Be there in ten." He said before hanging up.

You didn't speak; just watched as he stared at the floor for half a second like he wanted to say something—like he almost did. But then, he headed toward the door. He didn't say goodbye; didn't even glance back.

For some reason, a tiny bit of relief washed over you from the embarrassment, but just as he reached for the handle, he paused, voice deep.

"This ain't over." He stated without turning around before he left.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the studio with your heart racing and your pulse still hammering in your chest. You stood there for a long time, staring at the door.

This ain't over.

You weren't sure if that thrilled or scared you more.

The next day, you spent the entire morning dodging him. Took your breakfast to-go, skipped the gym, and buried yourself in bullshit reports and supply lists you didn't need to be handling. Anything to avoid running into him.

But base was only so big.

And he was everywhere.

You rounded the corner behind the motor pool, head down, trying to make it to the hangar before anyone could stop you.

"Sergeant."

His voice hit you like a brick, making you freeze mid-step. He was standing off to the side, arms crossed, shoulder leaned against the wall like he'd been waiting; like he knew you'd come this way.

You turned slowly. "Lieutenant."

He raised a brow. "Been avoidin' me."

"I've been busy." You lied, straightening your posture. "Lot to handle before the supply shipment lands."

"Right." He pushed off the wall and took a slow step forward. "Busy." You hated how your pulse ticked.... you hated it more that he noticed. His head tilting, like he was dissecting every tiny movement you made. "Gonna pretend yesterday didn't happen?"

Your jaw tightened. "Nothing happened."

He stepped closer. "Could've." Your stomach flipped.

"You left." You said, voice sharper than you intended.

"Didn't want to."

"You did anyway."

His eyes narrowed. "Duty called. Don't mean I've stopped thinkin' about it."

That hit you somewhere low. Deep. You folded your arms, trying to make yourself feel grounded.

"Well, maybe it's better it didn't happen."

"Is tha' what y'really think?" You didn't answer, because you didn't know.... because your mind kept going back to the feel of the heat radiating off him, the way he said this ain't over. "You're not scared of me. But you're scared of this."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Maybe." He paused. "But m'not gonna pretend like I don't want you."

Your breath caught as your eyes widened. You were about to respond when a voice cracked through the air behind you. It was Price...

"All squads. Briefing in fifteen. Ops room."

You stiffened slightly, but Simon didn't move or take his eyes off you. "Guess we'll pick this up later."

He turned, walking away like nothing had happened. Like your blood wasn't still on fire. But just before he rounded the corner, he glanced over his shoulder. And even through the mask, you felt that smirk.

You made it to the ops room before he walked in. Eyes on the tablet in front of you, acting like you were reading over the mission packet, though none of it registered in your mind. Your fingers tapped the edge of the screen, nerves thrumming in every muscle like you just ran a five-mile sprint.

Your breath damn near stopped when he came right beside your chair. Not behind you. Not across the table.

Of course.

You didn't look at him, but you felt him sit. The heat rolling off his body making you wish the ground would swallow you up. He was too close, your knees almost bumping under the table.

Price started talking. Something about recon. Northern route. Asset recovery.

You weren't hearing anything.

Not with Simon's arm resting next to yours, the scent of him teasing the edge of your self-control. That clean, sharp smell mixed with leather and something darker—familiar. Anchoring. Distracting as hell.

You shifted just slightly.

So did he.

Not enough to touch, but enough to feel the electricity rise again. Like your skin knew where he was. Like it was reaching for his. He hadn't said a word since sitting down. Neither had you. But his hand was resting on the table now, fingers tapping once... twice... Slow. Rhythmic.

Then, under the table his boot slid against yours...... hardly a brush, but making you jerk slightly. He didn't move... just let the contact linger.

God, he was doing this fucking shit on purpose.

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to react. To stay professional.

But then Price called your name.

"Sergeant. You good with overwatch on the northeast route?"

Your heart jumped into your throat. "Yes, sir." Simon turned his head slightly, and you could feel his gaze. The intensity of it piercing on your cheek.

Price moved on. Talked to Gaz, then Soap.

Simon leaned ever so subtly over. "Didn't know y'could blush like tha', love." He whispered, loud enough for only you to hear.

You didn't respond, but your ears burned hot. He quietly chuckled under his breath, and sat back like he hadn't just set your whole nervous system on fire.

The briefing dragged on, but all you could think about was the man sitting beside you.

******************************************************

You couldn't sleep.

