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random-thot-generator · 10 months

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Try a Little Tenderness

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem Reader

Summary: Simon has just returned home in the middle of the night from a mission in less than stellar condition. Understanding that he was in desperate need of some TLC, you put aside the ‘frenemy’ dynamic the two of you usually operate within to take care of him, instead. Your gentle ministrations elicit a reaction that neither of you expect, but perhaps have been yearning for all along.

Warnings: Language, explicit sexual content, touching of naughty bits - Simon gets a helping hand in the bath, fluff and feelings, no Y/N

(A/N: This is a thot connected to an idea I had for a series. Still not sure about the series, but what ev.

This is just me exploring the intimate relationship between the characters. It is minor smut compared to what I usually write, meant to be a vulnerable moment for Simon, and for reader as well. I dunno, I feel like a certain amount of trust needs to be established before Simon allows himself to be with someone in an intimate way.

For a little backstory, Reader is Simon’s housekeeper/roommate/frenemy. It’s been platonic up to this point, but there have been some charged moments leading up to this. This is the turning point in the relationship, the first time Simon allows himself to really indulge in reader’s attention and care. Reader and Simon have been living together for about a year by this point but have known each other for almost two. Simon’s pet name for reader is ‘Doll’; reader’s pet name for Simon is ‘Grumpy’.)

Word Count: 2777

It was almost midnight by the time Simon shuffled through his front door. He was dead on his feet, still wearing the same clothes he put on three days ago, covered in filth and stinking to high hell. He would normally have stayed on base, cleaned up, ate and retired to his quarters to rest, but for some reason, he’d texted you mid-flight to tell you he was on his way back. He hadn’t been expecting an immediate answer, but he got one.

[DOLL]: What’s ur ETA? I’ll wait up 4 u. Have u eaten?

Simon had hovered over his phone, glancing about the plane, not sure how to respond. He supposed he didn’t have to stay on base. He’d just never had a reason to return home before. He knew he should tell you not to wait up, to go to bed, that he would see you tomorrow, but instead he found himself tapping out a different message.

[GRUMPY]: Landing in twenty. Be home approx 2hrs.

[DOLL]: I’ll be waiting. C u soon.

He re-read the message several times. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ This was new for him, having someone to go home to, having someone there expecting him, waiting up to see him. Sure, he had come home to you before, but not like this. This was... premeditated.

As he closed the door behind him and locked it, he heard your feet padding through the sitting room and turned. He couldn’t help the smile that spread under the balaclava when he saw you. You were dressed in one of his old T-shirts, a pair of flannel sleep shorts peeking out beneath the hem, and a pair of those ugly fuzzy socks on your feet. Your hair was loose and hanging down your back, not quite dry yet from an earlier shower, and your face was free of makeup. He liked seeing you like this better than any other way.

You were looking at him in that direct way that always got to him, assessing him, checking him over. He waited for one of your customary snarky greetings, but instead your brows furrowed.

“You look exhausted, Si. C’mere. Sit down,” you instructed, pointing at the entryway bench. Simon didn’t even hesitate, just did as he was told. He watched you kneel before him and start unlacing his boots.

“Ya don’t got t’do that, Doll. I can―“

“Si, hush,” you murmured, your voice soft and gentle. “I got this, okay? You’re home. Relax.”

He didn’t have it in him to argue, so let you have your way. You removed his boots and stuck them under the bench by his trainers, then stood and held your hand out. “C’mon. You need a bath.”

He let you lead him up the stairs, but instead of taking him to his ensuite bathroom, you led him down the hallway to the bathroom that you used. You motioned for him to sit down on the toilet while you stoppered the tub and turned on the taps. He watched with curiosity as you opened the cabinet below the sink, taking out a glass jar filled with some sort of pinkish granules, sprinkling a generous portion of it into the filling tub.

“Wha’s that?”

“Epsom salts with lavender and eucalyptus. It’ll help ease your sore muscles,” you told him, replacing the jar in the cabinet. You turned to look him over again. “Let’s get you out of those dirty clothes. I’ll get you some clean ones once you’re in the bath. C’mon. Arms up.”

Simon thought about objecting. He was a grown man, he could undress himself, but as soon as he felt your hands on him, all complaints went right out the window. He held his arms out so you could pull the tail of his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans, shivering when he felt your fingers graze his lats as you peeled it up and over his head.

“I smell like shite,” he grumbled, embarrassed for you to be this close to him when he was in such a disgusting state.

You huffed, the sound low and amused. “You smell like a soldier who just got back from deployment. Believe me, I’ve smelled worse.” You motioned for him to stand again. Once he regained his feet, your hands went to his waist, undoing the belt and pulling it free, then you undid the button and fly of his jeans. You pushed them down until they bunched around his knees, then instructed him to lean on you while you tugged them off his legs.

And he just... let you. He had not had anyone care for him like this since his last stint in the medical bay, and that had been a male nurse with hands rougher than his own. He’d not had a woman care for him like this since he was a small boy, when his mother would get him ready for his bath. He felt his chest constrict, almost told you to stop, but your hand on the back of his calf silenced him.

“Foot up,” you said, letting him lean on you again as you stripped off first one sock and then the other. Once you straightened, you placed a hand at the small of his back and gave him a gentle push towards the tub. “I’ll go get you some clean clothes while you get in,” you said, then stooped to gather up his dirty things. “Be back in a minute.”

You left him staring after you, disappearing down the hallway. He turned back to the tub, eyeing the hot water lapping at the sides. Aromatic steam rose from its surface, too tempting to ignore. Pushing his underwear off his hips, he let them drop on the floor and stepped out of them, then climbed into the tub.

He groaned long and low as the hot water enveloped him, certain he had never felt anything better in his whole life. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head back on the edge, only then realizing that he still had on his balaclava. He hesitated for a moment, then reached up and pulled it off as well, dropping the dirty hood on top of his underwear. Fuck it. You’d seen his face before and hadn’t made a big deal out of it, didn’t even comment on it, really, just took it in stride like you did everything else.

He cracked an eye open when you re-entered the room, watching as you placed his clean clothes on the counter next to the sink. You opened another cabinet and removed some towels and a washcloth, glanced over at him, then opened a drawer and took out what looked like a pack of wipes and a squat, plastic jar with a pink lid. You brought it all to the tub with you and knelt by the side, near his head. You held up the pack of wipes and pointed at the black paint around his eyes.

“Figured these would help take that gunk off. I’ve got some cold cream, too. Can I...”

You wanted to touch his face. His mouth dropped open to say no, but then he closed it and swallowed. You were looking right at him, a normal expression on your face, not flinching away or averting your eyes. If it didn’t bother you, then he would allow it. For now. He gave a slow nod of assent.

You opened the pack of wipes and set them beside you, then opened the cold cream. “Lean your head back and close your eyes for me.”

Simon did as he was told, though his brain was sounding a klaxon alarm in his head. He was exposing his throat to someone, was closing his eyes and leaving himself vulnerable to your mercy. Did you see how tense he was? Could you see the muscles spasming as he fought not to move, to push you away, to fend you off like an enemy? Did you understand what this was doing to him right now?

Apparently, you did, at least to some extent.

“Okay, Si. I’m going to put this cream around your eyes. It will feel cold, so don’t freak out. If you need to stop, just say the word. Alright?”

“Yeah,” he croaked out, waiting, steeling himself for the contact.

