Good evening, I can't stop thinking about Simon going brain dead as he fucks you :)
Like, just imagine. You're on your elbows and knees as Simon's hitting it from behind, when suddenly you feel something wet land on your back. You know it's not him finishing given the fact that he's still buried deep inside you, so you look back over your shoulder to see what the hell that was you just felt.
And when you turn around, the sight that greets you is one for the ages. There's Simon, eyes unfocused and glazed over, mouth hanging wide open in the most fucked-out expression you've ever witnessed. He looks like he's never had an intelligent thought in his life; like he's been reverted back to a primitive brain, whose only drives are to eat, breathe, and fuck.
As you watch him rut into you like a sex-crazed animal, it's then you spy the source of the mystery liquid dripping onto your back. There, dribbling steadily from Simon's ajar mouth, flows a thick stream of drool. It leads down from his bottom lip in long, viscous ribbons, landing and settling itself along the curve of your spine. If he even notices (which, by the look on his face, he's too far gone for such higher-order thinking processes) then he doesn't care. He just lets his spit pour freely from his open mouth, like some kind of wild beast that's got its eyes locked onto its next meal.
Simon is so mentally checked out that he can't even hear you as you gently say his name. No, all he can think about – all his shriveled little monkey brain can focus on at this moment – is how fucking good you feel around him and how fucking badly he needs to fill you up.
When Simon does finally cum, he can only manage a garbled string of grunts and groans that doesn't even come close to resembling human speech. After three, four, five thrusts as deep into you as possible, his whole body is shaking, and his trembling limbs give out.
He collapses on top of you without a second's consideration of his size, pinning you to the mattress beneath his warm, heavy frame. You can still feel him drooling a little as his face comes to rest in the crook of your neck, the mess on your lower back getting smeared between your bodies.
It's hard for you to breathe being trapped under Simon's weight like that, so you try lightly tapping him on the head to ask him to roll off you. Unfortunately, I'm afraid it's no use trying to gain his attention right now. You're going to have to give him a few minutes to collect himself, love.
The poor guy just fucked himself stupid, after all.
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AITA for not telling my fiancé I know he’s queer?
I 20s (F) have a 20s (M) fiancé, V, and he’s been talking about this terrible secret he cannot tell me and he keeps almost starting to come out and then backing out. The issue is V and I were raised together by his parents, and my surrogate 40s (M) father and (now deceased) surrogate mother arranged for our marriage back when we were both children. They thought it was the best for us and at the time we were too young to realize the implications and had no reason to reject to the match. When we were teenagers our mother was on her deathbed and she told us again that she wished for us to marry, and of course we both agreed. However, V is also best friends with a 20s (M) guy called H, and they were nearly inseparable as boys and teens. They also went to university together and shared an apartment but V had to come home due to family reasons. Lately he’s been going out all day and coming home at night hours later. He insists that he’s fine and that we all leave him alone and not worry for him, but I think he and H have been sneaking around. He even delayed our wedding day by arranging a trip to go to England alone with H. It’s exhausting for all of us and I think I should just tell V I know and support him and that we can call off the marriage, but I’m not sure that’s the best course of action? I’m completely fine with not marrying him - he always felt more like a brother to me anyway - but I worry it might come off wrong. The worst part is he’s really beating himself up about it. He’s so guilty it’s beginning to take a toll on his health. I don’t care if he has a boyfriend I just want him to be happy.
EDIT: nvm he built an 8ft creature in his dorm
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Thinking about a Reader who ends up having Scary Dog Privileges with Ghost without meaning to. It just happened.
Then they have to deal with the fact that this comes with duties too.
Tags: civilian!reader, gn!reader, mostly fluff, a bit suggestive, smug!Ghost, smooth!Ghost. 800 words.
When Ghost is reluctant to getting sutured in Medical after accidentally opening his stitches, grumbling he can do it himself, who does the nurse call for? Yeah, you.
She could stand her ground, after all she's used to dealing with big, whiny men, but it's much more fun to knock on your door and smile at your bewildered gaze and gaping mouth when she explains the situation in two sentences.
"Ghost's being difficult, mind taking over?" "I'm sorry, what the hell does this have to do with me?" "C'm'on, everyone on base knows he's got a soft spot for you. Don't you want to make my job easier?"
You roll your eyes and slam your hands on your desk as you get up. Groaning as you walk past her— "I'm doing this for you, nothing else, got it?"
Mumbling to yourself "you've got to be kidding me" as you barge into the sick bay. Ghost is coolly seated at the end of a bed, large as life, casual clothes as black as his mask and— oh. You weren't told the wound was on his thigh— you weren't warned that he didn’t have pants on. You can’t help it, your eyes go down, down, your lingering gaze and your flustered silence forming a confession louder than words.
A noise — a scoff or a grunt, you’re not sure — emanates from him, breaks your trance, makes you look up. The amusement in his gaze tells you he noticed your oggling— of course he did. Nothing gets past the Ghost, and you've been remarkably unsubtle. Despite the mask, you swear you can make out the smug smirk on his lips. His cockiness reignites your irritation. Annoyance making you bolder than you really are, you charge at him, crossing the distance between you two in a stride, stopping close— too close. He doesn't back off.
"What's wrong with you?" you snarl. "Nothin'," he retorts, imperturbable.
It's actually the first time you’re overlooking him. You may be enjoying it a bit too much. Nevermind the fact that you've had to wedge yourself between his parted legs to get there.
You frown, unconvinced by his answer.
“Did Soap contaminate you?”
Bargaining to be cleared out earlier was the Scotsman's trademark.
“Johnny throws a fit cos he hates feeling useless. That's not what I'm doing.”
A smirk stretches your lips.
“Oh, no? I'm sure your reasons are much more noble.”
“Doesn't matter. Got what I wanted anyway.”
He's way too self-satisfied for a man in his underwear.
You throw an unequivocal look in the direction of his injury.
“What you wanted? A still open wound?”
“You.”
He replied without missing a beat, as confident as usual. It is both alluring and aggravating.
“And your idea of wooing me is making me upset?”
You don't add “because if it is, that's really fucking stupid” out loud, but you’re sure he got the message through your tone.
“Nah. But you're more honest when you’re angry. Gutsier.”
You only realize he slipped his index and middle fingers in your trouser loops when he sharply tugs at them. Off balance, you steady yourself by catching his shoulders.
Taking advantage of the strip of bare skin between your shirt and bottoms, the pads of his thumbs idly stroke your hip bones. The contact sends electricity through you, shivers of pleasure running down your sides.
“Ghost,” you start, severe, trying not to let the effect his touch has on you show in your voice.
“Simon,” he counters, surly. “Told ya it's Simon when we're alone, didn't I?”
He did, but you didn’t think he was serious. If that's what it takes to get him to listen… you’ll play by his rules.
“Simon. What's the rest of your brilliant plan? I'm here, but I can’t stitch you up.”
“How ‘bout a deal. I'll stop resisting… for a price.”
You raise an amused eyebrow.
“What kind of price?”
“A kiss.”
You snort. You didn’t believe him capable of something so… puerile.
“With the mask on?”
He doesn't move a muscle to get rid of it.
“Take it off.”
You usually wouldn’t obey what sounds like an order so easily, but it's the first time you get to touch the skull. Slipping two fingers between skin and cloth, you slowly roll up the mask all the way under his nose.
You gently trace the scars surrounding his lips. Then, the second you feel him relax, grip on your hips slackening and intensity of his gaze waning, you grab the bottom of his mask and drag it back down vigorously, making the holes for the eyes land way too low for him to see anything.
“If you thought you'd get a reward for acting out, you've got another think coming.”
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