The mission was coming in a few hours, But Simon's voice still rang in your head like beautiful song. The heat of his body still lingered on you from where he sat too close, touched your leg under the table with his, and whispered like he knew exactly what it did to you.

You needed to move. To breathe. To escape for just a little while.

So you waited. Waited until the base lights dimmed, the halls went quiet, and the last echo of boots faded into silence. You pulled on some clothes, grabbed your bag, and slipped out of your room.

No one would notice....

The studio was silent when you got there, just the way you liked it. Dark, except for the soft glow of a single floor lamp in the corner. You didn't turn on the overheads. You didn't need to. This wasn't for performance. It was for control.

Quickly removing your boots and sweatpants, you stepped onto the floor, rolled the sleeves of your jacket up, and put on headphones.

The pole was cold under your hands as you climbed it, letting your body stretch and twist in the air. Each motion burned off another piece of tension. Another stray thought. Another glimpse of him.

You didn't know you were being watched.

Not until you slid down into a slow, deliberate spin, eyes closed, only to open them and find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, half-shadowed, still in his base gear and balaclava on.

You quietly yelped, pulling the headphones off fast and stumbling slightly as you caught the pole and grounded yourself again.

"What the hell—"

"Y'left again." He said, voice calm. "Didn't think I'd notice?"

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. "Why are you here?"

He didn't answer right away... just stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The click echoing in the quiet room.

"Don't like wonderin' where ya are in the middle of the night. Especially not before a mission." He simply stated.

You swallowed hard. "I'm fine. Just needed to clear my head."

He nodded, but his eyes slowly darting over you. The way your hoodie was unzipped. The way your bodysuit hugged perfectly. The light sheen of sweat on your chest.

"Y'come here when you need to breathe." He murmured, more to himself than to you. "And didn't think I'd follow."

"I didn't want you to." You snapped, even though it was a lie and you both knew it.

He stepped closer. "Y'keep sayin' tha'. But y'don't mean it."

"I needed space, sir."

"And I needed to see you."

That stopped you cold.

He was so close in front of you, but not touching—not like earlier. His presence filled the room, wrapped around you like heat; pressure.

"Haven't stopped thinkin' about it." He said. "Yesterday. You. What almost happened."

You turned away, breath shaky. "We have a mission in six hours."

He moved behind you. His voice ghosting along your neck. "And if we don't come back?.. Then I'll die knowing I should've kissed y'when I had the chance."

That broke something open. You turned—fast, breath shallow, blood pounding in your ears. "You shouldn't be here."

He moved closer, like a predator towering its prey. "Probably not.... But I am."

The scent of him hit you. The scent that always made your stomach flutter twice as fast. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to yours like he was weighing something in his mind.

"Y'gonna report me?" He teased.

You swallowed. "Maybe."

His lips curled behind the mask. "Doubt it."

You glared, but your voice betrayed you. "Why's that?"

"Because y'want me here just as much as I want to be here."

Silence.

Your chest rose with every breath. You were burning, every inch of you aware of how close he was, of how he was looking at you like he was seconds away from doing something reckless.

Then he said it.

"I see y'like this." He murmured. "And I can't fuckin' think straight." Your heart stuttered.

"Simon—"

The name slipped out before you could stop it, and that was what did it.

His hand shot out, fingers curling around your waist, dragging you into him with a groan muffled behind the balaclava. His other hand found your cheek, thumb brushing the line of your jaw, before he lifted the mask just enough for him to press his mouth to yours.

Hot.

Possessive.

It was a kiss that shattered every rule, every boundary, every inch of space you'd tried to keep.

You didn't pull back. Didn't stop him when he pushed you against the mirror, mouth devouring yours, teeth catching your bottom lip like he'd been dying to do it for years. His hands were everywhere. Gripping your waist, sliding under your jacket, fingers digging into your hips like he couldn't believe you were real. He kissed you like it hurt not to, like he'd been holding back for too long and this was him finally snapping.

You gasped against his mouth. "We're not supposed to—“

"Don't care." He growled, voice low, full of gravel and need. "Y'want me to stop?"

You hesitated before shaking your head. "No."

He spun you, pressing you against the mirror again, his chest to your back, lips at your ear. "Been thinkin' about y'like this." He rasped, one hand slowly dragging down the front of your body. "No idea how hard it's been. Watchin' you walk around. Pretendin' like I don't fuckin' notice." You whimpered, head dropping back against his shoulder. "And now this..." He breathed, hand tracing the curve of your thigh. "Spinnin' on tha' pole like tha'? What the fuck were ya expectin', sweetheart?"