The first touch had him flinching, but he forced himself to remain still as you spread the cream around his eyes, working it in with your fingers in small circular motions. When you finished, you set the jar down and picked up the wipes. “I’m gonna clean all this off with these wipes. They’ll feel cold, too.”

This time, he only nodded, more relaxed now. Your touch had been soothing once he’d gotten used to it. It was... nice. He didn’t even twitch an eyelash when he felt the cool pressure of your fingers against his jaw, letting you tilt his head towards you. Your other hand began wiping gently at his face with one of the wipes. They smelled slightly floral, similar to the cold cream; he liked it.

It took several minutes to clean his face, neither of you saying anything. You were patient and methodical, cleaning away all the paint until none of it remained.

“Okay. Done with that,” you murmured, fingers moving from his face to his hair. “I’m going to wash your hair next, okay?”

“Hm,” he hummed in consent, not even bothering to open his eyes.

You wet his hair and then poured shampoo into your palm, working your hands together before placing them on his head. As your fingers curled and began to work his hair into a lather, Simon couldn’t help the low groan that rumbled out. It felt like heaven, the way your fingers massaged his scalp and neck. He could have whined when you stopped, but his breath hitched when he felt your fingertips under his chin, tilting his head back.

“Just need to rinse your hair, Grumpy. Keep your eyes closed.”

Again, he did as you instructed, not offering so much as a grunt of complaint when you rinsed his hair and then used the washcloth to dry his face. You raked your fingers through his hair, noting how choppy and uneven it was. Maybe he’d let you cut it some time, but for now, you would stick to what you knew he would allow.

“How ‘bout I wash your back for you and then I’ll go downstairs and make you something to eat while you finish your bath?”

He blinked his eyes open and stared at you. The steam and trapped heat from the bath were making you sweat, a light sheen making your skin gleam in the warm light. He had the sudden urge to run his thumb up your throat, collect the moisture beading there and taste it. He felt his cock give a twitch of interest below the water and brought his bent knees closer together. Grasping the edges of the tub, he pulled himself in to a sitting position, back bowed towards you.

Pleased to see him so cooperative, you dunked the washcloth in the water and grabbed your body wash, squirting out a couple of dollops. Working the cloth in your hands until you had a good lather, you rested one hand on his shoulder and used the other to slowly scrub the cloth over his back in large circles. You could feel the tension easing out of his shoulders, watched his head tip forward until he finally crossed his forearms on his knees and rested his forehead against them.

When you were done with his back, you didn’t stop, moving up to his shoulders and then down his arm. He leaned back, studying the way you washed each finger, working the cloth between them. You glanced up at him. “Other arm?”

He twisted around and held his arm out to you, resting his wrist on the edge of the tub. You washed it with as much care as you had the other, leaning over the tub to reach his underarm. When you went to slide the cloth away, he caught your wrist and pulled it to the center of his chest. He then closed his eyes and leaned back, letting his head rest against the edge again.

Slow circles worked the lathered cloth over his broad chest and collarbones, and you smiled when he tipped his chin up to let you wash his neck. A soft breath hissed between his lips as your hand dipped below the water’s surface to wash his sides and stomach, his brows ticking together when you brought the cloth back up. He shifted, his knees going wide to lean against the sides of the tub.

You were beginning to feel heat simmering in your lower belly that sent a blush creeping up your neck. “Do, uh... I can wash your legs next. If you like.”

He caught your hand in his, eyes still closed, and pushed it beneath the water again. “Wash here,” he replied, his voice like gravel in his throat.

You held your breath as he guided your hand down to his cock, let him wrap your fingers around its swollen girth and hold them there. His chest was rising and falling, chin tipping forward to rest on it when he felt you grip him tighter. Your lips parted as you gave him a tentative stroke, your breath puffing out in little pants as you watched him let out a shuddering breath, his eyes rolling open to reveal a lust-dazed expression before sliding closed again.

Your hand slid up and down his shaft in slow, even strokes, working him gradually, wanting him to enjoy what you were doing to him. His pleasure incited your own, and you could feel your panties grow damp with your arousal as you watched him slowly fall apart. He was panting now, head lolling back once more, hooded, hazy eyes staring up at the ceiling, his knuckles going white as they gripped the edge of the tub.

Your thighs squeezed together when a wrecked moan tore from his lips as you worked at him beneath the cloudy water, wishing it was clear enough for you to see him as well as feel him. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, the feel of his hot length pulsing in your hand almost too much to bear.

“Ah, fuck...” he huffed out, his back beginning to curl forward. He lifted his eyes to yours, mouth open and panting, a look of near desperation on his face. His hand came up to grip the nape of your neck, drawing you close until his forehead rested against yours, holding your gaze. His nose brushed against yours in an intimate caress, lips almost touching, the two of you sharing the same air. “Don’t stop,” he husked out.

The speed of your strokes increased, your hand slipping up to focus on the head, making his knees draw up as he tensed. You could feel him swelling in your hand, growing bigger and harder as he neared his release. His eyes grew wide, mouth falling open as his jaw went slack.

“It’s okay, Simon,” you whispered to him, “I got you,” and that was all the prompting he needed.

His grip turned into a vice on the nape of your neck as he erupted beneath the surface of the water, and he growled against your mouth, teeth gritting into a snarl as he pulsed in your hand. You didn’t stop stroking him until his eyes closed and grip loosened on your neck, his breaths puffing out in exerted gasps over your lips.

You let him rest against you, not bothering to move or say anything, wanting him to have this quiet moment, to just relax in the knowledge that he was home and safe, that you were here for him. You closed your eyes and let yourself enjoy the moment as well, relishing the quiet, the peace.

Simon’s eyes flickered open, not sure what to expect, only to find your eyes closed, lashes shadowing your cheeks, a gentle smile on your face. You looked so calm, so at peace. You looked... content.

You blinked your eyes open, startled, when you felt the hesitant press of his lips against yours, but you didn’t shy away, instead letting him feel you smile against his lips before you tenderly kissed him back.

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undercoverpena · 1 year

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had to see you

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%. word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here

simon ghost riley masterlist

You love the rain.

Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit.

But, at home, it’s refreshing.

It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next.

Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.

It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called.

On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices.

At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat.

Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather.

Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.

You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts.

Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.

You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.

The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.

When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.

That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them.

Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness.

It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.

It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock.

Short. Deliberate.

Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door.

When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them.

Only to see him.

“Ghost?”

He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face.

His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.

You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.

Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.

“You lettin’ me in?”

Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it.

Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks.

He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second.

Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“

“Someone broke into my place.”

You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was.

Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back.

“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?”

“Not sure.”

Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”

He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain.

“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper.

As if it’s so rarely ever said.

You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything.

He’s Ghost.

Silent. Quiet, Ghost.

Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound.

Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?”

Silence.

A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.”

You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.”

He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to.

“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.”

You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him.

But you’re more nervous.

Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is.

Him being here.

And yet, not that odd at all.

“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.

He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him.

His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit.

“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add.

Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show.

And then, he says, “It’s nice.”

“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”

“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly.

“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.

Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.”

His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table.

“It’s not what I expected.”

“You’ve thought about my place?”

Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down.

You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward.

“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”

You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement.

“You were closer.”

Oh.

Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason.

Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months…

It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.

Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat.

“I had to see if you were okay.”

You don’t place the plates down, not immediately.

Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat.

He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue.

Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you.

“Well, I’m fine.”

“Had to be sure.”

You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.”

His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.

“Tea?” you ask.

Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips.

“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”

You make him snort.

And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.

If anything, it adds to it.

Shit.

Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.

“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand.

You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him.

Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between.

He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it.

It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down.

That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room.

He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes.

You cannot die.

Why?

But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again.

Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost.

Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm.

“What?”

Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’.

You forget how good he is at reading people.

Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle.

Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart.

Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat.

Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.”

Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk.

But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you.

Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.”

“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.”

“How then?”

Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit.

“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.”

You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name.

Your real name.

Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier.

“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”

“It?”

You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense.

“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?”

Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you.

He’s silent.

So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it.

Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.”

You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.

For what you’re not sure.

Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination.

So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.”

He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.”

But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape.

Go back.

Go back to him.

Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.

He came to check on you. You.

Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak.

It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.

It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again.

His hoodie is gone.

Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.

Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin.

“Tell me to go back to your living room.”

Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side.

You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again.

As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined.

“Words, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you.

“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.”

Speechless, your lips part.

Yes. Please, yes.

Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—

His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality.

“Simon…” you manage to whisper.

Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough.

He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.

Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips.

Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed.

He smells different than usual.

Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough.

“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?”

His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for.

“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up.

His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.”

If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it.

All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.

And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do.

“Wait.”

It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you.

Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.

And he smirks.

The devious bastard smirks.

Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him.

“Fuck…”

“Part them, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back.

The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.

You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big.

Almost too big.

The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans.

He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers.

You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him.

The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side.

“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours.

Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you.

“I want you.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”

“I hope you fucking don’t.”

His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.

You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds.

You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.

“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.”

“Simon…”

Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched.

He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you.

You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows.

“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.”

It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.

He does ruin you.

Not the first time, the second, but on the third.

Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom.

You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.

A painting in colours of his own design.

You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care.

Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe.

You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.

"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.

Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.

Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.

“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”

He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move.

Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building.

"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."

His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.

"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."

You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.

Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.

“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.”

Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.”

You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart?

His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.

“The latter.”

You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.

Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.

“You make shit tea, though.”

read part two

a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost riley #cod ghost x reader smut #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost angst #cod ghost smut #ghost smut

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konigslilcumslut · 3 months

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Ghost and sexual tension. (Fem version)

It started off as just one night together in that stupid safe house, both in need of something to take their minds away from the mass amount of shit going on.

But then came the passing glances.

The hitches of breath whenever they stood too close together.

The heat in the air whenever their gazes met for longer than necessary.

It was only a week or so before he had you in his office, pinned against the desk with his hands on either side of the wood around you as the heat between you grew just too hot for him to handle, staring you down with those dark eyes as his chest would rise shakily with each breath, holding himself back from just taking what he wanted

“You’re becoming a problem soldier.” His rough voice would ring out as his grip on the desk grew tighter in frustration.

“I can’t fucking think. Can’t breathe around you.” He growls out as his masked face would inch closer to yours, eyes narrowing and pupils dilating with a very obvious lust.

“All I can fucking think about is having your legs around me and ruining this pussy all over again.” His words would come out with a venom, almost angry at the fact he could barely concentrate on his job.

His hand would inch closer to your hips, his arms tense with a heavy level of self restraint.

“God I just wanna bend you over this desk and fuck you till you can’t walk.” He sighs, one hand reaching for his mask, pulling it over his nose just to let his mouth be visible.

There’d be a beat of heated silence, air thick with want and his gaze so dark his eyes were bordering on black.

And then he wouldn’t be able to hold back anymore, so overwhelmed with lust for you that he’s kissing you like a wild animal, all teeth and tongue as his hands tear at your clothes.

He’d have you bent over, one hand in your hair to keep your face buried amongst the pile of paperwork he’d been too distracted to complete as he roughly snaps his hips into yours, a low growl of pleasure escaping him.

And trust when I say it was going to become a regular occurrence.

He’s addicted to you and he’s not afraid to show you just how much.

#cod smut #cod ghost #ghost #ghost cod #ghost smut #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod ghost smut

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ghostlychief · 1 year

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*riding ghost*

NSFW: MINORS DNI

warnings: riding; smut🥴 is that enough warning lol pls don’t read if you’re a minor 😭

this honestly just popped up into my head and I frantically started typing on my phone (bear with me bc I haven’t written anything smutty in so long and never have been good at it lol) anyways happy Friday!

You legs start to shake as you continuously lift yourself up then effortlessly slide back down on Ghost’s dick. The stretch is immaculate and you find yourself with your head tilted back with your eyes closed, soaking in his size and the euphoric current flowing through you right now.

In order to ground yourself, your hands move to hold onto Ghost’s that are grasping your waist. Although his grip is firm, it’s not too much for you and you love the pressure. As you move up and down, your breasts graze his sweaty chest, making your already overly sensitive nipples tingle.

You’re getting tired, and you’re about to reach your max. This will be your fourth climax and your poor body is reaching its limit. You let out a whimper and move one hand so it’s resting on his shoulder now. Ghost can tell you’re almost there.

“C’mon, baby. Just one more for me.” His grip tightens just a little so that he can help you move up and down, alleviating some of the stress on your legs. The slickness between your legs is getting more and more out of control as you get closer and closer to your demise.

With a shaky breath and a hint of a whine, you confess, “I don’t know if I can.” Your legs are exhausted, heart is pounding, but he just feels so good that even in your tired state, you still feel such a sense of blissfulness; you can’t stop.

“Yes you can.” His hands continue to help you move, which makes it easier to go at a faster pace.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” You let out a whine at his praise.

His hand moves where your two bodies meet and moves his fingers in slow agonizing circles. You’re at the precipice, ready to drop any moment. When you finally do, you feel a bright warmness spread through your entire body, and you can also feel Ghost shudder under you.

You collapse against his chest and wrap your arms around his neck. His hand gingerly comes up to stroke your spine and you’re trying your best not to fall asleep.

“See, I knew you could do it.” He has a teasing lilt to his tone, and even though you can’t see his face, you know a smirk is coating his lips. If your body wasn’t drained of energy, you would have slapped his shoulder.

You let out a grunt against his shoulder, “You owe me a massage.”

You feel him shrug under you, “Fair enough.”

—

IDK WHAT THIS IS BUT HOPE YOU ENJOYED <3 I haven’t written anything smutty in so long so this is probably trash 😶

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beamergirll11 · 11 months

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Do you like Ghost And Konig?

Well I have a treat for you! This man sounds just like Ghost. He even has audios that are actually meant to be Ghost, He has one audio that is Konig. NSFW.

#Konig #cod #call of duty #cod ghost #Simon Riley #cod Konig #cod smut #call of duty smut #cod ghost smut #cod Konig smut #soundgasm

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theywhowriteandknowthings · 19 days

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Blurb I have for a possessive!Simon one shot I have half written. NSFW after the cut.

Possessive(but not mean) Simon, oral, penetrative sex, gender neutral/no description of reader’s junk, just a generally smutty Drabble. Completely blank insert reader. (Full fic will be AFAB!reader though)

NSFW - my blog and all content is 18+ Minors DNI

Possessive Simon who doesn’t break the guy’s face after he touches you at the club.

Instead he shoves his tongue into your mouth in front of him. Pulls a moan so loud from you as he pulls you against him, half the club hears just as there’s a lull in the music.

“You’re coming home with me, now.” He rasps as he preens a little from how hard he is already.

The moment you’re home, he kicks the door shut and you don’t even make it two steps before he has your dress hiked up/pants torn down as he devours you, worships at the altar of your sex.

