#call of duty mw2 fanfic

[lilmoonbunny]

Take me Back; Ex-Graves

When your ex shows up at your apartment severely injured, you have no choice but to help him.

When you return home from deployment to see your houses lights on and blood on the carpet, the first thing you do is pull out your gun.

Moving silently through your house is the only option as to not scare the intruder away.

However, your movements became louder the moment you saw who was bleeding on your floor.

“Philip Graves, I haven’t seen you in a few years, and the first thing you do is bleed all over my carpet? Forever the gentleman.” Y/N let out a small sigh at the unwanted visitor, but glad it was him and not an intruder.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” the bleeding man grunted out, evidently delirious judging by his honest words. “You always said your house was open to me.”

Y/N sighed. “That was when we were together,”

Graves simply rolled his eyes and pointed to his wound. “Think you can help me out?”

Of course, the first person you see when you come back home is your ex-boyfriend. Even worse, he was bleeding on your new carpet.

With a sigh, you grab your med-kit and begin patching him up.

As you work, he’s completely out of it from blood loss. He’s pale, shaking, and uttering absolute nonsense.

“C’mon, Philip. You can’t just pass out on me,”

“Don’t call me that,” he slurred out, the blood loss clearly clouding his judgement. It was clear she had to stitch the wound quickly.

“Why not?” Y/N asked quietly, brushing Graves’ sweat-stuck hair from his face before beginning to stitch the wound.

A groan left the Commanders lips, but no complaints were heard. “You never called me that,”

“What did I call you?” Whilst she knew the answer, Y/N figured it would be best to keep him talking, even if he’d be embarrassed once he was rested.

“Phil, Graves, baby. It was never Philip.”

His words were true, but you had been broken up for nearly two years now. Surely it had to be the blood loss making him say this; he couldn’t miss you the same way you did.

Eventually, the man passed out and you were left alone with your thoughts.

A groan slipped from Graves’s lips as he gradually gained consciousness. He had no idea where he was, let alone who the woman in front of him was; the last thing that he remembered was being shot.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” a familiar voice sounded, “glad to see you didn’t die on me.”

He was shocked upon realising where he was. He always knew he would think about you in his last moments, but he didn’t expect to have come to your house whilst he believed he was dying.

“Gave me quite the fright, you know?” You were oblivious to his internal struggles and continued talking. “Thought you were an intruder, then was shocked it was you, and then had to patch you up whilst you were talking absolute shit.”

“I missed you,” he mumbled. He had no idea why he said that, perhaps he was still somewhat out of it from the blood loss.

You froze at his honest words. It was one thing whilst he was delirious and bordering on unconsciousness, but to say it whilst completely conscious, albeit likely still dazed, was something else. It was something he would actually remember.

“C’mon, Phil. Don’t say that.” Y/N sighed quietly, “Don’t say things you don’t mean.

Philip shot up at the words, groaning as he pulled his stitches.

“Be careful you idiot. I worked hard on them.” She said, but he knew what she meant: she still cared.

“Please, Y/N. Please take me back…”

[preciouslandmermaid]

cold heart, warm hands (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 2/2 

Hi, welcome to part two. My name’s blue. I’ll be your author this evening. Please stay seated for the entire presentation. Thank you. (and yes, I know ~canon~ says Ghost changes his mask at the end of the campaign but I don’t care!!! I like how much you can see his eyes! I like the paint/fabric peeling!)

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader!Assassin  

Rating: Mature/Explicit (18+)

Fic warnings: Smut! (p in v, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, m!oral receiving, switch!ghost b/c i wanted to make him whiiimper, slight choking kink/some roughness, knife kink if u squint, lots of eye contact) sparring and knives as a form of foreplay, a smidge of jealous!ghost with a sprinkle of yearning. no beta/barely edited, i wrote this in 3 days.

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, though no other descriptors are used. 

Summary: It’s been three months since Ghost handed you off at the border to your American contacts. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d see you again. And then you waltz into the barracks, smiling, with Price announcing you’re joining the task force. 

READ ON AO3 || 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three Months Later…

He’s thought about his time with you on the fringes of St. Petersburg more than he cares to admit. The extraction took longer than planned after your insane plan to crash the snowmobile and fake your death. Or at least the death of the woman you were pretending to be for the past three years. He recalls your face awash in flickering, orange light and gripping that shiny, golden necklace. He doesn’t know its meaning. You left it behind intentionally. And your tone darkened whenever you mentioned Petrovich–your target, your mark, the man who left at least one scar (that he knew about) on your firm, muscled body. 

When you left, your smile was radiant and grateful. The details of whatever you endured undercover he could only assume. He imagines it meant something to destroy your persona before leaving. A sense of closure, perhaps? Or a sense of control? He doesn’t know. And he’ll never ask. He thinks you’d roll your eyes at him if he did. He remembers the color of your eyes. And surprises himself with the memory of your laughter. 

So, yeah. He thinks of you. Often. He does his best to push it to the sidelines.

He’s no good to anyone acting like a fool, acting like you were ever going to cross paths again. He had his task force. And you worked for intelligence agencies, focusing on espionage and covert operations. Your worlds weren’t going to intersect. You’re a spy for Christ’s sake. He’s sure the CIA is eager to drop you into your next life, your next persona, your next target. Ghost numbly shakes his head to himself and joins the others. 

They’re all gathered in the training room to run drills. Ghost runs it. He puts them through the usual bout. There’s cardio, strength, and seeing how fast they can dismantle and rebuild their weapons. It’s going swimmingly until Price enters. Not because he says anything, or stops them, but because of who is following him.

His heart slams into his boots in a freefall. No parachute. No survivors. You smile warmly and make introductions as Price explains you’re the newest recruit (technically you’re on temporary loan for an upcoming mission in Spain). He’s never been gladder to stand outside the circle while his teammates crowd you.

They’re all mooning after you. Pitiful sods. 

Yeah, yeah, you’re fucking fit. You’ve got a nice smile and you’re wearing a white tank that shows off the toned, defined musculature of your arms and shoulders and your collection of scars. But they’ve never huddled next to you in a snowstorm under a snow-packed shelter. They’ve never seen your eyes squint when it was your turn to collect kindling. They don’t know you mutter in your sleep. They don’t know you twirl something (usually your knife) between your hands when you’re thinking with your eyes dewy and distant. He doubts they know about your past and how your codename “volchitsa” - or she-wolf - was given because of your inclination to bite people during training. 

“Sparring?” Your voice perks up. “I’m afraid I’d wipe the floor with you.” You settle your hand on your hip and ooze with easy, warm confidence. Whatever ghosts and shackles that weighed you down in Russia are gone.

Gaz grins. “I’ll take that bet.”

You stretch your arms over your head and Ghost notices a slip of your exposed midriff.

You ask Price, “is arrogance a prerequisite for the task force?” 

Ghost averts his gaze from you, but he can feel your attention on him. He suspects you remember everything from the evac mission as he does. His stomach clenches at the memory of you bathed in firelight, your lips parted and your gaze traveling like an electric livewire across his skin. Fucking hell. He can’t be bothered with this.

“I’ll go easy on you.” Gaz offers before stepping onto the mat. You laugh. It’s the same laugh that has echoed inside his dreams for the past ninety days (not that he’s counting).

You step onto the squishy training mat. Ghost considers leaving for a half-second, but then you slide into a fighting stance, and he’s rooted to his spot. He needs to see how this plays out.

