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#simon riley fic
gloomwitchwrites · 1 day
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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Chapter Specific Warnings: swearing, brief mentions of terror, domestic!Simon, intimacy in the shower, hand job, vaginal fingering, brief oral sex (female receiving), non-penetrative sex, the mask comes off
Word Count: 5.8k
A/N: Part Fourteen of Ink & Needle
Simon doesn't see you again for two weeks. Amelia intervenes. Simon removes his mask in front of you.
Chapter Thirteen
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist
Repetition.
Fingers counting bottles. Counting colors. Counting labels.
White paper. Blank spaces. Pencil. Graphite tip.
Breaking. Breaking. Over. Over. Over, again.
Blue ink. Red ink. Black.
Simon counts the little rows, falling deeper into distraction. It’s a way to quiet his mind, to turn off the fucking noise that’s buzzing there in the back like an annoyingly curious bee. But all this inventory counting isn’t working. Nothing is keeping his thoughts at bay.
A week has passed. An entire fucking week and your absence is a festering wound. Simon isn’t taking it personally. Really. He isn’t. But fuck he misses you. Part of him blames himself, insisting that your distance has to do with something he did. It’s not entirely far from the truth. While Simon hasn’t exactly lied to you, he has omitted crucial information.
British Intelligence may very well be coming to call, but Simon doesn’t know that information explicitly. The situation is precarious. Delicate. The information Simon shifted through with Price, Kyle, and Johnny unnerved him.
Kit Walsh is not your local nationalist prick who spouts shit off in chatrooms or on social media for influencers to stitch. Kit Walsh moved beyond that. Beyond walking in to corner stores or a school or a church for innocent people to understand his lead-drenched wrath. Beyond a week or two of media frenzy. Beyond mugshots and a jury sentence.
This man moves between. One minute he’s supplying arms to opposing sides in another country to destabilize a region, and then turns around to whisper in some politician’s ear to convince them to “intercede” on the behalf of “global peace.”
He pushes weapons, pushes people, pushes drugs.
But he’s not a businessman. That’s just a front for his true intentions. Kit Walsh thinks on global levels and how he intends to make the world into his image. He takes his time. He observes and then moves.
It makes the man more dangerous because he also understands that acts at the local level are just as or even more powerful than the global ones. Nothing is more terrifying than when your own neighbor turns their words of hate into hateful actions.
Kit Walsh knows this.
Which is why Simon didn’t give a fuck when he received all those injuries. He thought he took the fucker out for good. That Walsh was a burnt-up corpse. Simon rarely considers any of his scars to be marks of pride. Yet the ones he received when he shoved his knife into Walsh’s chest were ones he didn’t mind having.
But none of that matters now.
Walsh is alive. And he might have fucking blown the back of Lord Archibald Williams’ head off. For what? Simon doesn’t fucking know. Price didn’t know either which means that British Intelligence likely doesn’t.
And you don’t need to know any of that. Why burden you? Why put any of these worries and issues on your plate when they might not land there at all? Why exhaust you further?
When you brought up Archie, Simon panicked, knowing you were already tired—already stressed. It’s not right that this happened to your friend, but Simon truly believes there isn’t anything to particularly worry about at the moment. That is reason enough not to dump this on you.
Simon’s fingers hover above the lid of an ink bottle. He pauses there, thinking, forgetting the number he just uttered.
Lost count. Starts over.
Blue ink. Red ink. Black.
“Fuck!” shouts Simon, his tatted knuckles turning white as the pencil clenched in his fist snaps in half.
Simon stares at the broken pencil. At the fractured graphite.
Sighing heavily, Simon drops the clipboard and steps away from the storage cabinets. He’s fucking distracted, and it’s not only because of the shit he read in Price’s file. Simon hasn’t seen you—hasn’t touched you in almost a week. Somehow, the separation is difficult, more frustrating than Simon previously thought.
He went three years without knowing your touch. But a week is now too much?