Then, when he finally gets you to bed he fucks you so slowly, so intimately that you’re begging, crying to be fucked until you pass out. Smothering you with his body as he fills you with his thick length over and over again.

When you’re both left panting and sweating in each others arms he somehow holds you like you’re both fragile like a baby bird, and so tight like you might slip through his grasp.

He makes sure to get you in the shower, and bundle you up in bed with snacks, electrolytes and a fluffy blanket.

Simon may be possessive, but he knows that you only have eyes for him. He just likes to gently remind you (and himself) of that fact sometimes.

#simon ghost riley #Simon Riley #Simon Riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost cod #cod mw2 #ghost smut #cod ghost smut #Drabble

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matcha-flavored-cake · 1 year

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Look out

I think Motto Motto likes you

I like'em BIG

#simon riley x reader #simon x reader #simon ghost riley smut #headcanons cod #cod ghost smut #cod mwii #call of duty #call of duty memes #simon ghost riley memes #memes #cod mem #funny #smut #x reader #x y/n #uncorrect quotes #ghost x reader

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obsessedduh · 2 months

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Simon 'Ghost' Riley who loves fingering you during meetings. the way you squirm from his gloved fingers buried deep into your cunt from under the table. the way they thrust into your g-spot. it makes you clench you thighs, begging that no one would notice how good Simon is making you feel from under the table.

i mean imagine the look on Price's if he figures out that his lieutenant is fingering you from under the table, during one of his meetings, he'd go batshit crazy.

that's what scares you, scares you to keep your mouth closed, like simon told you earlier on, and who are you to disobey? you're Simon's good girl, you would never disobey him.

you were so very close to orgasm, and Simon knew that, you could tell by hidden smirk, under his mask. his fingers moved faster and faster and your high was coming closer and closer. what was he doing? he knew you couldn't keep quiet during your ograsm! why isn't he stopping?

he went faster and clench onto the table and let out a loud moan as you came. everyone looked at you, mostly Price, who was currently staring daggers at you both

"What was tha' you two?"

uh oh...you guys are in trouble.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

wanna know more about me? —> here

masterlist —> here

part 2 —> here

i was thinking, should i do poly!tf141 with ghost, soap, price and gaz?

#🎀 — 𝑶𝑩𝑺𝑬𝑺𝑺𝑬𝑫 #cod ghost #cod ghost smut #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley smut #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you

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poisonedprose · 8 months

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I just got this thought but how do you think Simon would react if his gf had an only fans🤭🤭🤭

₊˚✧ cam girl — in which simon reacts to you filming for your only fans

simon 'ghost' riley x pornstar!fem!reader

warnings: 0.5k words, smut, pwp, f!mastubation, f!nipple piercings, voyeurism, exhibitionism,

masterlists

You had mentioned vaguely to Simon about your job. You never went in too much detail, only saying that it's an online, stay at home job. He never took your inexplicable answer to heart, he was the same way when you asked about his job. He enjoyed the simplicity of not stressing over telling each other every single thing and with him barely being home he'd never caught you doing your job.

Well, that was until today. He was laying in bed, reading a book that he's been meaning to read since however long ago when you asked if it was alright if you got some work done. He, of course, was blissfully unaware of what was about to happen and happily gave you permission, promising it wouldn't distract him.

As he promised, he wasn't distracted by you. He didn't notice as you set up a camera, placed a few pillows on the floor, dug into the box he stored all of the toys he loved to use on you, and took your clothes off, being left in a matching lingerie set. Your cold. metal nipple piercings shining through the mesh of the lingerie. You felt nervous as you sat on the floor, in front of the camera. You'd never filmed any videos with a live audience before, especially with an audience as enticing as Simon was.

Ghost looked up from his book, shooting you a quick glance before returning to reading. His eyes widen and his head shoots up again, his pupils dilating when he sees you in front of the camera with barely anything on. He watched with intent eyes as you turned the camera on. He closed his book and put it on the bed. He slowly sat up, breaking his promise of not getting distracted.

You felt his eyes glaring into you, nervous butterflies bubbling in your stomach as you trail your hand down your body. You rub your clothed clit, exaggerating a moan. Simon's eyes practically bulge out of his head. He would have never guessed your online, stay at home job was porn. His face flashed with jealousy, he envied the men who sat at their computers and watched you perform for them.

But another part of him was just totally and utterly aroused. The fact that these strangers on the internet got to see you pleasure yourself did something to him that he couldn't explain. He should hate the fact that anyone other than him got to see you in your most intimate moments, but for some reason, all it did was create a huge tent in his pants.

He looked back at you and watched the plush of your thighs as you rode one of the pillows. The bulge in his pants and the look in his eyes only grew with lust with each passing moment. Your high-pitched, pornographic moans were symphonic. He groaned lowly and ran a hand over his erection, softly palming himself to release any of the tension you were giving him.

He didn't even have time to process what you were doing before you were pushing your panties to the side and pushing the vibrator against your swollen clit. Your nerves seem to calm when you see he finds pleasure in this. His intent eyes only urged you more. Your fake moans were becoming more and more real. He only wished he knew about this sooner, maybe your videos could keep him from becoming lonely when he was deployed.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎┊ㅤㅤ💋 ㅤㅤ ﾟㅤㅤ ┊‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

#! ✪ ₊˚✧ cod .#ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost simon riley #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost smut #cod ghost smut #simon riley smut

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eggtartz · 5 months

Text

a/n : i know i said i won't write smut for a while but... i blame it on these two i had to 😔

warnings : smut (you know what to do with that), uhm the basics stuff i guess?!, blowjob, implied open relationship

Eiffel Tower (f! reader)

it started as a stupid challenge from the internet. it was a dumb bet, one you had mentioned to both Konig and Ghost. "who doesn't jack off for a month gets a reward" you purred to the two. initially, both of men had it easy. they were military men, having sheer and concentration of steel. that was, until, in the middle of November, you bought big guns. you were parading around the base with a seduction of Persephone and the beauty of Athena. Ghost had to excuse himself to release some steam, fighting his raging boner to the point the dummy in the training room broke. Konig is fuming under his sniper mask, the bulge in his pants were obvious. it's the way you glance at him that made him feral and he was tempted to touch himself or just slam your body on the wall to fuck you to the point you pass out.

alas, the two made it.

you gnawed your lip, determined to sabotage the two the best as you could. you slid to Ghost's office, making sure the uniform is showing some skin to him. his groan was muffled and he had to reposition himself. when your hands went to linger on the area of his crotch, he looked at you. a warning. "no touching, remember?". another failed plan.

you took matters in your hands, going into Konig's room and waiting for him on the bed, your hair down and pants gone. he entered and almost stumbled. still, he picked up your clothes and wore it back on you. he handled you like a toddler as you scowled. "wait!" you said when he left with a boner straining his boxers.

it went on and on, this sabotage of yours. none of them worked. you were getting annoyed, glancing at the calendar to see it's already the ends of November. the clock rings it's December and your door burst, two men towering over you.

you wanted to chuckle at their desperate actions as Ghost turned off your laptop and Konig carried you to the bed. you yelped as he threw you on the bed, biting your lip in excitement. "fucking hell, never going to entertain your ideas again princess" Ghost voice was deep, his hands hastily unfastening his belt. Konig gripped a fist of your hair "Ja, next time we're fucking you whenever we want to" he whispers as your insides tingled with excitement. he lifts his sniper mask as kisses your face but not on the lips. he rips off your uniform and discarded it on the floor. Ghost has already pumped his fist around his cock, observing how your pretty neck is getting strangled by Konig. Konig brings big hands to your neck as you giggled, his hands groping the flesh of your boobs. you panted in excitement and want as Konig latched on one breast, grazing his teeth on the nipple and with his tongue swirling the areola.