“Aye, give ‘em hell, lass.” Soap says, crossing his arms and grinning.

 ~~~~~~~

 The sweat dripping from your forehead burns your eyes. Your muscles throb with a familiar, tingling strenuous pain. Gaz is a formidable opponent. He’s got stamina, but you’re faster. You’ve managed to either dodge or misdirect his offensive attacks. He hasn’t attempted to go on the defense. And that’s his biggest mistake. One that you intend to make him pay for. You dance backward away from his strike, grinning, and use his barreling momentum against him as your leg collides with a sharp crack along his jaw. Gaz stumbles sideways, cursing, and cradling his mouth.

“First blood.” You announce after noticing his split lip. “I win?”

“Jesus.” He says emphatically to Price, “where’d you find this one?”

“They found me as a baby in a cardboard box outside the CIA.” You joke. 

Price chuckles low in his chest, “not far off from the truth.”

“You alright?” You peer at the rosy smudge of blood on his lower lip, “I might have a tissue.” You dig into the pockets of your baggy beige pants.

He brushes you off. “S’alright.”

“Let’s wrap it up,” Price orders. “Debrief in ten minutes.” 

There’s a chorus of ‘Yes, sirs’ that you forget to join. You’re not accustomed to the military style of the task force. You’re not familiar with working in a unit. Being a team. Hell, you’ve hardly given yourself time to digest the fact that Ghost, aka Simon Riley, is your superior. He’s the lieutenant. He’s also the man who rescued you from a frozen lake and then stripped you bare to prevent severe hypothermia. You can compartmentalize all of it. You have done so for the past three months. You twist the bottom hem of your shirt between your fists. But it’ll be different, you think, now that he’s in the same room. He is no longer a memory or a fever-induced dream. He’s real. He’s close enough to touch. 

While approaching, Ghost says, “that was hardly a clean fight, she-wolf.” 

Fuck. You hadn’t realized much you missed the warm and deep droning of his voice, the way it caresses down your spine like a rough, calloused hand. Your pulse flutters in your jaw.

“I wasn’t aware I had to play fair.” You quip. He’s wearing a different mask, a black balaclava with the jaw painted onto the fabric, his eyes visible and surrounded by dark, smudged paint. He never took his mask off when you traveled together. And you never asked him to. You assumed it was for protection, to hide his identity during the mission, but he wore it–even among his teammates. Which meant whatever Riley’s reasons were, they went beyond anonymity. His dark t-shirt stretches across his well-defined chest. If you squint, you think you might be able to count the lines of his abdominal muscles, carving them with your eyes the way someone would carve a cake. Your blood hums with exertion and adrenaline. 

You smile easily. “I’m open to a rematch.”

“I mean no disrespect to Gaz, but he’s not a match for you.”

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Ghost.”

“I’ve been known to give them when they’re deserved.” He cocks his head to the side. His eyes, although darkened by the makeup or paint, are easier to perceive than they were in his original mask. His massive, hulking frame consumes every inch of your perception. His eyes are dark and guarded, but they follow the sweat glistening down your neck and pooling between your collarbones. His gaze snaps up to yours.

“Are you a match then?” You ask your tone breathier than intended. “Or am I to be woefully unchallenged in this task force?”

“I might be.” He replies in a cocky, husky tone that makes your heart flutter like a moth’s wing. You clench and unclench your fists at your sides. You’re talking about sparring, but you’re an expert in subterfuge, adept at reading between the lines, and your training has never led you astray before. Ghosts’ tone and body language scream with weighted and intense physical attraction. You’d bet all the money in your account that Ghost isn’t solely interested in sparring. The mouth can lie. The body cannot.

“We’ve got ten minutes.” You say breezily. 

Ghost scoffs. “You think you can take me down in ten minutes?”

Oh, he’s definitely smiling beneath the mask. You bite your lower lip to stop your grin from spreading Cheshire-cat wide. You remember the church. The cemetery. You saw so little of Ghost in action. You are hungry and eager to see him perform without witnesses, without interruptions, and without the risk of death. 

“I know I can. But, for the sake of our reunion, let’s make it interesting.” You lift your pant leg at the ankle and unsheathe your knife. “First blood wins.” The blade flashes beneath the bright, blue-white fluorescents. Ghost’s brow shifts beneath his mask. You suspect he’s raising an eyebrow at you. 

He says, “don’t get pissy if you lose a finger.”

“I’d love to see you try.” You reply.

You circle around one another like hungry sharks, like lions fighting for their pride, like two koi fish swimming in a pond. You need to take him down in one move. His eyes regard you with a calculated coolness and you suspect his thoughts are similar to your own. There is a real, hefty threat of injury with your naked blades shining below the lamps. You’re trusting him not to slip up and accidentally kill you and he’s trusting you the same. His reach is longer, but he’s not going to make the first move because that would open him for a counterattack. However, time is ticking. You smile to yourself. You assume Ghost is acclimated to fighting soldiers. But you are not a soldier. You flex your fingers on the knife grip and dive into the first attack. Ghost shifts sideways, making himself a smaller target to hit, but you’re not interested in hitting him. Your knife deflects his with a sharp, shrieking sound like nails on a chalkboard. You drop, and your leg strikes outward and sweeps, catching Ghost off-guard. His spine hits the mat, but he rolls immediately onto all fours. He pounces on you. The breath in your lungs whooshes forcefully from your chest. Your heartbeat pounds inside your eardrums. A heavy ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. His offhand snatches your wrist and slams it against the mat. On impact, your shoulder joint pops, but you don’t release your knife from your grip. He holds your knife-hand down. You grin. His weight is crushing you, heavy and hard, pinning you to the mat, your hips pressed together, your legs caged around his waist. Your freehand touches the edge of his mask, Ghost grumbles harshly, and wrenches his face away. It’s what you wanted him to do. His flinch backward has created an opening. You curl your fingers over his knuckles, your arm and elbow trembling and straining as you hold his knife at bay.

He rasps, “playin’ dirty, are we?”

You say, “I just want to win.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve already lost.”

“Let me up and we’ll see about that.”

He arches his spine forward, forcing your elbow to bend, though you’re still able to keep his knife away from your skin. Ghost looms over you. His chest brushes against yours with every inhale and exhale. Your clothes suddenly feel too tight, too constructive, and there’s a low, pulsing heat blooming between your legs. The nape of your neck tingles with warmth. Ghost pushes your hand–God, he’s strong–and your muscles squeeze with effort. 

His eyes drop from your face to your clavicle. His gaze smolders on your skin. His eyelashes flutter and then his attention lifts to your face.

“Did you mean it?” He asks, “about first blood.”

If it had been anyone else, any other man, or anyone else on the team, this would be the moment where you backed down. But this is Ghost, this is Simon. You trust him. And his check-in is proof that your trust is well-placed. He remembers your scars. 

“I did.” You gasp, breathless. Your grip relaxes until you're merely holding his wrist, feeling his pulse thrum like a wild storm beneath your fingers.

The cold, biting tip of his knife kissed your jaw. A pinprick of blood wells beneath the blade. Your eyes widen, not only because of the sharp, blooming pain but because of something else pressing into your body. At the juncture between your thighs, you feel the swelling, hard length of him. Your parted lips soften into a sly, smug smirk. You shift your hips, a subtle and teasing grind, and his diaphragm jolts against your ribs from his surprised inhale. 

“Cheeky.”

You shrug, “playing dirty, remember?”

He withdraws his knife into the strapped sheath at his hip. But he makes no move to get off you (not that you mind. You’ve been dreaming of how he might feel on top of you ever since you saw him half-naked). Up close, you can count his long eyelashes and observe how his pupils have swallowed the rich, coffee color of his eyes. 

He applies pressure to the tiny wound with his thumb. His eyes hold yours like a lifeline, like driftwood in a storm.

You murmur, “come closer, Ghost.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to give you something.”

“And what’s that?” His voice rumbles all the way to your core. Your thighs tighten around him and your inner walls clench. He’s no fool. He must know the effect he has on you. It mirrors the effect you have on him. You want him buried deep inside you, you want his hands on your body, you want his mouth–if he’ll give it. This job with his task force is temporary. It’s a blip in a string of chaos, a merciful offering from the godforsaken universe, a respite before you return to the agency and become someone else. But here and right now? You are fully and completely yourself. He is sharing your breath, your sweat, smearing your blood into the whorls and spirals of his fingerprint. You want to share this miracle with him. You want to selfishly enjoy the upcoming few months before you’re assigned to another country, another corrupt diplomat, or another unstable regime. You want him. You want Ghost. You want Simon Riley. 

You respond nonchalantly, “a kiss.”

He breaks eye contact to roll his eyes. “You’re trying to get me to remove my mask again, aren’t you?”

You shake your head. “My whole life involved powerful men showing their faces but hiding their true intentions. You hide your face, but I’ve never doubted your honesty.”

“Give it time.” He huffs. There’s a snag in his tone that you pick up on, a thread of self-loathing, and your heart softens like melted wax.

“I want you as you are,” you reply and then whisper, “Simon.” 

He tenses. You feel it on every pressured weight of his body leaning into yours. His eyes roam across your face, seeking dishonesty, but there’s none to find. The words you speak are the truth ripped asunder from your soul. He leans closer and his warm breath fans across your chin, muffled faintly by his mask. Your blood hums, electric and sparkling through your veins, and you instinctively tilt your jaw.

The sound of heavy footsteps carries down the hallway. Ghost springs agile and swift off you and to his feet. You stop the moan in your throat, missing his firm solidness, and the delicious sensation of his cock pressing into your clothed, pulsing cunt. While getting to your feet, you inhale deeply through your nostrils to calm your racing heart. You can feel the tension between you and Ghost like a living, breathing creature. It prowls through your attention span, demanding you to look at his veiny arms or admire the muscled, hard line of his shoulders.

Soap appears in the doorway, “debrief is about to start.” He looks between you and Ghost. You wonder what Soap sees beyond the shiny sweat on your face. Thankfully, he doesn’t make any comments. He offers to show you the way to the debriefing room. Technically, Price already showed you. 