Simon clenches his fists. Releases them. Inhales deeply through his nostrils and exhales slowly through his mouth. He repeats until there isn’t any tension in his limbs and his mind quiets. Using the silence, Simon takes notes of the aches and pains. The leg that always gives him trouble isn’t hurting much today, but that might be a different story tomorrow. Everything else is dull and fine, better than it has been.
Checking his scheduling book, Simon pulls up the name of the next client, retrieving the sketches and preparing the stencil. This is work he knows. This is work that’s natural to him. Safe and secure. When the client arrives, Simon shifts into work mode, slipping into his professional mask, dipping into his creativity.
For these few hours, Simon doesn’t think about you at all and he certainly doesn’t think about Walsh. He’s only thinking about the tattoo and the client and the goddamn inventory sheet that looks ready to slip right off the desk.
But when Simon’s client leaves, and he is left in an empty shop with a snoozing Bravo, thoughts of you come roaring back to the forefront of his mind. There really is no reason to worry. It’s not like Simon is only receiving radio silence from you. You just haven’t been with him. That’s all.
The two of you have talked. Well—not extensively. It’s only been flashes of conversation, brief texts and even shorter phone calls. It is the tiredness and exhaustion that Simon hears in your voice every time he speaks with you that worries him. He knows why you’re staying away, and it’s not because of him. At least, that is what you tell him.
Yet Simon cannot help but linger in those spaces, questioning whether or not he somehow messed up. That he didn’t do enough. Worse, it’s not fair to you to think this way. You have been clear about why you’re not around, but it still chews at him. Simon stills wants to see you, to hold you close even if it’s for a fleeting moment.
He knows there is a baby. He knows you have responsibilities to your friend. He knows and yet Simon is fucking selfish because he wants—no. Needs to breathe you in even if it is just the sweet scent of your skin.
But evening comes as Simon closes up shop for the night, and there is not a text or call from you.
There are none the next day or the day after that.
By Sunday morning, Simon is boiling from the inside out, gripping his phone like a goddamn lunatic.
He hasn’t heard from you, and the few calls and texts he’s sent have gone unanswered. If he were his old self, he’d have already gone to your place demanding to see you. But things have changed for him in some respects. Simon is trying hard not to fall into old habits and behaviors when it comes to you.
Simon has failed on several occasions, but he’s trying to be better. He’s trying to be better for you.
The decision he makes is like pulled teeth. Necessary sometimes but fucking painful without the proper numbing. Simon does not go to your place. Every step he takes in the opposite direction of Amelia’s home are dull razors against the skin. He forces himself to leash Bravo, to go to Dancing Faun, to sit down on his usual fucking stool and pretend that everything is fine.
Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.
Simon is going to leave it—leave you—and give you some needed space. There is a newborn in Amelia’s house, and the last thing Simon needs to do is to barge in and step all over that dynamic just because he hasn’t seen you in a few days.
“Look who it is,” chuckles Ben, the owner of Dancing Faun. He sets down a newly polished pint glass. “Thought you forgot about me.”
Simon grins behind the balaclava, the familiar face a much-needed welcome. “You’re forgettable. But your wife?” Simon whistles and settles on his usual stool.
Ben guffaws and wags a finger in Simon’s direction. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’d leave me in an instant if you asked.”
“Better ask her then,” replies Simon, pretending to get up.
“Oi. Sit down,” mumbles Ben, shaking his polishing rag in Simon’s direction. “Cheeky bastard.”
Ben leaves and returns with Simon’s usual full English and tea. The two of them chat, Ben forgetting not to talk politics on Sunday while Simon listens and shakes his head, knowing the big guy does it on purpose to mess with him. After breakfast, Simon starts with a pint of dark amber ale, moving on to a second as the first customers begin to trickle in.
For a few hours, Simon forgets about the outside world. He watches a rugby match. Drinks a third beer. Considers whether he should switch over to whiskey. It’s just like all his other Sundays since retirement.
Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.
Simon lifts the pint glass to his mouth, downing the last of his third drink. He sets it down on the bar top, unsuspecting of the coming intrusion.