Ghost groaned, spitting on his hand and bringing it back to his cock. he pants, trying not to cum just yet. he slaps the other boob of yours and flicks the nipple carelessly. "put that lovely mouth to a use lovie" he nudges the tip on your lips, the other hand under your jaw. your drool drips on his slit as he pushes it in with a grunt. "hah.. feels so good" he rasps. he thrusted with no pace, sloppy as he fists your hair and using your mouth as he pleases. his vision grow blurry as you hollowed your cheeks to take in his length more and naughty hands fondled his balls.

Konig has moved down, placing himself right between your legs. he licked the underwear you had on as he pushed them aside, not shy to plunge two fingers inside your salivating pussy. you whimpered around Ghost's cock as he bought his hand to your throat. "focus now". Konig chuckles, going straight to your clit, sucking it. you whimper again as his fingers moved in and out of you as his mouth works wonders, generous. he latched his mouth on the mound, leaving the area wet and slick as precum drips from your weeping pussy. your throat vibrates with pleasure as it got violated deliciously by Ghost. two men were making you feel good and you loved it. laying there and being used like a toy for their own. "don't get lost yet we're hardly finished" Konig whispers, cruelly slapping your pussy as your hips shifted. you screamed around Ghost's cock as his cum gurgled in your throat. "fuckkk.." Ghost pumped the last bit of cum, tapping on your tongue. "you got to try her throat, Konig. works far much better than your bloody hands" he says, not giving a care as you panted, dazed with heart in your eyes. Ghost and Konig changed positions as Konig turned your body, 69 style.

the Colonel wasn't going easy, immediately placing his cock into your mouth as he slurps on your pussy. getting cockdrunk, you made kitten licks on the tip and licked the whole length as he ate you out. you could see Ghost sitting nearby, his cock still hard and he's still pumping it out. you smiled, slobbering around his cock and loving the affect you have on both men. they were inpatient and hands couldn't stay away. Konig spits at the entrance of your pussy, his tongue thrusting in and out as you take his whole cock that was big just like he is. you choked as Ghost held your hair up and tying it with your hairband. "keep it up, Schatz" Konig raised his hips, suffocating you with his cock and bullying your pussy.

one thing was Konig always had to edge you, he was sucking your clit but when your insides pulse with need, he stops. "ah.. keep going please.." you whined, his cock in your hand. Ghost smiles behind his skull mask "this is what you get for sabotaging us. take it like a good girl yeah?".

at the cue, Konig brings your body up from the bed and on your knees. he brings his body behind you as Ghost went in front. their hands roamed your body, making it tingle and leaving you sweaty, moaning mess. it was slow as Ghost penetrated your mouth again with his cock as Konig spears your pussy with his. your eyes widened as Konig holds to your hips since your knees buckles and Ghost holds on to your jaw. the hold was firm as you take in the pressure, getting stuffed in each hole. they didn't moved for a bit before Ghost gently thrusts and Konig moves as well. it was heaven bliss as your hands moved to Ghost's thighs for stability as your insides are getting stirred. left vulnerable and naked, the two men used your body and was going to dump inside a month worth of cum. "taking us so good Schatz. this pussy misses us, huh?" Konig whispers, deep and shallows thrusts. "bet it does. she's a greedy one alright" Ghost voice dripped with tease as him and Konig punches their fists in victory.

victory of making you a sobbing mess that is. "mmh more! Konig.." you whined, Ghost's dick springed out your mouth as you huff. "hm, are you sure you're the one making rules here?" Ghost looks down to you, his brooding presence making you shrink as Konig pulls your hips back in a bruising grip and Ghost plunged your throat. you gagged as tears stain your cheeks and Ghost wipes it with his thumb. it was bruising and animalistic, how the bedframe shake with feral thrusts. Konig grabbed a handful of your ass, making sure it's sore by the end.

the two switch places as they flipped your body, this time on your back and cranes your neck, Konig viciously choking your throat as he could see the bulge. he looks to Ghost who's enjoying himself between your legs. your sweet nectar mixed with Konig's precum licked away by the lustful man, eager. Ghost taps your clit making your hips buck as the torment went on. you were sore all over as your limbs went out. you babbled as the two passed you over like a doll and the two were far from finished.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod fanfic #call of duty smut #call of duty fanfic #call of duty x reader #call of duty ghost #call of duty konig #cod ghost #cod mw ghost #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost smut #cod ghost fanfic #simon riley smut #simon ghost x reader #konig smut #konig x reader #konig cod

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random-thot-generator · 11 months

Text

A Dark & Stormy Night

Simon x F!Reader

Rating: M for Mature - 18+ ONLY! Minors DNI

Summary: Simon awakens during a late-night storm and creates a storm of his own as he comes to terms with his feelings. Written from Simon’s POV.

Tags: Explicit sexual content, PinV, Mild Somno, Mild choking, Mild D/s dynamic, Soft Dom!Simon, explicit language, cursing, fluffy finish, no Y/N (please let me know if I’ve forgotten any tags.)

Word Count: 2191

_____♡_____

It's just after four in the morning when the storm rolls in. Rain begins to patter outside of the flat and Simon opens his eyes in time to catch the first flash of lightning. The room he is lying in is familiar, though not his own. It's hers. Her room, her flat. He's just visiting.

But he visits a lot.

Another flash of lightning and the room is lit up as bright as day. He can see as well as feel her now, pressed up against him, the skin of her back sticking to his side. She's got her head pillowed in the crook of his shoulder, face smushed against his bicep, her warm breath puffing across his skin.

The room goes dark.

He shifts beneath the covers, old cotton sheets worn smooth as silk sliding over his legs and torso. The hint of fabric softener and the more pungent aroma of stale sex catches in his nose and, fuck― he really likes that.

He lowers his nose to the crown of her head and breathes in. The unique smell of their sex mixed with the last faint notes of her perfume makes him hard again, memories from earlier that night playing out in his mind. He can never seem to get enough of her anymore, like he's an addict and her cunt is the drug.

But it's not just her cunt, is it? It's her. He always wants her, and only her. He can't even deny it to himself any longer. He's hooked.

She was all he could think about on the flight home from his last mission, and when he got back, he went straight to her place this time. Didn't even bother to go by his own flat, first. As soon as the plane touched down, he was rushing towards the barracks, where he dropped his gear and forced himself to take a shower. Then out of the gate he went, with only one destination in mind.

Her place. He wanted to be with her. It was all he ever wanted these days.

It should bother him more, giving in to this hold she has over him, but he can't seem to bring himself to care. Not when she's this close, so warm and inviting. And so sweet.

His hands begin to move of their own accord, one cupping her breast while the other skims down and over her thigh. His fingers dip between her legs and he sighs out a breath as he finds the wet heat of her cunt. His body shifts behind her, curling his large frame around her soft warmth.