However, you’re restless from your fight with Ghost. Your blood boils with anticipation and desire. And for the sake of your sanity, you smile and agree to follow Soap.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 He watches you go. His jaw is clenched. Nothing ever goes to plan when you’re involved, does it? You strike into his life like a viper, disappear, and then return like a thunderstorm that threatens to tear his house apart. He groans under his breath. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He is meant to be unattached, cold, and distant. You aren’t even teammates. You are on a temporary loan from the agency and will return to your proper life once this business in Spain is done. Yet, his resolve crumbled like a cheap biscuit when you muttered his name, breathless and sweet, and the sultry sound went straight to his cock. A fantasy flooded his mind: you, pinned beneath him on the mats, grinding your cunt into his cock until you cum inside your pants. Ghost forcefully pushes the fantasy into a dark cabinet. He can’t focus on the debrief if he’s thinking about the expression you might wear when you orgasm. Focus. He’s a special operative. He’s a killer. He’s got men relying on him. He can’t let himself get distracted. And he can’t let himself get comfortable. Your presence in his life is temporary. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Your mission to Spain arrives in sweltering heat and blazing, white sunshine. He tracks your movements through the scope of his sniper. The street below thunders with car horns and civilians chatting, their conversations rise from the sidewalk to his sniper’s perch like a hum of bees. You effortlessly weave through the crowds. 

Your voice croons through his comm, “got your eyes on me, Lt?”

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked into the barracks two days ago. 

“Affirmative.” 

“Wonderful!” You chirp, “I’ve got eyes on our target.” 

There isn’t a single ounce of nervousness or fear in your voice. He shouldn’t be so impressed by you, but Goddammit–he is. You were betrayed by your contact in Russia, yet you were willing to join the task force, and give your trust to a handful of strangers with a common goal. You played poker with Soap and Price. You laughed with them. And he can’t get your laugh out of his fucking head. He goes to bed at night, hardly dreaming, but your laughter still follows him. You didn’t spar with Gaz, but you showed him the basics of your own moves. Gaz tends to follow you around like a lost puppy. It’s embarrassing. He wants to tell him to get a grip, but he holds his tongue. You’ll be gone soon. 

You never seek him out for a one-on-one conversation. But Ghost gets the impression that you’re waiting for him to make the next move. He adjusts his position. The scope hovers near the curve of your shoulder and is aimed at the heart of the man now sitting across from you. He watches over you less like a guardian angel and more like a 6ft mass of exhaustion and sexual frustration. In a brief moment of respite, you tilt your face toward the warm sunlight, and he notices the edge of your smile in his scope. Your shoulders tremble when you laugh.

“He can’t be that funny.” Ghost mutters to himself and is surprised by his own annoyance.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re going to split apart at the seams. The heat and salt of Spain clung to your skin and your body buzzed with the feverish sensation of a job well done. There was something heady and unexplainable that traveled through your nervous system as Ghost watched you while you completed your mission. You can’t eat, you can’t think, and you realize you need to see him. Talk to him. Before your time is wasted like sand slipping through your fingers. Maybe Ghost is rejecting you, or maybe he’s trying to be a gentleman about it, but you won’t know until you have the conversation. 

You disappear from the cafeteria while the others are eating and find your way to Ghosts’ room. Upon arrival, you expected all the operatives would need to share a room for team building or whatever. But that wasn’t the case with the Task Force. You rap your knuckles on the door.

“Hey, Ghost.” 

The door opens a sliver. It’s dark behind him. He’s wearing his mask. Did he put it on before answering the door? Is he brooding in there? Shouldn’t he be celebrating? 

“These are my private quarters, she-wolf.”

Your heart jumps into your throat at the old nickname.

“Ah,” You lean your forearm onto the wall and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You must be busy reading dirty magazines.” You tease with an easy-going smile. Ghosts’ eyes narrow slightly.

“You should find me if you want to experience the real thing instead of a glossy photoshop with her tits out.” You push away from the wall. His door opens and his hand grabs your arm, pulling you into his room, and he shoves you against the closed door. Instinctively, you lift your knee to block him from crowding your space. 

He rasps, “you trying to play games with me?”      

“No games.” The single desk lamp behind him hums with light. “I’m being rather transparent about what I want.”

“What is it you want then?”

He’s either playing dumb or wants to hear you say it. You decide to indulge him. 

“You.”

You drop your knee, snatch the front of Ghosts’ shirt, and pull him toward you. You press your lips firmly against the painted teeth of his mask. The fabric is rough and scratchy along your mouth, it tastes faintly of salt, and little white flecks of paint and black fibers cling to your lips. Ghost kisses you fiercely, his lips pinching and rolling the mask between your mouths until it grows wet with your joined salvia. His hands squeeze your hips, and your thighs, and then push beneath your thin t-shirt. He glides along your abdomen and your ribs before shoving underneath your sports bra. You whine into his mask. You’ve wanted him to touch you for days. You should’ve come to his room sooner. He kneads your flesh with his rough, large hands, squeezing your breasts and causing your back to arch. Your brain has fizzled and destroyed all coherent thought. There is only sensation and feeling. There is only his hand and the rough play of your mouths kissing against the barrier of his mask.

He breaks away, his chest heaving, “you’re full of bad ideas, did you know that?”

“My ideas have consistently saved our lives.” You reply, boastful.

“Are we countin’ the one where you tried ice fishing?”

“Yes.”

Ghost unfastens the front of your pants, “I’m inclined to disagree.” His fingers are warm and skim the waistband of your underwear. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes, absolutely, yes.” 

You are not ashamed of your eagerness. To you, it’s more than simply sex or pleasure. Ghost - Simon - is someone you’ve trusted with your life on more than one occasion. He didn’t balk at your scars or demand their stories. He met you on equal grounds and few could claim to have your level of skill and talent. And with him, you are yourself. Fully, completely, and effortlessly. You can laugh as loud as you want. You can tease, flirt, and challenge. You can breathe. Your instinct of paranoia doesn’t disappear around him, but it does soften. He’s earned the precious and rare gift of your complete, golden trust. 

He slides his palm down, into your underwear, and cups the front of your sex. Your head thumps into the door and your eyelashes flutter. His index and middle finger run along your folds and coat in your arousal. Ghost lets out a pleased, deep hum from the depths of his chest.

“Should’ve expected you’d be soaked.” He says “, especially after our sparring match.”

The memory of it ignites another wave of pleasure. His weight, his touch, his size, his lethal abilities, the depth of his eyes.

“I wasn’t the only one hot and bothered.” You quip before his fingers rub a circle over your swollen clit. Your hips jerk into his palm.

“Mhm.” He nudges his knee between your legs and forces them wider. His other hand cups your breast, fingertips digging into your side, while his thumb strokes idly across your hardened nipple. The light, teasing touch sends sharp, short shockwaves straight to your core.

“Did you get off?” You ask, genuinely curious, “thinking of me?”

Ghosts’ fingers plunge into your wet cunt. You gasp, feeling the delicious stretch, feeling his rumble of appreciation against your chest. You cling to Ghost with a keening, desperate sound that would embarrass and fluster your neighbors.

“Might’ve.” He replies, his voice dark and husky, like crushing black velvet into your chest. You imagine Ghost in his room, squeezing his cock, thinking of you. Your body quakes. He’s unraveling you. He’s pulling you apart piece by piece. His fingers slicken and deepen, his pace quickening, and your toes curl inside your boots. 

“Oh god, oh god.” You pant, lost in the delirium of pleasure and chasing the rising crest of your orgasm. 

“Name’s Simon, sweetheart, or have you forgotten?” His mask scrapes along your earlobe from where he’s buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Is that what you want?” Your nails dig into the corded muscle of his biceps. “Gonna have to - ah, fuck!” Your words are cut off in a whine, and you manage to knock two brain cells together to finish your sentence “- hear you say it. Wanna hear you say it.”

“You tryin’ to give me orders?” 

“I’m trying to come.” You smile briefly. 

His finger crooks and you see stars. “Trying to boss me around as well.”

It’s a small mercy he hasn’t stopped touching you, slick and obscene, his fingers thrusting in and out of your weeping cunt. Your hips erratically chase his touch, and your clothes are restrictive on your skin. You want to touch him, feel his sweat, lose yourself in him. Your walls squeeze around his fingers. 

He orders, “look at me,” and his other hand carefully squeezes around your throat. The pressure is perfect. It’s enough to make your blood pound, but not so harsh that he’s restricting your airflow. 

“Atta girl.” He says when you meet his eyes, your gaze is heavily lidded and lustful. 

“Say my name when you come.”

You gasp. The edge of your orgasm pounds at the apex of your thighs. Your abdomen muscles clench and tightness wounds at the base of your spine. He presses the heel of his palm into your clit, grinding in a small, circular motion, while his fingers shift inside you. Somewhere in the haze of desire, you realize he is kissing the side of your neck through his mask. The tension finally and wonderfully snaps.

“S-Simon!” You cry as your body twitches and your orgasm hits you like a flashbang. It’s disorientating. Your ears start to ring. You blink slowly until the world comes back into focus. 

He speaks into the shell of your ear, “gonna be thinking about this for a while.”

“Oh?” Your frazzled brain and heavy tongue cannot summon any other grace or intelligence to your response. Ghost slowly withdraws his hand from your core. You exhale shakily like a baby fawn testing its legs. He pushes the front of your shirt toward your breasts, and you wordlessly lift your arms (there is some humor in the fact that this is the second time Ghost has undressed you). He peels off your sweaty sports bra and your skin prickles with tiny bumps as it's exposed to the cool air. Ghost is looking at you with pure, dark hunger in his eyes. He could swallow you in the depths of his eyes.

He touches your neck, close to your scarred collarbone, and gently lifts the charm dangling from your necklace. 

“This is new.” He regards it. “What is it? A butterfly?”

“A moth.” You correct him. “It’s a reminder.” 

“For what?” His tone is genuinely curious, and a tad surprised. You swallow. The truth of the necklace is another demonstration of vulnerability, of trust. Yet, offering it to him is as simple as peeling your clothes away. 

You explain, “to go towards the light. ‘Cause moths always go to the light.”

He grumbles softly and releases the charm from his fingertips. “They end up dyin’ most of the time, don’t they?”

“You’re a pessimist, Riley.”

“I’m a realist.” 

Your hands skim along his waist, fingertips dragging teasingly across the hard muscles of his lower stomach and his happy trail tickles the pads of your fingertips when you ghost over it. Your hand dips lower. You lick your lips, and his eyes track the flit of your tongue.

“Sit.” You tell him while palming the front of his pants across the impressive and weighty bulge of his straining, hard cock.

“I prefer to stand.” His thumb runs across your lower lip, pulling down and revealing the line of your gums. “Easier to watch.”

“Bit of a voyeur, are we?” You tease before pulling his thumb into your mouth and suckling softly. You can taste yourself on him. Though, you wish you could see more of his expression beyond his darkening, intense gaze. You release his digit and subdue your moan. His zipper sliding is somehow louder than the blood pounding in your ears. You push his trousers and boxer briefs down and are rewarded with the sight of his cock. Your inner walls twinge.