Reality is such a fickle thing. Sometimes it is a clawing, creeping blob that lurks in the corner of a dark room. Sometimes, it is an abrupt shaking, as if hands are on you, imploring you to look.
“Amelia!”
Simon’s stomach flips at the sound of Ben’s voice calling out to the older woman. Glancing away from the television, Simon turns, seeking you. Hope expands in his chest like an inflating balloon. Sparks pop off in his head with the belief that you will enter in behind Amelia. That you will walk through the door and Simon can finally see you again.
But you’re not here.
You’re not with her.
It’s just Amelia.
Her cheeks are rosy from the November cold, and her coat swallows her up.
“I have photos of the grandbaby,” she says, voice cheery as she removes her leather gloves and stuffs them in her coat pockets.
Ben’s smile widens. “Congratulations.”
Several patrons around the pub hold up their drinks in salute, echoing Ben’s initial statement. Without taking off her coat, Amelia travels from person to person, her wire rimmed glasses hanging on the tip of her nose as she scrolls through photos on her phone. She lingers with each person, telling the same story, showing the same pictures.
Simon patiently waits because that’s all he can do. Inside, he’s boiling in an agonizing twisting of alertness that pulls every muscle in his body taut with tension.
Is she doing this on purpose to mess with him? Did he really fuck up and this is her version of punishment?
When Amelia finally approaches Simon, some of that tension evaporates. Her smile is genuine. Soothing. She’s not upset with him. If anything, Amelia is relieved to see him.
“Morning, Simon,” she sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly.
“Morning,” he replies, not recognizing the gruffness in his voice. Simon swallows, tapping the side of his empty glass with a single finger.
Amelia holds up her phone. “Interested in seeing pictures of my grandbaby?”
Fucking hell, he can’t say no to her.
Simon only nods because he cannot trust his voice. Is he fracturing? What the bloody hell is wrong with him? Is it this distance? Does Simon truly miss you so much that it’s causing him to slip?
Amelia settles herself on the stool next to Simon. Bravo’s head doesn’t even lift in greeting. The German Shepard is out, completely relaxed and dozing on the floor. With phone clutched in one hand, Amelia begins to scroll through multiple pictures. Most of them are just of the baby asleep or cradled in someone’s arms.
“Her name is Lillian,” says Amelia, smiling fondly. “Named after Archie’s younger sister. Poor thing didn’t even get to see the age of three.”
The mention of Archie’s name twists Simon’s stomach. The file, its contents, and the conversation he had with Price, Johnny, and Kyle comes creeping back, wanting to sink its claws in.
“This,” and Amelia brings her phone a bit closer. “Is the day we brought her back.” Amelia hums softly. “So rosy cheeked.”
Simon grunts in agreement. It’s not the kindest response but it’s not because he doesn’t agree. Lillian is cute. She is rosy cheeked. Simon is good with kids and he likes them. But he just wants to know what is happening with you.
Amelia slides her finger across the phone’s screen only to reveal a glimpse of a possible answer to all of his questions.
This picture is one of you. In your arms, you are holding Lillian. This wasn’t taken at the hospital. This is at Amelia’s home on the sofa. Simon recognizes the fucking fabric. You’re smiling down at the girl as if she’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen.
At first, Simon’s mind is steady. Resolute.
But then, it drifts. Keeps floating. Floating further away until Simon is imagining that you are not holding Amelia’s grandchild at all. You are holding your child. The one you might have with him.
The thought—this image of you—is sudden and fierce. Simon cannot shake it. His mind fixates on this future as if it’s a completely plausible thing. It sticks to him like honey. Like tar. No fingers can dig in and scrape it away. No cleaning solution could scrub it off. There is no box or hole or wasteland that Simon can hurdle this idea into in the hope that he might forget it.
It has bloomed. Flowered. Roots sinking between the soft folds of his brain.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
“She needs a break,” says Amelia, her tone drifting to a far-off place, pulling Simon from his wayward dreaming.
She is looking down at her phone. She is looking at the photo of you. Amelia glances up at Simon, her features softening into gentle sadness. “That’s really why I came. Hoped you’d be here.” She shrugs.