Fuck, she always feels so good. He dreams of her―her skin, her mouth, her cunt, when he's deployed and she's thousands of miles away. She haunts his sleep, the sound of her soft voice still in his ears when he blinks his eyes open, and he's angry with her when he wakes. He's pissed at her for leaving him so frustrated and throbbing with need, for making him yearn for her like he's some lovesick little tosser. For missing her.

Yet he can't stay mad, not at her. She's always so good to him, so good for him, always takes him so well, begs for him to touch her, kiss her, fuck her, and he's more than happy to oblige her every whim. She drives him crazy, makes him lose control, and fuck him, but he can't deny that he loves it, that he loves―

She's begun to stir, his calloused hands touching her most tender parts drawing her from her sleep. She sighs out a moan, her hips rolling down on his fingers before she's even fully awake. God, the sounds she makes. It sets his blood pumping fast and hot through his veins, stokes the fire already burning in his gut into a roaring blaze. He pulls her closer and places kisses along her shoulder, soft and slow and wet. His teeth rake along her neck, and he smirks when goosebumps erupt over her skin.

"Can ya take more, sweetheart?" he whispers at her ear, fingers gently stroking through her folds.

Rolling her hips against him, she breathes out, "Want you, Si."

Simon hums in satisfaction, his hands moving with more purpose now. She whimpers as his thumb tweaks her sensitive nipple and presses her ass back into his rutting hips, gasping at the feel of his leaking cock sliding along the cleft of it.

"Simon..." she sighs, and the sound of his name being spoken in that voice, the one he hears in his dreams, drives him a little insane.

She whines as his fingers swirl around her clit and arches into his touch. "...need you. Please, Si," she begs, as if he might deny her. As if he could ever deny her anything.

He drags his nose up the side of her throat, leaves yet another mark, another claim, as she writhes against him. Her small hand flutters up and lands on the nape of his neck, buries itself in his hair, pressing him even closer, inviting him to devour her whole.

"Always so ready for me," he mumbles as his fingers glide down and push past her entrance. He doesn't stop, easing his fingers in until he's knuckles-deep and she's clenching around him. She whines, grinding down on his hand, desperate for friction. "Sh-shh... It's alright, luv." he murmurs lowly. "I've got you. I'll take care of you."

And he will. He will always take care of her because she's his now. He knows it, and so does she. There's been no declaration of feelings, no heartfelt confessions, but he saw it in her eyes when he pushed inside her last night, neither of them looking away or closing their eyes to hide it this time. It was a mutual surrender, both of them tired of fighting it. There was no denying what was between them, not when it felt so right.

As he pumps his hand and crooks his fingers to reach that spot that curls her toes and makes her shake, his other hand snakes to her throat. He pulls her head back and presses his lips to her temple, his hand on her throat holding her in place as he grinds the heel of his palm onto her clit. She keens out a whine that has him groaning, an acute pulse of arousal tightening his groin and making his balls ache. His cock weeps in response, his rutting hips smearing his seed between her plush cheeks. He could cum like this easily, but he won't. Not this way.

His lips on her fevered skin and his hand working between her slicked thighs, he brings her to her peak quickly, listening to her hoarse cries as she trembles in his arms.

"Tha's it, lovie. Jus' like that," he croons into her ear, his words slurring, fingers still thrusting to drag out every second of her climax.

Her body is drawn taut as a bow string, little hitches and starts making her twitch as each spasm passes through her in waves. He could feel her orgasm dripping down his fingers and he purrs in smug pride.

"Always such a good, good girl for me," he moans, relishing how tight she squeezes his fingers when he praises her. His cock twitches in anticipation and he knows he can't wait any longer.

When she finally goes limp, he gently pulls his fingers from her cunt. He wraps his slick-smeared hand around the back of her knee, lifting her leg up and back to drape it over his thigh. His hand shoves between their bodies to fumble with his cock as he pants out in a shaking whisper against her ear, "Want ya so bad, luv. Can ya take me?"

She can only manage a whimper as she nods. With a wrecked groan, his cock slides between her thighs, the head bumping against her clit as he angles it to run through her slick folds, and her body jolts in his grasp.

His fingers grip her throat just a fraction tighter. "You want it?" he mutters, his voice full of gravel & quaking with lust. "Want my cock, huh?" He lines himself up with her entrance before clutching her hip. Again, she gives him a desperate whine and a quick bob of the head. It's all he needs before he's pushing into her, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he chokes out, "Fuckin' hell, luv. Yer cunt's so―nngh!... So bloody tight!"

He feels unhinged, wants to pound into her, just ruin her, but it feels so fucking good he can't rush it, so instead he strokes into her with slow, deep thrusts, loving the drag on his cock when he pulls back. Her cunt is gripping him so tight, walls pulsing and clamping down to draw him in deeper, and he swears if he could, he would crawl inside and live there. It's as close to heaven as he'll ever get.

He can already feel his orgasm building, abs tightening as his breaths puff out against the side of her neck. Want to feel her cum, he thinks, his hand leaving her hip to seek out and destroy her clit. His fingers rub furious circles into it, the motions desperate and frantic. More than once he grazes his own cock with his fingertips as it glides in and out of her channel. He can feel the way she's stretched around him, and it makes him feel feral.

"Feel that?" he husks, splitting his fingers around her filled entrance. "Fit me like a bloody glove. Made fer me, luv. Only me. Ain't that right? Hmm?"

"Yes..." she pants out, "...o-only you, Si. Just for you!"

Lightning flickers like a strobe, the effect surreal as he glances down to see she's looking up at him, the white flashes of light glinting in her eyes like sparks. Her nails dig into his scalp as she fists his hair in her grip & molten heat surges through his groin.

"Fuck― fuck!" He can't hold out when she's looking at him that way. "Cum for me, luv," he mutters, sounding desperate. "I can't―!"

And like she was simply waiting for his command, her cunt clamps down and he can feel her gush around his cock. "Ah, bloody hell! I-I'm cum―!"

The rest of his words are choked off as his climax hits him like the concussion of a bomb, bowing his back as every muscle seizes up in his body. His cum pulses out of his cock again and again and again, until his seed has filled her up to overflowing, until it's dripping down his balls and onto her thigh.

Thunder booms at that same moment and the windows rattle in their frames, the deep reverberations strong enough to be felt through the bed. Rain lashes at the windows, coming down so hard and fast the noise blurs into a hissing cacophony.

It's like he's caught up in a religious experience, ancient and primal, the raging storm outside invoked by the carnal ritual they are performing within. Simon can feel it deep in his bones, deep in his gut, and he knows he'll never feel like this with anyone else. Only she makes him feel this way.

Like a fucking god.

The room is filled with the white noise of pounding rain and their panting breaths. They're both fucked out and now limp with euphoria, neither speaking as they come down from their mutual highs. His hand finds hers in the dark and she clings to it. Eventually, she turns in his arms, pressing her forehead into the sweat-damp hair on his chest, her arm sliding over his waist.

"Ya alright, luv?" he rumbles out, stroking his hands up and down her back.

She hums a contented sound, placing a lingering kiss on his chest. Lightning strobes and thunder rolls as the rain continues to pour down outside. She burrows deeper into his embrace, nuzzling her nose into the crook of his neck, lips pressing a kiss on his pulse point.

Simon knows they will need to talk- about this, about them, but right now he's content to just lie with her in this limbo state, between the before and the after. He will tell her in the morning, suck it up and say what he really feels and, maybe, hopefully, she'll say it back.