You let out a gasp as his hand slipped higher, fingers pressing just beneath the edge of your bodysuit.

"Fuck this." One sharp tug and the fabric snapped to the side, baring you completely. You sucked in a sharp breath. "Been holdin' back too long."

He shoved his thigh between yours, forcing them apart, caging you against the mirror with his whole body. You felt how hard he was, already straining against his pants, the thick press of him rubbing against your ass.

"Simon—"

You barely got the word out before his fingers slid over your slit—slow at first, then with more pressure; more intent. You were soaked, and he groaned at the feel of it.

"Christ, you're drippin'." He muttered, burying his face in your neck. "All that attitude, all that rank. Just a filthy little thing under it all, yeah?" You moaned, hips bucking into his hand. He slid two fingers inside you without warning—deep and fast, curling just right as your back arched. "Fuckin' tight." He hissed. "Gonna ruin ya, love."

You cried out, both hands braced against the mirror, his mask still pushed over his nose, just enough to let his mouth work against your skin, sucking bruises into your neck and shoulder. You were falling into a daze you almost didn't notice him spinning you around and dropping to his knees without a word before putting your leg over his shoulder and devouring you.

His tongue was merciless. Blazing, filthy, dominant, like he wanted to taste every part of you and brand it as his. He groaned into your cunt, tongue flattening and dragging up through your folds before circling your clit with slow, maddening precision.

"Jesus—... Simon—"

"Y'taste fuckin' unreal." He grunted, eyes burning up at you. "Been hidin' this from me, love?" Your knees buckled, but his hands locked around your thighs, holding you steady, spreading you wider. "Not goin' anywhere. You're takin' every second of this."

He sucked your clit hard, flicked his tongue over it until you were shaking, your moans echoing in the empty studio. Your orgasm hit you like a train—strong, fiery, and overwhelming.

And he didn't stop. Didn't let you come down.

He hummed against your core, two fingers sliding in like he wanted to keep you in that perfect high just a little longer. You were trembling when he finally pulled back, mouth wet, eyes half-lidded with something straight up dangerous.

He stood—towering over you now—hands already unbuckling his belt. "Turn around. Hands back on the mirror. Now." He commanded. You obeyed before you could think, chest heaving, the mirror cold under your sweaty palms. You heard the zip of his pants, then the soft, wet sound of him stroking himself behind you. "Look at yourself." He said. "Look what you've done to me."

You met your own gaze in the reflection—flushed, wrecked, needy.

The thick head of his cock press against you, gliding through your wetness. "M'not gonna be gentle, sweetheart." He warned. "Not after what y'did to me tonight." He pushed in, stretching you open in one long, relentless stroke that had your mouth falling open, your fingers digging into the glass.

"Shit." You moaned.

"Fuckin' hell." He groaned, head falling forward, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He started to move, rough and measured, grinding so deep you could feel him in your stomach. The sound of skin on skin echoed loud in the studio. "Y'want me?" He panted, snapping his hips harder. "Want me like this?"

"Y—yes—...god, yes—"

"Y'have me...... Fuckin' have me."

His hand came up, fingers curling around your throat—not tight, just firm, grounding. The other reached down to rub your clit in fast, punishing circles that had your whole body jerking under him.

Your orgasm snapped your entire soul into blissful pieces, your moan loud and shaky. He followed with a guttural sound, hips slamming as he spilled into you with a broken.."Fuck—y'were worth waitin' for."

He stayed there inside you, breathing hard, his forehead resting against your shoulder. Your chests rising and falling, sweat cooling on your skin, the air still thick with heat and everything that had finally broken free between you.

This idea popped in my head and I couldn't help it...... what do we think? Still feel like my smut writing could be better so I'm trying to improve it as much as I can!

Like, comment, repost, give me feedback pleaseeeeee :)

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Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker

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m-artemisa-c · 3 months ago

Text

You wanted more? Here’s Part 2 of the lie detector drama.

You don’t see Simon for the rest of the night.

Not for lack of trying—he’s just gone. Vanished like a ghost. Granted, this is kind of his whole thing, but you can’t help but feel like he’s actively avoiding you.

The others eventually settle down after rinsing every last drop of entertainment out of the situation. Soap keeps making exaggerated heart eyes at you across the room until Gaz tells him to shut up. The whole thing feels like a joke to them. Just another way to get under Simon’s skin. But you…

You don’t know what to do with it.