He yanks his shirt over his head once you kneel before him. He is uniquely beautiful in his lethality and raw protection. He is corded, with tight muscle and pure, chiseled strength. His thighs, his legs, his chest–you feel as if you can sink your teeth into him. You encircle his engorged cock in your palm. And he is girthy and warm in your palm. You tentatively squeeze him, working your hand from the base to tip, and Ghost hisses through his teeth. You drop sweet, open-mouthed kisses across the hardness of his thighs and the line of his hips. You suspect your jaw is going to ache later if you take him into your mouth. But fuck it. Life is short. You want to enjoy every second he gives you. 

You flatten your tongue along his base and swipe upward. You play over him with your tongue and your lips and his cock twitches beneath your ministrations. He is so quiet. His breath shudders. You think you may have enchanted him.

You open your jaw and bring his tip into your mouth. Ghost - trained military operative, excellent at what he does, and feared by his enemies - gasps deeply. The sound is like he touched upon divine revelation. His palm settles on top of your head. He doesn’t pull or grab you. The weight and pressure are simply there. You inch your mouth over him, tongue massaging his pulsing vein, and draw him as deep as you can. Your eyes momentarily roll into the back of your skull. He’s big. There’s no other way to describe him. Your saliva drools out of the corners of your mouth and glistens in stringy ropes when you pull away. You swallow him once more, wrapping his cock around one hand and following the trail of your mouth, your grasp slick and slippery. With his cock inside your mouth, you imagine what he might feel like inside of you. How deep, how good it would feel. 

Your cheeks hollow out. And Ghost whimpers from above. 

Fuck. Your thighs rub together in an attempt to add friction to the building arousal and tension at your core. There is something insanely, deeply erotic about the filthy, sweet noise you just coaxed from his lips. You want him to do it again, and again until it’s all you hear. 

You draw him out of your mouth momentarily, “say my name.” You glide your tongue along the side of him, “when you’re about to come.”

“Fuck me,” growls Ghost.

“Oh.” You smile, your lips tingling. “I’d love to.”

“Think you can take me?”

You moan around his length in a muffled, throaty, “mhm.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” His hand squeezes the nape of your neck. Your head bobs, drawing him in, letting him hit the deepest part you can handle before pulling away. Your wet fingers twist and squeeze as your pace increases and you manage to get Ghost to whimper again. Through lidded eyes, you see his thighs twitch and his stomach flex. You moan and feel the vibration through your mouth. Ghost mutters a string of filthy, debauched curses. Unable to resist or ignore the building tension, you push your free hand between your legs and rub at your soaked core through your underwear. You peer up at him through your eyelashes. He holds eye contact and roughly proclaims your name.

You suddenly release his cock from your mouth and hand, “Ghost, I want to fuck you.”

He grabs your elbows, pulls you from the floor, and nudges you to lie on his small bed. His large hands grab your hips, fiercely tugging your pants off and your boots thump loudly onto the floor. He prowls over you, his hands on your knees, but you scramble back, and your head lightly hits the wall.

You say, “not like this.”

“How then?” His voice is tight with constrained, desperate desire.

“Lie down.”

To your immediate relief, Ghost does as you ask. You swing your leg over his hips and hold the base of his cock, lining him up at your entrance. Your spine trembles with anticipation. 

“You said you like to watch.” You grin. You sink yourself swiftly onto his waiting cock and Ghost’s neck arches back to reveal the straining shape of his tendons. You can’t read his expression, but his hands communicate more than enough. He kneads your ass and squeezes your hips or thighs.

“There, yes, like that–” You gasp, drawing yourself up and down over him, feeling the wonderful stretch, the wetness that builds on your inner thighs. He lets you keep control, letting you choose the depth, the speed, while his hands greedily roam the expanse of your skin and tenderly trace the outlines of your scars. There is not a single inch of your skin that Ghost hasn’t touched. 

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so good. You feel so good.” You whine quietly, cognizant that the others could return from dinner at any moment. Your hands splayed across his muscled chest like two perfect stars. His thumb finds your clit and rubs in tandem with your thrusts. The world goes hazy, blurred, and perfect. Everything melts beyond you and Ghost and the smooth joining of your bodies.

Ghost says, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

It’s a struggle to open your eyes with the onslaught of sensation. His cock is buried inside you, rubbing against your walls, and his hand is playing with your clit while the other clutches your ass. If you open your eyes, you’ll shatter. You’ll lose yourself. You’ll fracture into a thousand tiny stars and be remade in the depths of the cosmos. 

“Can’t.” You choke out.

“You can.” His voice is breathless, panting, and your ego swells with pride. You can make Simon whimper. You can make him breathless. How many others could claim that same honor? Very few if you had to guess. You pry your eyes open with sheer willpower. Ghost is staring at you through the darkened paint. He watches you with hunger, with admiration, with lust, respect, and perhaps–even–a touch of possessiveness. Ghost lifts his knees, planting his feet, and thrusts into you. You cover your mouth to muffle your sudden, bitten-off cry. You squeeze your fingers into your cheek and feel the ridges of your teeth. Your walls flutter around him, trying to pull him deeper, and your bodies shine with sweat. 

“F-fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” You admit hurriedly. His cock pistons in and out of you, drawing stars at the forefront of your vision, and you clamp your hand over your mouth again.

“Keep lookin’ at me, she-wolf. I want to watch. I want to watch you come.” His gravelly voice tears any stubborn resolve to ribbons.

You hold onto his gaze for several more strokes, his fingers moving in firm concentric patterns across your clit, and then your orgasm takes hold. Your eyes squeeze shut, your body spasms, and you toss your head back in wanton and wild abandon. Ghost fucks you through it. His hands are on your waist. His cock is drenched by your arousal. Your body goes limp, and you feel akin to a ragdoll as Ghost rolls you over and pins you to the mattress.

“Fuck.” He rasps, bottoming out, and your hands grip the sheets and your legs twitch and kick wildly. “It’s like you were made for me.” 

He rocks into you, deep and slow, savoring every inch with low, warm grunts. Your over-sensitive nerves pulse under his touch. Yet, despite the inevitable soreness, you buck your hips into his and groan. You want to remember this on a tactile level. You want to walk sideways for the next three days because he’s ruined you. You reach up, toward his face, and Ghost does not flinch away. Your chest swells with some unidentifiable emotion. You lightly grip his neck and sense his rapid pulse beneath his jawline. You apply soft, constant pressure to his throat. His chest rumbles with enjoyment and low, deep praise. 

“I’m not your grandma’s teacup, Simon.” You tease.

“I rather like that about you.” 

“Oh, you like me?” 

He mutters, “I like you screaming.”

Ghost spreads your thighs wide. Your hip flares at the awkward, yet firm pressure of this angle. But then Ghost is moving again–not slow and deep anymore–but fast, and pounding, and your chest hiccups with lost breath.

He huffs, driving into you all his wiry, solid strength, his cock slamming into your cunt with ruthless efficiency. He maneuvers your legs to perch upon his broad shoulders. Your brain shuts off. You turn into a blubbering, gasping mess of clenched fists and quivering muscles. Ghost watches you, staring into the depths of your eyes, drinking in every single sound you make, every expression, everything. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room.

You press your lips together, breathing hard and rapidly through your nostrils, trying your damnedest to not scream at the top of your lungs. The absolute last interruption you need is the rest of the task force barreling into the room. Your cunt squeezes him. Another orgasm rises from the root of your spine like a phoenix. Your clit throbs with oversensitivity. You can’t come again, can you? will you? You grab Simons’ wrists for the sake of an anchor. He is panting your name over and over again under his breath. 

You keen, “fuck, Simon - ah - fuck.”

“That’s my girl,” He praises, voice scraping like sandpaper against every dark chamber of your heart, “you can come for me one more time.” 

His hand slaps sharply against the swell of your ass. It is a heady combination of his timbre, his words, and the sight of him thrusting, his mask damp and the painted jawbone stark and shifting in the dim light. And you come. You trap your scream behind both hands, pressed to your mouth, and salty tears blur your vision as you gush and convulse around him. Your blood roars, a wild lion in your ears, and your inner walls flutter and pulse with the aftershock. Above the din, you faintly hear Ghost release a restrained and reverberating groan. You watch with fascination as his lower abdominals tense up. His cock slips wetly out of your throbbing, sore folds. He grips his fist around his cock, sliding easily and squeezing, before his cum spurts onto the bedsheets and smears onto your inner thigh. His shoulders quake and his breath hitch into a soft, elongated moan. The paint around his eyes is smudged and rivulets of his sweat have revealed parts of his face like glimpses of the sky through fluffy clouds. 

His massive, sweaty form drapes over your body, arms caged around you, face tucked near your neck. He’s your very own weighted blanket with a pulse. And his heart hammers into your chest. Neither of you says anything. Your fingers lazily trail along his sides, catching ridges of his scars, gliding across his muscles and the swooping curve of his ribs. You sigh, content, exhaustion, and satisfaction tug your eyelids.

“I’m never going to be able to spar with you again.” You announce.

Simon chuckles. The sound vibrates against your chest and travels like thunder across your skin. It feels like a gift. His thumb is stroking one of your scars, the one near your hip, in a surprisingly tender gesture. It’s as if he doesn’t want to stop touching you. 

He says, “I like this better than sparring.”

You slide your hands along his chest, savoring how his muscles ripple, and your hands wrap around his strong neck. His pulse pounds beneath your palms and fingers. You watch his eyes. They flutter and darken as you apply light pressure. You want to kiss him. You lean upward. 

“Wait,” says Simon.

His thumb wiggles under the edge of his mask. Your heart gallops, breath seized in your lungs–is he really going to show his face? You don’t try to hide your awe-struck expression. Simon tugs the mask toward his nose, enough to reveal his mouth and chin, but no further. His lips are full and chapped, dark-blonde stubble shadows across his chin and jaw. 

He drops his mouth onto yours. You groan breathlessly into him. He sucks your lower lip between his, nibbling softly, and you might just drown in the focused intensity of his kiss. You push your tongue into his warm mouth, claiming, seeking, your kiss desperate and filthy and smearing saliva across your chin and upper lip. Your fingers twist the hair at the nape of his neck, worshiping the short, soft strands, and idly wondering about their color. He is an enigma, but he has given you more than you ever expected–more than you deserved. 

Your mind will replay this moment a thousand times in the days to come. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, a sweaty and whimpering mess, panting, repeating your name like it’s his prayer to salvation. You wish you could find the courage to explain how he makes you feel. The safety, the belonging, the respect, and admiration. You told a white lie earlier. Your necklace charm is a ‘Death’s Head Moth,’ and the specific creature has a vaguely human skull-shaped pattern on the thorax. The charm is your own private, secret tie to him. A delicate skull motif to mirror his mask. A reminder of your time together and your time apart. 