He finally rises to get a wet cloth and cleans them both up before tossing it away into the darkness. Sliding back between the sheets, he pulls her sleepy form into his embrace and sighs, listening to the rain and the receding thunder, relaxed and at peace. He's already edging towards sleep himself when he hears her mumble something against his throat.

"Hm? Wha's that, luv?"

She sighs as she drifts off, repeating her words before sleep takes her completely. "Love you, Si. Always."

And Simon feels his heart swell as his body melts into hers, the words rolling off his tongue like he's been saying them to her his whole life.

"Love you, too, sweetheart. Always."

_____♡_____

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x fem reader #cod ghost smut #cod smut #cod mw2 fanfic

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undercoverpena · 8 months

Text

see me in a vest

cod ghost x f!reader | ghost masterlist

Summary: “You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?” Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk. “Hilarious.”

Warnings: Brief mentions of smut. Mentions of a wound, blood (Ghost's but he's obv fine). Flirting. Feelings. FWB to something - they're a mess, but yeah. And, maybe unedited writing? AN: I don't know if I'm on the Ghost train again, but I'm at the station. Wordcount: 3k (this was meant to be 500 words).

Eye contact is a dangerous, dangerous thing. But lovely. God, so lovely — Hedonist Poet

It’s a sight watching you laugh, how it blooms like wildflowers in a wasteland. Your lips are parting around the sound—neck exposed. He can faintly spot the sight of bruises from when his hand last became your necklace.

He shouldn’t be looking your way. Most definitely not be thinking about how he wishes to press your cheek against the tiles of his shower. Ghost really can’t be considering how to ask you to come to his room tonight.

Even if it’s all he thinks.

His fingers brushing against his thumb, rolling and rolling as he tries not to grind his teeth or glare with any more intention.

All about to move his glare, try to find a spot on the table or the wall, but his eyes latch with yours.

The room silences, pausing. Just the two of you, breathing, living—blinking. Or, it feels like it does. Like some poetic bullshit from some film, a scene he’s sure you’ve tried to explain to him when you’ve attempted to fill the silence.

He thinks you smile. The edges of your lips twist further into your cheeks. But it never quite lands, never sticks.

Ghost shouldn’t be thinking about you. But all he does is think about you.

In another life, where he wasn’t dressed in scars or his belief in happiness and thereafter’s hadn’t been stripped from his remaining soul, Ghost suspects you’d be the one he’d want to keep around.

It’s the only reason he clenches his fist, watching you through the outer rim of his mask’s eye sockets and always watching, never intervening. Not even when soldiers below your rank let their eyes drift to your rear—or worse, from your face to your chest.

He lets them.

Allows them to ogle you because he knows they won’t ever be fortunate to see any more. Not just because he’d have their heads but because you’d turn them inside out before you’d even let them touch you. Plus, you ridicule them enough when you catch them—tongue all poison and razor sharp, a thing not to be messed with, something which barks as bad as it bites.

“You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?”

Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk.

“Hilarious.”

Sighing, you roll your lips. “You gonna keep boiling everyone alive with your eyes whenever they talk to me?”

“I’m not.”

“For someone who has likely been required to lie for their work, your pretty awful at it.”

Grinding his teeth, he bites the inside of his cheek. Not wanting to rise, to give in—to fucking begin this tedious game of bickering. Instead, he allows a heavy breath to escape through his nose, long and slow, pushing the fabric out before it clings back to the tip of his nose.

Hoping you hear it, take note of it.

But from how you shift your stance, playing with your water bottle—crunching it in your grip—as you tap your boot against the floor, he doubts you have.

“You think too highly of yourself, princess.”

”Princess, ay?” you grin, far too wickedly to be innocent. “Thought you preferred seeing me in a vest, than a crown.”

Clamping his mouth shut, you take a sip of your water—letting the droplets hang on your lip, only wiping them from your chin at the last moment—a knowing look, all telling and haunted with lust and something else.

“Let’s walk.”

And, somehow, against all better judgement, he follows.

The first time it happened, your eyes had been shimmering. A softness to your features aided by alcohol bought by Price in celebration. It allows him to see his reflection in them—finding he’s all cold eyes. Around that though, he’s confronted with something stitched, carved, into the usually hardened expression he’d come to respect. Then it all shifted. A sound, one that was similar to how droplets of watercolour change a plain piece of paper, fills the air. It spreading shades in front of him that filled the scenery—the one the two of you were admiring as the others continued to be loud inside. Ghost can’t recall what he said, but he remembers what you’d said the moment you’d laughter had died: You’re funny for a skeleton. It was stupid. Foolish. Barely funny—in the grand scheme of things. But then, the building next to them had begun counting down, and you were looking at him—stars shimmering above the tips of the Siberian cypresses. There was just you, and him, and a crack of amber light across crisp, disturbed white snow. “Be rude to not kiss at New Year, wouldn’t it, Ghost?” ”Suppose so.”

You didn’t ask for his jacket immediately.

Even if he’d spotted you fighting off a shiver in your two’s awkward ‘walk’. No, you wait until the two of you are far past your usual building, and even then, you don’t ask. As usual, you pulled—tugged, and practically dragged it down his arms—until he surrendered it.

It was easier to bite back a groan. To look at you. Stick his pupils into your unbothered appearance. Allowing, instead, for his displeasure at your insistent but silent demand to show through his body language.

Not that you fucking care.

Chin all tipped up, meeting his stare boldly. Practically egging him on, pushing him, goading him.

Because you do that well. You like to push—not for a reaction, but to crack him.

Cause a break in him that you can slide through and make yourself at home. Somehow, against his better judgement—and usual practice—he lets you.

Each and every time.

Because even if he’d never admit it, he would—and could—go as far as to say he likes that you’re wrapping his jacket around your arms, head tilting up to look at the sky—observing how the stars are flickering. Because he rather enjoys seeing you coated in something of his.

Not possessively. Not because he needs some unhealthy confirmation that you want to be in something of his over anyone else. But because it's nice. A niceness he won’t ever admit. A confession that’ll never be spilt, not even under the most difficult of tortures. Not even if you sunk down on him, buried him inside you and refused to move until he did.

His resolve was stronger than that, something you’d learnt.

“Love it when the sky is clear,” you mumble.

Blinking, he looks up, realising the night looks so similar to the night in that small Canadian town.

When you’d offered to kiss him over his mask but eventually retrieved his lips—front sitting just under his nose, hands splayed across your lower back, pinning you flush to him. Because if he only had one chance to do it, he was going to milk it. Not that it was ever just that once, hence this—the two of you outside, close to an abandoned barrack under a flurry of stars and a half-gleaming moon.

He’s aware of the parallels.

How you’d been wearing his jacket that night, too. Albeit then because he’d given it to you when you’d come looking for him, rather than yanking it from his arms and burying yourself in it.

Ghost should mind.

Should find the idea unbearable, just like he should find you intolerable.

You sigh, not softly or sweetly, but difficulty and loud. “I don’t belong to you, Ghost.”

Ghost. Not the name you called him a few days ago when his fingers were curled inside you—his breath hot on your throat. Your pulse hammering against his tongue.

In a way, he thinks he should find you annoying, insufferable. Instead, he just finds you’re odd.

Odd in the sense that you stick around—not questioning his mannerisms or demands. That you fight everyone out there when sand tries to find places it shouldn’t, snow makes you shiver and blood stains skin—including him, on occasion.

But, when it’s the two of you, you bend so easily—all submissive, desperate. Mouth wrapping around his fingers, tongue swirling, before he’s so much as touched you.