Because it was a lie.

Or—no, it wasn’t, that’s the whole point. It was the truth. And Simon, who never gives anything away, who never lets his guard down, got caught. And now, he’s gone.

You find him outside later, standing near the edge of the base, smoking. His back is to you, but you know he hears you coming. He always does.

“You hiding?” you ask, stopping a few feet away.

Simon exhales slowly, a curl of smoke drifting into the night air. “No.”

“Mm.” You cross your arms. “Could’ve fooled me.”

A beat of silence. Then, quietly, he says “They wouldn’t let it go.”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, no shit.” You hesitate, shifting your weight. “You know it wasn’t faulty, right?”

He tenses just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice, but you do. “You gonna stand there all night?” he mutters, voice low.

“Maybe.”

After a short moment, Simon sighs, dragging a hand down his mask before turning just enough to look at you.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he admits. His voice is gruff, but you can feel his hesitation to be vulnerable like this with you. “Didn’t want you to find out at all.”

That stings, but you keep your face neutral. “Why?”

“Because it doesn’t change anything.” He flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with his boot. “I’m not… good at this. I wouldn’t be good for you, and you know that.”

You exhale sharply, watching him. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time since this whole mess started, you’re the one pushing, the one backing him into a corner. And Simon, who always has an answer, always has an escape, has nothing.

So you take a step closer, closing the space between you. “So?” you ask, voice softer now. “Was it a lie?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just watches you, while his whole body is tense.

And then—finally—he exhales, so quiet you almost don’t hear it.

“No.”

Your heart stutters, and before you can say anything else, Simon shakes his head, looking away. “You should go back inside.”

You should. You know you should. But you don’t.

Because now, it’s your turn to decide what happens next.

So, you don’t go back inside. Instead, you stay there, watching him. And he’s tense, like he’s waiting for you to laugh in his face.

And maybe that’s the worst part—that he expects it. That he thinks this is just another joke for everyone else to tear apart.

You pause, not sure what to say, but you don’t let the silence stretch too long. You take a step forward, closing the space just slightly. “I’m not going anywhere, Simon.”

He blinks, a little thrown off. “…Okay?”

You meet his gaze, shrugging. “Yeah. I’m not the one running away from this.” You give him a small smile. “So, you coming back inside with me, or do I need to drag you back?”

Simon looks at you like you’ve just done something impossible. Then, with a sigh, he shakes his head and starts walking back toward the barracks. You follow, and he doesn’t tell you to leave.

But the moment you both step inside, the team is waiting.

“Ah, there they are!” Soap crows, grinning like a madman. “Took you long enough, lover boy.”

Simon freezes mid-step. You feel him tense next to you, but before he can say something, Gaz chimes in, laughing.

“Thought we’d have to send a search party,” he teases. “Where’d you run off to, mate? Staring at the stars? Whispering sweet nothings?”

Price, leaning against the table, lifts a brow. “Should we give you two some space? Light a few candles?”

Simon exhales hard through his nose. “Fuck off.”

But that just makes it worse because now they know they’re getting to him.

Soap practically bounces on his feet. “Oh, come on, Lt., don’t be shy,” he drawls, clapping Simon on the shoulder. “Tell us how you really feel.”

Gaz smirks. “Maybe another round with the lie detector?”

Simon’s hand twitches at his side. You’re genuinely concerned he might strangle them.

So, before they can take it further, you step in. “Alright, that’s enough,” you say, crossing your arms.

Gaz and Soap turn to you in unison, grinning.

“Oh, come on,” Soap whines. “We’re just—”

“No, I know what you’re doing,” you interrupt, leveling him with a look. “And it’s enough.”

Gaz holds up his hands. “Hey, we’re just having a bit of fun.”

“Yeah?” You arch a brow. “And if it were you in that chair, getting put on the spot in front of everyone, would it still be fun?”

Gaz hesitates. Soap, to his credit, actually looks a little guilty. Price just sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose like he’s debating whether or not to step in.

Simon, beside you, is completely silent.

The others might not notice, but you do—the way his shoulders have relaxed just slightly, the way his fingers aren’t curled quite so tightly.

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you.

It’s just a second. Just the briefest flicker of eye contact. But in that moment, something unspoken passes between you. Something that tells you thank you—even if he’d rather die than say it out loud.

You shrug. “Didn’t think so.” Then you turn back to the others. “So, are we done?”