His mask presses and scratches roughly against your cheek and nose. You don’t mind. You whimper, suckling his tongue, a distant far-off voice that doesn’t sound like your own begs for “More, please.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

At your honeyed little plea, Ghost gives all he can. He kisses you, though he logically knows it’s a piss-poor idea to deepen your connection, to give you what you want so willingly and without consequence. His hands firmly hold your hips, travel greedily along your firm thighs, and cradle your jaw in a possessive, squeezing grip. He doesn’t want to let you go. This is the exact reason why he shouldn’t have gotten close to you. 

You writhe below him. Fuck it. He pins you deeper into the mattress, appreciating how your mouth opens for him, and the needy little sounds that he pulls from your throat. You are muscled, scarred, and firm but beneath his hands, you are soft and pliant, and you mold into his touch like you were built for him. He isn’t afraid of touching you, isn’t afraid that he might break you, or that you might become terrified of him. He’s read your file. He knows you’ve got plenty of demons in your own closet. You gasp into his mouth and latch your teeth around his lower lip. A burning sensation travels down his chest, straight to his gut, and reminds him of fine bourbon. His lips travel across your jaw in tiny, brief kisses, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin. His teeth and tongue find your pulse, suckling your skin between them, making your spine arch and your thighs clamp around his hips. He doesn’t leave a mark despite his desire to do so. A mark will lead to questions. You don’t need to endure any nosiness or gossip from his teammates.

Ghost sighs, drawing his mouth regretfully away, and rests his forehead against yours. Your eyes are glassy, face damp from tears and sweat, and his pride combusts like the fucking sun. He did that. He put that dazed, fucked-out expression on your face. How the hell is he going to cope with you walking around the barracks? His soft cock twitches between his legs.

“Have they given you a title yet?” He asks. 

You shake your head. He suspects the others will grant you a nickname or codename soon (unless you come up with one on your own).

“Hm.” He presses his lips together. Your eyes drop to his mouth, not lustfully, but in appreciation and wonder as if you’re memorizing the shape of his lips. Your thumb reverently slides along the thin scar that travels over his upper lip. 

He says, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

A spark of light enters your eyes, and your smile cuts a fresh laceration onto his cold heart.

“I will veto any suggestion you come up with.” You say with that damned cheeky smile of yours. He thinks that smile is going to be burned onto his retinas. He thinks it’ll be the last thing he sees before a bullet or blade finally manages to meet his heart. His laugh is low and rumbling, and scratchy inside his throat from disuse. Your eyes widen. You glow from within. Ghost covers his lips over yours, smothering your smile, trying to ignore how you pull his heartstrings taught and threaten to snap them. He can feel your exhaustion in your kiss, the sloppy roll of your lips, and the lazy swirl of your tongue. He wants to applaud your stamina, to reward it, but the best reward would be rest. No one will disturb you here. No one will harm you, either. You are safe.

He rolls off your body and tugs his mask back down before propping his head up with his hand to watch you. This is familiar. He watched over you dozens of times when you escaped St. Petersburg. You turn your face, and the tip of your nose is pressed into his collarbone. You inhale deeply and slowly. Your necklace rests in the valley between your breasts and the little charm glows faintly.

“Lux.” He murmurs. 

“Hm?” Your response is from somewhere deep in your chest, your tone sleepy and subdued. 

“My suggestion for your codename.” He explains. 

It’s the Latin term for ‘light.’ He’s not sure why you seek him out if you've always meant to ‘find the light.’ But he decides not to question it. Maybe this moment is his calm before the shitstorm. The world is offering him one final, precious gift before you’re ripped away. He traces an almost fatal scar near your heart. He shouldn’t care about who will watch over you once you leave the task force. He does, though. It would be messy, complicated, and risky if you stayed, but a selfish and smothered part of him wishes you could. 

You grumble, “I suppose that one isn’t too terrible.”

“My next suggestion is PIMA.”

“Pima?” One of your eyes squinted open.

“Pain in my arse.”

You laugh loudly, your belly trembling beneath his palm, and Ghost shushes you. He doesn’t need his teammates asking questions about why they heard you in his quarters. You were quiet when he fucked you, but somehow–sharing his bed, telling jokes–it feels like a deeper sense of intimacy. It feels sacred and secret. In his eyes, you don’t follow the light. You are the light. And he’s going to blind himself like a tragic Greek hero, going to melt his own wings like Icarus flying too close to the sun. He’s already doomed, already cursed, so he might as well enjoy the ride. He draws his blanket over your naked bodies and pillows his head on his arm.

“I’ll smuggle you out later,” says Ghost.

You roll over, half-asleep, and curl into his warmth. He prepares himself for the inevitable pain of your departure. He watches the steady rise and fall of your deep breath. He traces the curves and angles of your body with his gaze. He commits the minuscule and remarkable pieces to memory. The shell of your ear that holds his whispered voice. The lush shape of your mouth that murmurs his name. The crescent moon of your nails that dig into his skin. The bumpy ridges and knobs of your knuckles, your elbows, your spine. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t. He lightly strokes his fingers down the middle of your back and hardens his heart. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two Years Later…

 You scramble through the city with smoke and sand scratching your lungs. The ground beneath your feet trembles and a shrill whistle cut through the air. The dusky air tastes of dust and gunfire and acrid terror. Your pistol is gripped tightly in your hand, your ammunition is low, and your left arm is drenched in blood. A rush of civilians surge past you like a school of fish fleeing a shark, they bleat like sheep, and they see your gun and your blood and give you a wide berth.

A swirl of white spots dances in front of your vision. A helicopter whirls loudly above and kicks up another storm of loose trash and sand. You stubbornly keep moving. Another whistle, another vibration at your feet, and you collapse behind the cover of a dilapidated market stall. The hours of daylight are slipping through your fingers. 

You should’ve gotten out sooner. But there’s no time for regret in this line of work. You can only roll with the tide, keep your head above water, tread the storm and pray you aren’t tossed against the sharp rocks.

After checking if it's clear, you run down an adjoining alleyway, and your heart pounds in time with your feet on the pavement. A chorus of gunfire bellows from behind you like an angry, destructive beast. You flatten against a building corner and peer around the edge. Your lungs freeze. A small retinue of soldiers is moving down the street. You swallow. You taste ash, smoke, and blood. Your fingers flex on your pistol. They’re carrying heavy artillery, equipped in tactical gear, though they’re too far away to ascertain if they’re friendly or not. You can’t risk it. You’ll need to sneak past them. 

You lean back against the wall. A forearm suddenly slams into your throat and rips the breath from your lungs. You panic for a fraction of a second, body tensing, ready to fight, but then you recognize those warm, toffee eyes surrounded by dark paint and the chipping, paint-flecked skull mask. Ghost's chest heaves with labored breath and his eyes study your face like a starved man before a buffet. You lick your dry, chapped lips as a sense of relief floods you. If Ghost is here, then there’s a good chance that the soldiers are friendly, and you can extract yourself from the warzone.

You grab his wrist, “steady on, Ghost.” You say, repeating the first words he ever spoke to you. His eyes drop from your face to your neck, where your moth-charm necklace intimately rests in your bosom. He notices your wounded arm and a droplet of blood falls from your middle fingertip.

“You should’ve evacuated with the rest of the civs.” He lessens his pressure on your throat, “a helicopter is 2 klicks east of here.”

You nod. “Got it.”

“Avoid the fountain,” you say, “there’s a sniper in one of the buildings. I couldn’t get to him.” Your eyes flick to your shoulder. Either the sniper isn’t very good or you’re very lucky, but you have zero intentions of returning to that section of the city. You will not try to play hero or act beyond your skill set. Ghost relays the intel through his communication device and takes a step backward.

“Get out of here, Lux!” He admonishes. A crescent sickle-shaped moon rises slowly from the twilight blue horizon. There is no time for reunions, farewells, or good luck. You spare Ghost a brief, ash-tinged smile and follow the light, toward the moon, and toward your rescue.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 You stare at the bland, white tile of the infirmary ceiling. Your left arm is wrapped and pinned to your chest in a sling. The air still smells like smoke, and blood, with an undercurrent of a stringent alcohol antiseptic. You close your eyes. The world fades to a muted, muddled gray. When you open them again, the room is dark, and there is a hulking black shape sitting in the chair beside you. 

Your voice is dry and cracked, “you again?” You can’t believe he’s here. He came to visit. What did that mean? 

“You ought to be sleeping.”

You roll your eyes. “I literally just was.” 

Your fingers twitch on the blankets. You wish you could reach out, touch him, and confirm his realness and solidness. Ghost fills a paper cup with water and offers it to you. You fight the urge to guzzle it down and sip it slowly. This isn’t your first time in an infirmary bed and it won’t be your last. You feel Ghosts’ eyes on you. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” You ask while crushing the paper cup in your palm.

“You should be dead.” He observes.

You shrug and bite back your wince. “I’ve heard that before.”

The silence stretches. Ghost doesn’t even fidget in his seat. You stare at him in the blue-black darkness and wait for the mirage to vanish. You recall rejecting pain medication, but maybe they gave you something that induces hallucinations. Your hand twitches again.

You ask quietly, “Ghost, can you come here?”

“Why?” He replies, gruff and suspicious. This is either an incredibly accurate and vivid manifestation of your subconscious desire or it’s really, truly him.

“Because I want to see if you’re real.”

He huffs and leans closer. You sit up slowly. Your heart thumps wildly. Your trembling hand settles on his cheek, on his mask, and you sigh–a broken, relieved sound. His eyelashes flutter. You have dreamed of him, thousands upon thousands of times. But your dreams are mere shadows, trickster illusions, a paltry and pathetic excuse in comparison. 

“We can’t keep running into each other like this.” Your smile wobbles at the edges. His hands are clenched into fists on his lap.

“Got any mad ideas then?” asks Ghost.

“Not this time.” You laugh weakly and the sound rattles inside your ribcage.

He sighs. “Pity.”

“You never said goodbye.” You say unexpectedly, “when I left the task force.” Everyone else did. They shook your hand or clapped you warmly on the shoulder. You kept foolishly hoping he’d show up at the last second for a private farewell. Your thumb caresses the painted molar teeth on his mask. When Ghost doesn’t reply, you release a burdensome sigh and drop your hand away from his face.

He catches your wrist before it hits the bed.