It is why he snorts—and for a multitude of reasons.

Finger and thumb stroking his bare jaw, letting his eyes cast to the ground before looking in your direction. “Bet if I stick my fingers in your knickers, your cunt will say something different.”

You stare. Blank. Unreadable.

Something which makes his jaw tense, and his spine straighten. Because there aren’t many expressions he finds unbearable about you, except the unreadable one—the one you’re so skilled at pulling out across your face, hiding your thoughts and opinions.

He watches as you unfold your arms, displaying the hardest, squinted stare imaginable as your nose scrunched and your lips thin out. Leaving it there, hanging between the two of you—it not swaying as the seconds tick on, to the point he wonders if you genuinely expect him to be the one that cracks.

Then, you shift. You allow the lightest smirk to spread across your mouth into your perfect, soft, unscarred cheek. “Most likely. But, then again, on a base with a bunch of men, my underwear doesn’t tend to be dry.”

He has no retort, no initial thing to say.

So he says nothing.

Because everything he could say wouldn’t land in jest, would likely have his jacket thrown back in his face. And, the one good thing he has waiting (but not waiting) for him when he comes back—from fuck knows where—would be gone, vanished.

Not that he ever wanted this. Never mind needed it.

“Guessing that wasn’t the answer you wanted, Lieutenant?”

Keeping his mouth clamped, he remains silent. Lets it smother, wrap itself around the two of you and embed itself into the silence. Because no, that wasn’t the fucking answer he wanted.

There hadn’t been a reason as to why he knocked on your door, or why he had stuffed a nicer loo roll under his arm and brought you a bowl of soup. He could ration that you were a good solider, a solid member of his team. A reliable force that would get the job done. Someone who questioned and also obeyed. If needed, he could likely list a bunch more reasons why you were integral to whatever operation he was next sent on. But even he knew that wasn’t why he was outside your door. Why he turned the handle when you coughed and spluttered a weak ‘come in’. Whatever sight he’d expected, wasn’t close to what he saw. Your door closing behind him, your hand trying to cover your chapped lips as you splutter half a lung up, allowing him the chance to take in the rest of you. How your eyes were hollowed out by tiredness, your skin tacky and shining in the low light from a cracked curtain. ”D-did I miss a meeting or ‘sumthing?” Shaking his head, he placed the soup down by your bed—using the bowl to nudge several used tissues from its path, as he manoeuvred the roll from under his arm to hand it to you. Your eyes lighting, ever so slightly, by the softer—more nose-kind tissue. ”Jus’ came to check on you.” Blowing your nose, you offer a half smile. ”Because my aim is better than MacTavish’s?” Smirking, he watches as you shuffle over on your bed—allowing him room, something he takes without thought. In the same way he doesn’t need to think about lifting his mask now, how you’ve seen him—bruised, bloody, broken and so much more. An answer in itself as to why he’s here. One he could say with relative ease if the words would form. Instead, he throws his legs up—feels your eyes take him in as you try to clear your throat. “’cause you’re sick.” ”Oh.” And because I care. The latter not leaving his tongue, never mind his lips. Instead, he slides his arm around you, pulling you to lie in the crook of his arm and chest. Hoping that said enough. Explained it adequately. Incase it didn’t, he offered: ”Brought you soup, too.” ”Tomato?” Snorting, he rolled his eyes. “Chicken.” ”Guess that’ll do.” Your head tilting, staring up at him—and he hoped you couldn’t hear how loud his heart was hammering. Because even if this is what he wanted—to be there for you. To have you curled against him for reasons he couldn’t articulate, he hadn’t expected it. Even less the whispered, simple, ‘thank you, Simon’. Never mind that you barely finish the soup before you’re asleep against him.

Kicking at the ground, it’s a stone which pays the price for your annoyance with him. It rolls off, grating against gravel and grass before it came to a sad stop.

“What I was going to say,” you continue, huffing—in that way you do when you’re interrupted by lesser people and idiotic souls. “I don’t belong to you, but you don’t need to worry about every person who makes me laugh. I’m yours. Have been for a while.

“And before your strategic, get-out-alive brain begins firing on all fucking cylinders, I don’t… don’t need a declaration—didn’t need a menial question being asked to certify it. Don’t need you to tell me shit. I’m just telling you that I don’t—well—fuck around lightly.”

Lifting your arms, gesturing to you in his jacket—his clothing. Face pulling into an expression that makes him feel like he’s got a fucking egg on his face. As though he’s a fool, a fucking imbecile for not seeing what it was in front of him.

Maybe, he is.

Which is why he steps closer. Boots crunching gravel in the quiet, you stare at him—gazing through the cutouts and scorching your glare into him, scratching another line on his soul. Marking him. Like you have been doing since the first time he lost himself in your iris’s as your tongue curled out his name.

“I don’t… I don’t do this with others. What we do—is just what we do, Gh—”

“Simon,” he interrupts.

All sharp, like he’s stabbing you with his name, rather than handing it to you. Even if you’ve called it him before—you never have out here. Outside the confines of four walls, with your skin bare and his mouth latched to some part of your body.

“Jus’ mean, if y’gonna talk to me about it just being you and me, should at least call me my name.”

Slowly, you lower your arms, lips spreading into a line before they slide into a smile. “Simon. I don’t do this with other people.” Your eyes look up as you sigh. “Mainly because I don’t think anyone has a bigger cock than you.”

He brings you flush with him in one tug, watching your lips purse—a smirk attempting to grow behind it.

It’s more a grunt than a murmur how he tells you to ‘behave’, gloved fingers in the loops of your belt—a warped noise from the back of his throat beckoning to come out when your hand presses against his abdomen. Right against the clotted scarring of an old bullet wound—the one you’d pressed your palms into when he’d earned it—vermillion staining, clinging to your fingers and arm. Tears hanging from your lashes that you’d attempted to blink away, staring anywhere but at him.

Don’t die on me, Ghost. We’ve not done the wheelbarrow just yet.

When he’d been stitched and released, he finds your hand always goes there. A place you always seek, always find. You never touch his heart—never the thing that beats. You choose the pain embedded in tissue, the one he wonders if you hope to heal whenever you get the chance to brush your touch against it.

Rising on your toes, you roll your lips, softening your smirk into a smile. “It’s just you.”

“Because of my cock?”

He grips you tightly, not allowing you to descend to flat-footedness or move from being against him.

“Oh, a hundred percent. But you’re also a lot funnier than most people we meet, and I really like a man who makes me laugh.”

He pinches lightly—right on your side as you tip your head. “Y’know, don’t you?”

Ghost watches, waiting. Flicking from one of your eyes to the other.

And then you nod. “I know. Don’t worry, won’t make you tell me that you love my company as much as you do my tits just yet.”

He’s close enough for you to kiss the edge of his chin if he doesn’t move. But he does. Squeezing your hips, dropping his head enough, allowing your mouth to brush over his mask-covered lips.

It's enough for now, as you lower back to the ground. Feeling you turn in his hold—back to his chest and stomach as you wrap his jacket around you tighter.

Because he’ll kiss you better later.

A promise he makes silently, feeling your fingers take his, tugging his arm around you. He doesn’t need to see you to see that you’re smirking.

He can sense it.

AN: huge thank you to G. this wouldn't be possible without you nudging me, and making me accountable. dedicated to @theashfallx because she says she'll devour more of this man if I write it, so i had to finish it for her too.

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