Soap groans dramatically. “Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m not letting this go.” He winks at Simon. “You’re so in love.”

Simon glares. “Soap—”

“I said I’m done!” Soap backtracks, throwing his hands up as he retreats.

Gaz just chuckles. “For now,” he murmurs.

Simon groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I fucking hate you lot.”

You smirk. “Nah. You love us.”

And for a second, you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

Simon keeps to himself more than usual over the next few days, which is impressive considering he already barely talks. He’s not outright avoiding you, but he sure as hell isn’t seeking you out, either. And you?

You’re waiting.

Because at the end of the day, the lie detector didn’t make him say anything. He did that. And if he really thinks he can just pretend it never happened, he’s got another thing coming.

The moment finally comes after a late training session. Most of the base is winding down for the night, and you’re grabbing a drink from the kitchen when Simon walks in.

He stops when he sees you, like he’s considering turning around and walking right back out.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

He exhales through his nose, hesitating, and steps further inside. He moves to grab a cup, but he doesn’t say anything.

Fine. If he won’t start, you will.

“You planning on talking to me anytime soon, or am I supposed to pretend all of that didn’t happen?” you ask, leaning against the counter.

Simon stills for a second before setting his cup down on the counter. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

You snort. “Oh, please. You’ve been dodging me like I’m holding another lie detector.”

He tenses at that. “…Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

His eyes flick to you. “You enjoying this?”

You tilt your head. “A little.”

He huffs, shaking his head, but still doesn't speak.

You watch him for a moment, then soften. “Simon.”

He looks at you fully this time

“You don’t have to act like this didn’t happen,” you say quietly.

He holds your gaze, then, after a long beat, he exhales, leaning against the counter next to you.

“…I don’t know how to do this.” It’s so quiet you almost miss it.

Your chest tightens.

“Then let’s make it easy,” you say, nudging his arm. “Start simple.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, he asks, “Would you want to go out sometime?”

It’s not smooth. It’s not confident. But it’s him. And that’s enough.

You smile. “Yeah, Simon. I would.”

He nods once, like he expected that answer but still needed to hear it. Then, after another pause, he mutters, "But, you're not gonna let this go, right?"

You smirk. "Not a chance."

He huffs a small, almost amused breath, then—before you can process what’s happening—he leans in.

It’s barely anything. Just a brush of warmth as he presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead. But it stuns you, leaves you frozen in place as your heart stutters in your chest.

By the time you manage to blink, he’s already pulling back like it never happened.

"Thought so," he mutters, voice gruff, and then—just to really make sure you’re left speechless—he turns and walks out, leaving you standing there.

And, worst of all?

You swear you see the smallest smirk on his way out the door.

You're still standing there, stunned, your brain short-circuiting over what just happened.

Simon Riley—the man who barely lets people look at him the wrong way—just kissed your forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it wasn’t a huge fucking deal.

Except, it is.

You blink, trying to process, but all you can feel is the lingering warmth where his lips were, the way his hand ghosted over your cheek. You should say something—chase after him, demand an explanation, something.

Instead, you just whisper, “What the fuck.”

And that’s when Soap rounds the corner. Of course.

He barely gets one look at your face before he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes narrow, scanning you like he already knows something just happened.

"Oi," he says slowly, crossing his arms. "What’s that look for?"

You blink at him, struggling for words. "What look?"

Soap squints. "The one that says you just got your entire world rocked, and I wasn’t here to witness it."

You scowl, turning to leave. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Soap gasps dramatically. "Betrayal!" He jogs to catch up, falling into step beside you. "C’mon, tell me! Was it Lt? Did he—" He pauses, then gasps again. "Did he kiss you?!"

You stop dead.

That’s all the confirmation he needs.

"HE DID!" Soap howls, clutching his stomach like he physically can’t handle how funny this is. "That cold-hearted bastard actually—oh my God!"

"Shut up," you hiss, smacking his arm as you start walking again.

"I can’t! This is golden!" He wipes a fake tear from his eye. "Wait till I tell Gaz—"

You whip around, grabbing his shirt, eyes narrowed. "You will do no such thing."

Soap raises his hands in mock surrender, but his shit-eating grin doesn’t budge.

"You can’t keep this a secret forever," he singsongs.

You exhale sharply, pushing past him. "Watch me."

Behind you, Soap just cackles, already pulling out his phone.

---------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @trash-important @marylimlp @hayrunnwr

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