“You don’t get goodbyes in this line of work.” His fingertips press firmly into your pulse point. His eyes are tired and hollow when he holds your gaze. He’s right. There are no farewells, no funerals, no mourners. You’ve come to terms with this. When you meet your eventual end, you’ll become a classified and closed document in the file cabinet. Or maybe they’ll burn your record. There are no happy endings. There is no quiet, civilian life for you. You are a honed weapon. You serve a purpose. Your time with Simon, brief, beautiful, and bright, is something you’ll cherish until your final breath.

“Well, then… it sounds like this is my last chance to say it…” A hot, prickly sensation tickles the back of your throat.

“Simon Riley…” You say with some difficulty, “goodbye.”

He bows his head, breaking eye contact and obscuring himself, but you feel his fingers tighten around your wrist. He brings your joined hands toward him. His lips, covered by his skeletal smile, press into your knuckles. Your nostrils flare in a shuddering, warbly inhale. Death is easy, you think. It’s quick. It’s the goodbyes that are difficult. Everything unsaid weighs around your neck and wraps shackles and chains around your heart. You hoped you’d feel better with this closure. But you don’t. 

His chair squeaks when he rises. You turn your face away and stare at an empty spot on the freckled and shiny green-gray linoleum. You blink back your surprised tears and attribute them to a combination of exhaustion and receding adrenaline. 

Simon’s gloved fingertips cup your jaw, and he guides your face to look up at him. The pale moonlight glowing through the window and the various neon-green flashes of medical equipment paint his mask in an otherworldly hue. His eyes are shadowed and fathomless and dark. They bore into you and erode every defense you’ve crafted.

His low, rough, and accented burr replies in a tender; “Goodbye,” he finishes the farewell with your name. He leaves the room with no evidence of his arrival or time shared with you. A ghost ‘till the very end. You watch the door until a reddish dawn creep through the slates in the window shade and you’re pulled to sleep. 

You dream of ghosts, of warm and calloused hands, and a voice that pours like smooth whiskey through your veins. 

( Part 3 )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(tag list:  @anonymousmay22 //   @urisu //  @sodbos //  @confuseddipshit ) sorry if i missed anyone who wanted to be tagged LOL 

[runekirikjartan]

Chapter 4 of 'an observational study of a ghost, by a paranormally inclined expert in clandestine tradecraft' is out now!

Peep the Alejandro/Valeria/Rodolfo, the Alejandro/Ghost and the Ghost/Soap pining.

[cntloup]

18+ MDNI Simon fucking you in a headlock

You've been obsessed with his arms since day one.

And you finally asked him to do what you wanted for a while.

He made sure that you were comfortable, asking multiple times if you were ok.

And you breathed out 'yes' eagerly each time.

And now here you are as he fucks into your sopping pussy while having you in a headlock, thick veiny arm wrapped around your neck.

The burly mass of muscles puts enough pressure to make you dizzy, increasing the already intense pleasure of his fat cock splitting your weeping cunt open.

His other hand reaches around your body and lands on your sensitive puffy clit, rough fingers circling and pinching it while his wide hips slap against your rear with each ferocious plunge into you.

"You gonna be a good girl and cum f'me?" he grunts into your ear as he feels the ever increasing pressure of your pulsating pussy on his cock.

And you can only hum in response, the razing pleasure too much to bear, too much to let you form any coherent words.

You hold on to his strong arm wrapped around you, nails digging into his bicep and forearm, surely leaving crescent marks on his skin.

The delightful mix of sweet sensations, the aching drag of his thick cock along your sensitive walls repeatedly with the dizzying pleasure of his arm around your neck,

while his swollen red tip viciously attacks your gummy cervix and his calloused fingertips rub against your puffy clit send you to a state of pure engulfing euphoria.

And streams of your juices and cream gush out of you as you let out hiccupped moans, blended with his low growl of sheer pleasure as he fills up your welcoming womb with his seed.

[empresskylo]

simon ‘ghost’ riley is a light sleeper. he’s so well trained to be on high alert that even when he’s not on duty he wakes at the smallest sound.

sometimes you’ll get up in the middle of the night and he immediately sits up. “you alright?” he slurs.

you make a small sound of discomfort or wiggle a little too much and his head is turning on the pillow, his eyes on you. and he always asks if you’re okay. you’ve told him he’s being silly and sometimes you just have to get up to go to the bathroom, but you gave up on telling him that—he’s adamant on checking on you.

and anytime he wakes up, no matter where the disturbance comes from, he’s looking over to your side of the bed to make sure you’re okay first.

and if you ever do need him in the middle of the night, all you have to do is whisper his name. he opens his eyes almost immediately and instinctively tightens his arm around you. “everythin’ alright?”

and one time you couldn’t sleep. your face was buried in his chest as he clung to you, the soft rumble of his snores letting you know he was knocked out. you didn’t want to wake him, but you were crying. you barely even moved as you teared up into his chest. suddenly, his hands squeezed you tighter. “whats’a matter?” he coos softly.

you tilt your head up to him teary eyed. “i didn’t mean to wake you.”

he clicks his tongue. “tell me what’s wrong, baby.” his hand gently caressing your face, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear.

and he’s so protective. if you roll over and out of his hands he’s quick to pull you back into his grip. he likes having his hands on you while he’s sleeping. it makes him feel more secure knowing you’re okay.

when you fall asleep together on the sofa, your body pressed to his, his arms are wrapped around your waist, clutching you closely against him. it doesn’t even matter if he’s too warm, he wants you touching him at all times whenever he’s asleep.

it’s gotten to the point where he can barely sleep when he’s not with you. without you safely in his arms, without being able to physically feel you under his fingertips, it continuously wakes him up. he’s lucky to get two hours in a row without waking.

post that inspired this | my cod masterlist

[chaosandmarigolds]

Simon Riley! Who refuses to sleep alone once you got together, once he began to trust you

Simon Riley! Who takes it as a person attack when you push him away in the middle of the night during a heatwave

Simon Riley! Who picks up your little baby when they come toddling in on their routine break in around two and puts them back to bed because night time is mommy and daddy time

Simon Riley! Who who sleepily follows you when you wake up in the middle of the night

Simon Riley! Who will purposefully turn the AC down to 62 F just because it’ll mean you’ll snuggle into him

Simon Riley! Who would rather starve then let you crawl out of bed to make breakfast, A: because it’s snuggle time

Simon Riley! Who collapses on the bed after a long day out and drags out onto the bed with him

Simon Riley! Who, after a his entire life, loves night time because it meant he got to be with you <3

[sweetnothingtm]

♡ i imagine that Simon Riley is the type to spoil you rotten ♡

Simon doesn’t check his bank statements anymore - just hands you his card and plants a sloppy kiss on your smiling face.

Simon carries all your shopping bags without hesitation, even while you drain him of his worth. He scrolls his phone while you shop aimlessly, his eyes lazily dragging to your frame as you showcase what you want while he waves a hand at you.

yes - anything you want. yes - i mean it, sweetheart.

He follows you like a lost dog through the stores, practically begging for your attention as you wiggle your ass into a million different outfits.

I bet he takes you to all the lingerie stores. It’s his favorite part of the day, squeezed into a changing room as you strip in front of him. He always has a devious smirk, latching the stall lock into place as you hang up every scrap of fabric.

You’d twirl around in a tight lace, lip caught between your teeth as Simon palms himself through his jeans. He’d stare at you, eyes glowing with desire as you innocently checked yourself out and hummed.

do you like it? how do i look?

you look good enough to let me fuck you right now. matter of fact - bend over for me, sweetheart.

Simon would press you up against the mirror, dick pressed against your ass with his breath fanning against your neck. His teeth would graze against your skin, little whimpers coming from your lips as you roll your hips.

His fingers would press into your waist, digging into the silk panties with a price tag hanging off of them. $45 - damn expensive for a pair, but he considered you priceless.

When he inevitably ruins the fabric by cumming all over it, you’d have a little pout spread across your face. He’d roll his eyes, promising you another pair and splaying a hand against your ass while his camera clicks for a photo.

you look too fucking good, might just have to fuck you again when we’re home. you’d like that - wouldn’t you little slut?

Simon Riley would shrug his shoulders when the sales person would ask why theres panties in the trash. He’d swipe his card, hardly looking at the bill as he picked up another bag and watched you glow with happiness.

He always buys you dinner, opens every door for you, and slings his jacket around your shoulders. His hand always rests on your thigh when he drives, fingers tracing delicate shapes on your soft skin.

When he looks over to you, you’re already glowing with adoration and love - a twinkle in your eye as he squeezes your leg and hums.

did you like the gifts, princess? i spoil you huh?

[bunnys-kisses]

the jailbird

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

a full fic based on this post

cw: prison!au, civilian!reader, pen-pals, smut,romance/romantic!simon, domestic, missonary, wife kink, size kink, nudity, tattoo kink, body worship, cuddling

bunny says: like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are always welcomed!

it started out as a flyer at the bus stop near your house. it was for a service that connected prisoners at a nearby prison with civilians as pen-pals. you had seen the flyer often over the course of work as you went to work.

you honestly felt bad, those people must be isolated. the organization prided itself on giving prisoners a bit of their humanity back by not cutting them off from those on the outside. so on a rainy friday you took a photo of the flyer and filled out the form on the organization's website.

that was how you met simon riley, or as he was called on the inside 'ghost'. what caught your attention wasn't his face scar that ran from under his nose down to the left side of his chin, but rather his brown eyes. how intense they stared into the camera. it was almost intimidating.

but you kept the photo on your desk as you typed out your first letter to send to him. you heard of places who did it through email, but screen time for those could often be limited and to send a physical letter would ensure that it would be sent to them.

the letter started out simple, you asked how he was and if it was okay to ask what he was in prison for. you asked him other questions, like if his health was doing well, what did he do most days while on the inside. you ended the letter with a little information about yourself.

you thought it would be nice to take a few photos and print them out on photo paper to be included with your letter. just so he had a better idea of who he was talking about. once you tweaked the letter with a bit of editing, you printed it out and thanks to the Royal Mail, your letter was sent to him.

you didn't actually expect for him to respond. nor did you expect for the letter to be do detailed. it was almost three pages double sided in neat hand writing. your eyes went wide when you saw the thickness of the envelope with the stamp of approval from the prison for it to be sent to you.

simon sent you a bracelet made of string that had been braided together. he said you were the first person from the outside to reach out since he got locked up. that broke your heart. it only broke further the more you read.

he was a military man who was tossed aside once the ptsd got too intense. he had been between jobs, and it felt like everything was just too much for him. he got wrapped up in large scale theft, while it paid good, you could only rob so many banks before it all caught up. he had been in for three years now, he was thankful it wasn't a life sentence. not much was stolen, and there was minimal violence. he said that his stature alone intimidated enough people that he didn't need to be violent.

you re-read his letters and it wouldn't be until almost six months of speaking that you finally wore the bracelet. when he said, "i want to see you in it, since i can't buy you a ring." you sent a photo of you wearing it and since then you hadn't taken it off.

the letters were nice, you sent them at least twice a week. even though you two had never met face to face, and the only photos you had of him were mugshots, he knew all the gossip in your work place. he knew the names of all your friends, your favourite saturday night treat and how you took your coffee.

he told you he'd be happy to make you coffee every morning before you went to work. that comment made your cheeks burn.

he often called you his 'wife' to the other prisoners. he had your photos on the wall near his bunk. he even kept the pictures where you looked terrible after you tried to cut your bangs one night. he knew the exact location of where your favourite take out was. he said that he was writing down ideas of where to take you once he got out. "i gotta make the missus feel special."

he even made you a birthday card. his cellmate 'soap' even signed it. you knew all about the explosives expert mactavish. when you looked into his case on the news, your eyes went a little wide. this guy was.. something.

simon did admit that 'soap' had a bit of a crush on you. but he said that 'johnny' was harmless and probably just liked the photo of a woman in the cell.

"he hurt ya, there will be no cell that could keep me from killin' him. no god either."

simon remembered everything.

the way he spoke about you and to you in his letters were nothing but soft. while he had to put on a tough guy exterior, his letters were filled with gentle words. like when he wrote out that he loved you in big text on a spare piece of paper so you could tape it on your mirror to look at every morning.

"i want to be what you get ready to."

"i want to be with you when you wake up."

"i want to come home to you every night. please make me an honest man."

you knew he was a trained killer. he was in special forces before his brief stint as a criminal. he was trained to kill, but in the margins of your letters, his love shined through. despite it all, he was capable of love.

and he wanted to pour all that love into you, his (future) wife.

you two would go on to write letters every week, for almost two years. when you got the letter from him asking if he could put you down as a permanent address when he got out, you cried. of course!

it was a cold spring morning, the sky was misty as you stood outside the gates of the prison. your heart raced, you even arrived early in the hopes he'd be released sooner.

and then you saw him.

those eyes. hard and stern, until he caught sight of you. his shoulder visibly dropped and his pace quickened as he made his way towards you. before you could step forward to meet him, he had you in his arms. his strong arms, littered with tattoos, wrapped around you as he held you close to his strong chest.

you held onto him as the air left your chest from the force he held you. you clutched onto his shoulders and choked out a sob. you squeaked, "holy shit."

he pulled away from you, but still kept you in his arms. you swore you saw minimal mistiness in his eyes. he reached to cup your face. he said quietly, "soft... like i imagined."

you beamed up at him, "of course, si."

"your voice is so nice." he groaned as he then pulled you close once more and buried his nose in your hair. he inhaled the scent of your shampoo and relaxed, "i'm home."

you thought transitioning from being the only person in the flat, to having this hulking, strong man in your home as well, was going to be a bit hard. but that didn't matter when simon got you through the door. his hands were on you, he promised on the universe that he'd romance you tomorrow.

but tonight was just going to be the two of you.

you managed to get his hands off you in order to get your shoes off before you led him to your bedroom. he was close behind you, he had a hand on one of your hips. he wanted to be as close to you as he could, you two had spent enough time apart.

you couldn't even close the bedroom door before he was pulling at the waistband on your pants. his calloused, strong hands felt delicate on you. it was like he was going to break you and he had to be as delicate as possible.

"si."

"i know, darling." he said quietly as he started to undress you. with your help the both of you were soon nude in the afternoon light in your bedroom. you tried to cover your chest with your arms but he pulled your arms away and looked at you.

your eyes met and you got up on your tip-toes to kiss him gently on the lips. soon he picked you up like you weighed less than a bag of potatoes.

he placed you on the bed gently when you half expected him to toss you like a shot-put. he admired your body down on your soft covers and soon got onto the bed too.

you reached for him as he pulled you into a tight kiss. his lips were chapped and you could tease the fresh skin underneath. your nails raked at his strong back, that you knew was covered in tattoos.

you wrapped your legs around him and held him. from a moment he dropped to his side and you two held each other. you tucked his head under your chin as you laid together naked.

it wasn't even meant to be sexually stimulating, you both just wanted to feel one another. to hear your lover's heartbeat meant more to you than anything in that moment.

you kissed the top of his head, you felt his blond hair against your face as you soaked in his warmth. you could almost cry from how nice it felt to be so close to him.

after everything, you had your man.

he said in his low tone, "you feel so soft. after everything, i have you. you made every day in the can worth it." he sighed, "thank you." he kissed at your bare chest.

you replied, "i loved your letters, i have them still." you chuckled, "i didn't want to throw any of them away. it made me feel closer."

"well. i'm not goin' anywhere." he looked up at you and smiled, "you're home and i'm finally here." he pulled away and got him between your legs. he rested on his knees and carefully moved you to his liking. he sat there between your legs and waited for your command.

you looked at him and nodded, "yeah, si. you can go." then tightened your legs around your lover. you held your breath as he slowly pushed his cock into you. you didn't realize how big it was until he was fully inside of you.

"are you alright, love?"

"golden."

the two of you moved together. it took a little bit to get used to the size, but the pressure and speed of his movements made heat spread through your body. like two pieces of the same puzzle, you fit together perfect soon after. it was like you two were always meant to be.

you felt so loved by him, it was so sweet. this was your first time with him and you only had a few sexual experiences with others prior to him. but the entire time you knew each other you didn't sleep with others, you wanted to wait for your man.

"that's my good wife." he groaned as he held onto your hips, "i know, you wanted this for a long time. i bet you thought about me when i was locked up."

you blushed and replied, "i did, si. i thought about you all the time, i even had your picture in my office. i wanted this, i wanted to be with you!" you whined a little as his cock dragged against a sensitive spot.

he chuckled softly, "yeah. i thought about my missus when i was locked up. i used to jerk off to your letters, your photos. messed one of 'em up by gettin' my spunk all over it." he licked his lips, "but now i can see it every day in person."

you smiled when he rested his body against you and continued to thrust up into you. you felt the curl of pleasure of your gut get together which each of his heavy thrusts.

the kisses you shared were intimate and hot. the air of your bedroom was warmed as you made love on the bed you would share together. your soft noises together filled the air.

you clenched onto him, you dug your nails into his shoulders. they were so strong and broad that they were much bigger than your hands.

he kissed you one last time as he quickened his pace. the bed moved against your movements as you both climaxed at the same time. it was like a shock to the system, the heightened euphoria before your head felt full of cotton.

you let out a soft groan as your grip on his loosened and you relaxed into the bed. you felt yourself partially get crushed by your lover but he gave a few more earnest thrusts as he made sure that his cum shot to the back of your womb.

he pulled out and dropped beside you. he tucked some hair behind your ear and wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of his hand. your breathing was heavy, but you were both so happy. to share your first time together felt so special.

you nestled yourself into his arms and held his hand. you exhaled contently then said, "my husband."

he kissed the top of your head, he felt complete, "my missus."

part two

[the-froschamethyst4]

Viking! König

————

Viking! König Headcanons

NSFW

————

————

Viking König who starts making sharper weapons to slaughter his enemies

Viking König who has a soft spot only for his wife. You came from a different village, one that König is known for “collecting their tax” for his protection. You were part of an arranged marriage because your family couldn’t pay him, so you where the payment

Viking König who won’t let anything happen to you. You both grew to love each other

Viking König has a bit of that dad body with a bit of muscle to him

Viking König who is covered in traditional tribal tattoos for his bravery as a warrior and clan leader

Viking König who lives kind of secluded from everyone else but everyone knows where to find him if anything happens

With that being said Viking König like to take baths in the river with you naked joining him in the same river you both washing dirt off each other and it leads into something more

Viking König has started to like walking around his home naked or half naked and likes for you to join him

Viking König who loves seeing your face, moaning his name or placing your small hands on his lower stomach knowing he is way bigger than you and you look sexy as hell under him

Viking König who’s favorite position is missionary because he loves seeing your face while you are under him taking him so well

Viking König who carries you on his arm showing you off in a way, you are all giddy when he flexes and you are slightly raised up

Viking König who treats you like the Queen or Princess you are. You sit on his lap in the great dining hall with the entire clan. He let’s you eat from his plate that was more of a feast than anything

Viking König who eats you out on the big table with the clan members acting like nothing is happening

Viking König loves being home and sees his wife walking around the home nothing but bare skin

Viking König who loves you laying on the warm furs on your shared bed

“How could you look so beautiful?” You just shrug at his comment

Viking König who loves seeing you get off with nothing but your fingers, your warm bodies finally getting close to each other and he starts to help you out

Viking König who hates being interrupted while his time with you

“Someone better be dying!” König yells.

Viking König who is intimidating, buff, cold, ruthless, and cruel, the little time he has with you and it gets interrupted by someone he’s pissed

Viking König who sits on his throne as a traitor was amongst his clan

Viking König who lets the traitor take an axe to the face and head and then goes back to you

Viking König who starts wanting a child

Viking König who takes his time with the baby making till you were comfortable with the idea of having to carry a baby around in you for 9 months

Viking König who treats you like you were glass. His hands always holding you as you tried to move around the clan

Viking König who scares off all the man who thought you looked even more sexier when you were pregnant

“How dare they look at you?” König growls while looking down at you

“I’m okay, König,” you tell him, patting his arm.

Viking König who becomes a tad jealous of your baby always latched to you

Viking König who is seen as the best father

Viking König who takes your sons hunting for the first time. He shows your son how to shot a bow, it started out with fish and he made his way to start hunting turkey and deer next

Viking König who sees your daughters making things out of leaves and flowers. Flower crowns, and woven baskets, he like carrying them around for her as she collects her materials for more things to make

Viking König who sends his kids to bed early because he loves to have his time with you, making love to you and kissing every square inch of your body just hear your soft moans

Viking König who loves having date night in a stream of water naked with you, you two drinking and it became very heated in the water

Viking König who likes to play with his children, having a lot of kids and he spends all of his time with them the best her could

Viking König who gets caught in the middle of his daughters braiding his hair, putting flowers in his hair, curling his hair with pinecones and they pretended to give him more tattoos

Viking König who plays 'hide and seek' with his sons, showing them how to not get caught by the enemy and how to be sneaky when also hunting.

"I found you Leon," König says, pointing an arrow at his son hiding behind a tree.

"Dad~" he groans, coming out from behind the tree.

"I saw you Claus," he comes out from the tree, that Leon was behind.

"Felix, go wash up, your mother will hate seeing you covered in mud. If I can see you, your enemy will too," König says as he walked back to his home with his boys behind him.

Viking König who starts training himself to get ready for when he has to leave you and his children for a battle

Viking König who hates when he has to leave, he's leaving you to handle 5 kids on your own

Viking König who started a big feast before he has to leave

[simonrileysfavteacup]

As always, Simon stumbles into your shared apartment, sighing. He drops his gear by the door, stripping himself down to his boxers. 

He walks into the living room, where the tv was on mute and a figure slept on your couch. He smiles, heading over to you, a blanket over your sleeping body. Simon stares at you for a moment before picking you up, making you stir awake. 

He smiles, “Hi lovie.”

“Si?”

“‘Hats me.” 

“You’re home?”

“Yup.”

“I haven’t made dinner…”

“S’ what? Pizza place down the stree’ is open.”

“But you deserve a home cooked-”

“Lovie? Why are you s’ hot?”

You blink. “What?”

“Like burnin’ hot…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Your burnin’, lovie.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, thrashing around in his arms. “I needa make dinner!”

“You’re sick?”

You don’t respond. 

“Bed. Now.” That was his stern voice. His lieutenant voice. “‘m orderin’ takeout.”

“But-”

“Lovie,” he warns. “Don’t make me tie you t’ the bed. Now, stay there an’ rest.”

He leaves the room to order dinner. When he gets back, you’re fast asleep. 

***

You stir awake hours later, the TV in your bedroom on, Simon sitting next to you. He’s munching on a rice bowl. You groan, “My head hurts.”

“Have ya taken any meds?” You shake your head. He holds out a bite of his food to you. You accept it happily. “Got them rice pla’ers you love so much.”

“Thank you. I can never get old of them.”

“You should.”

“I love you so much, but I haven’t gotten old of you.” 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re gone take some meds after eatin’, ‘kay?”

You nod. “Love you, Si.”

“Love you too, lovie.”

[stoutpancakes]

Okay but been thinking of Orc!König.

Orc!König who finds you when raiding your village with his clan and who knows you're far sweeter, far more rewarding than the other treasures he loots from the village.

Orc!König who takes you with him as a trophy no matter how hard you fight back and can't deny the fact that it only riles him up more.

Orc!König who dresses you in the finest furs and gives you the best meats and sweetest fruits to feast upon to properly court you.

Orc!König who is reassured you're the one when you tend to his wounds after a nasty scrap with a fellow orc.

Orc!König who allows you to braid his hair, adding a little bead along with the others in his auburn locks to symbolize your marriage.

Orc!König who lays you upon the furs lining the floor of his tent to make love to you, keeping you warm all night long with the sounds of his guttural grunts and groans filling the tent.

Orc!König whose heart beats wildly at the sight of you being pregnant with a half-orc baby, watching as you waddle around camp with a hand on your back and one cradling your swollen stomach.

Orc!König and the way he will smite anyone who even breathes wrong in your direction, vowing to protect you and your baby from anyone and anything.

[cntloup]

18+ MDNI

imagine you're just chilling with simon on the couch watching trash tv while his hands rest on your waist

but one hand starts to drift lower and lower into your panties and his rough fingers begin to lazily toy with your clit, pinching and circling the sensitive bud

and his other hand trails higher under your shirt, playing with your boobs, kneading the soft flesh

you're just so warm and soft he can't help it :(

all the while his lips are pressed to your ear, cooing praises like "You're so pretty, baby... so soft... such a good girl f'me... jus' sittin' back and lettin' me play with you."

and now you're all worked up and whimpering, leaning closer into his touch

your pretty pussy all wet with your slick, begging to be filled up :(

and he rewards you by inserting two thick fingers into your weeping cunt

"Simon!" you gasp as he rolls and twists his calloused fingers against your sensitive sticky walls

he scissors his fingers inside you, making your sopping pussy squelch

your cheeks start to heat up at the sound

but soon the combination of his hand on your breasts, rough fingers rolling your perky pretty nipples between them and the pumping of his fingers inside your tight wet pussy makes your brain all foggy

and you're too far gone to care as your slick walls start to tighten around his fingers

"let go, baby. cum f'me." he murmurs while picking up the pace

and the all-consuming wave of your orgasm washes over you with a loud moan as your milky white cream coats his fingers

and he licks them clean off your juices

then brings his fingers to your lips and you lick the mix of your cum and his saliva off his fingers

i need him so bad it's not a joke anymore :(

[saddestsquid]

König & his demonic back shots are plaguing my thoughts 😣😣

Warnings: 18+, this is pure filth so like yeah🤨 König x female reader, p in v, just a short blurb ୨୧

Cause I know damn well this man would give the FILTHIEST back shots. Like you feel like your being resurrected every time he slams you onto his cock.

“Maus- oh fuuuuck…” He groaned, drilling into you with so much force the bed shook.

You were moaning and screaming into the pillow, your backside being held up completely by him. He manhandled you on his cock like a doll, mindlessly slamming into your cunt over and over like he was trying to fuck the demons right out of his body.

He reached down and circled your waist, holding you up with just one arm. With his free hand he rubbed at your clit, always making sure you feel good no matter how pussy-drunk he is. The man is just so big—it feels like he’s everywhere. If you didn’t know any better you’d assume he was reaching all the way down to your throat. The slight pain of him slamming into your cervix overwhelmed your senses and heightened the pleasure along with the feeling of him playing with your clit. You doubted either of you were making it there after this but you could have swore you saw a flash of heavens gates every time he plunged into you.

He spread your legs wider and angled his thrusts to meet that spongey spot inside you every time his pelvis met your ass with an audible slap ! Even the sound of the headboard slamming into the wall wasn’t enough to drown out both your noises. This was definitely gonna earn you a noise complaint—tho it was worth it for the mind blowing orgasm that washed over you when that coil in your stomach finally snapped.

You came all over his cock, leaving a sticky white ring around the base of it that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of every time he slid his thick cock in and out again. With a pathetic whimper you never thought you’d hear come out of a man of his size, he pressed into you as deep as your body would let him and came hard. 

So much of his seed was stuffed inside you that it began to flow out, dripping all over both of your thighs. Before you could complain, he collapsed on top of you, crushing you with his weight. It felt like being stuck under a city bus, but you just sighed and let him have this one.

[empresskylo]

you can't convince me that simon doesn't swoon when you first start calling him by his first name.

like he's so used to being ghost to everyone. even back home, he doesn't have many people there anymore, no one to know him as simon. at most, it's the man at the local convenience store or his one nice neighbor in the apartment across from his who knows him as that. and on that rare occasion price says his real name, he feels human again.

but when he finally tells you his name, you instantly start using it instead of calling him ghost. the first time he hears it over comms, he gets this weird butterfly feeling in his stomach. he becomes so infatuated with the way you say his name.

he likes that you're the only one to call him that, just like he's the only one to call soap johnny. when someone else teases him, asking if they can call him simon too, he definitely grunts out a ‘i wouldn’t if i were you’

and whenever you call him si, he is reminded how much he fucking loves you. he gets so soft when you call him that. it's like reminding him he's not just a killer or a weapon of mass destruction. he's a person. he's your person. he's more than the mask.

[sinkovia]

Nsfw, smut, 18+

Knight Simon x Princess Fem!Reader

Deep grunts escape from Simon's throat as he fucks you in your chambers, your moans muffled as he presses his hand over your mouth. The last thing Simon needed was for one of your handmaidens to catch you letting the kingdom's most barbaric knight fuck you in secret.

“Can't have anyone catching us princess.” Your eyes rolled back in your head as he continued to abuse your soft gummy cervix.

Simon had denied you at first, he didn't want to be the one to take the innocence and purity of the kingdom's princess and he wasn’t looking for a death wish if you got caught. But the more time he spent with you after your father knighted him as your sworn protector, the more he started to feel for you.

The more he would buck his thick veiny cock into his calloused hand as he thought of you. The image of you being buried deep with his throbbing cock, the sound of your soft moans echoing off the walls of your chambers. 

Wanting you became a need fairly quickly and you were more than willing to let the man you admired from afar for so long take your purity away.

“I’m going to ruin you for the man you’re promised to, the second he sticks his worthless cock inside your pretty cunt he’ll know your innocence belongs to another man.”

[sweetnothingtm]

simon riley who’s obsessed with a camgirl.

simon riley who has his card memorized so he can endlessly tip you with little messages of praise.

good girl. what a good dirty whore. that’s it, smile for daddy. finished so soon? i won’t ask twice - again, princess. wish i could fuck those little plump lips. nasty little slut.

simon riley who’s your top viewer and spends thousands of dollars donating you gifts.

simon riley who jerks himself off to saved videos of you smiling sweetly as you dip your hand in between your thighs.

simon riley, who bought you special lingerie for Valentine’s Day just to see you cum over and over and over in the tight red lace.

simon riley - pussy whipped for a girl who’s never met him but who he’s destined to ruin with all his dirty little fantasies.

damn my bad I’ll stop…