“Here I am,” replies Simon.
Amelia nods. “Here you are,” she echoes.
Locking her phone, Amelia exchanges it for the gloves in her pockets. Simon glances over at Ben and lightly moves his empty glass in the man’s direction. He comes over and retrieves the glass.
“She’s working herself to the bone. Doing everything for Evie and I when it’s not necessary.” Amelia taps her gloves against her open palm. “And she’s too stubborn to hand the reigns over to me. The woman needs a break. Away from all of us.”
Simon understands. You’re too selfless to step aside. You need to be forced or prompted. Amelia knows this too which is why she came searching for him. Hearing that you’re overworking yourself displeases him, but he’s also bloody fucking happy that he can have you to himself for a bit.
“For how long?” asks Simon, smothering the hopefulness that wants to burst forth.
Amelia frowns in thought. “A few days. Maybe a week. If she accepts that.”
Oh, you’ll accept. Simon will see to it.
“Another drink?” Ben meanders over from the other side of the bar.
Simon shakes his head. “Paying out, Ben.”
Amelia smirks and slips on her gloves as Simon hands off what’s owed. The tension and confusion from earlier are now raw energy, pumping through his loins like electricity. The entire walk to Amelia’s is easy, all the aches and pains in his body suddenly silent as if they too are excited to see you.
When Simon enters Amelia’s home, he finds you sitting on the floor in the living room. You’re surrounded by piles of laundry. Closest to Simon are small stacks of papers. They’re scattered off to the side in some sort of organized chaos that he can’t figure out. Your laptop is open in front of you resting on an ottoman. You’re reading emails while folding laundry.
Bravo stands to the right of Simon but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for Simon’s command but even he can feel the dog’s excitement to greet you.
You haven’t noticed Simon yet but he certainly notices you. While he’d love to stop and just bask in your beauty, there are so many other things catching his attention that give life to what Amelia was telling him.
Tiredness covers you like a weighted blanket. You’re slouched forward, each movement accompanied by a sigh and a delay that Simon doesn’t like. His gaze focuses and it is then that he sees the slight tremble in your hands as you smooth the top of a folded towel.
Behind Simon, Amelia shuts the front door. The sound of it closing jostles you. Your head snaps in his direction.
“Simon.”
It is a relief. A surprise.
The exhaustion in your voice is cold and palpable like butter right out of the fridge. You’re ready to fall over. Simon doesn’t need to guess because when you attempt to stand, you wobble a bit, reaching out to steady yourself on the sofa.
Amelia is right. You are overworking yourself.
It takes Simon three strides to get to you. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he lightly presses, indicating that you should sit back down. Without protest, you follow his silent command, and Simon sinks to your level.
“What is all this?” he asks, keeping his tone calm.
Beneath the mask, Simon is furious. Not with you but with himself. He should have listened to his instinct. He should have given in to those old impulses. If he had, he could be helping you right now and perhaps you wouldn’t be so goddamn tired.
The sigh you release if heavy like a boulder. It presses on Simon’s chest. His hand on your shoulder shifts, cradling the side of your throat, his thumb brushing against your jawline. You don’t say anything. You’re too defeated—too exhausted.
Bravo cannot reach you with Simon in the way. The German Shepard opts for the ottoman, resting his head on it, ears drooping slightly.
“Simon is going to take you for a bit.” Amelia’s voice drifts over Simon’s shoulder and your eyes widen as you glance at the woman.
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” snaps Amelia. “You’re doing far too much. Let us help.”
That’s a fucking understatement.
Simon presents his other hand and you take it. His hand on your neck slips away to reach behind you to help you guide you to your feet.
 “Go pack a bag,” murmurs Simon, his palm splaying wide across your lower back. “You’re staying with me.”
Your lips part as if to form a protest but Simon isn’t having that. He arches a single eyebrow, daring you to question what he’s told you to do.
Your mouth snaps shut.
Simon leans in. “Good girl,” he whispers.
This time when your lips part, it is with surprise. You blink, a bit stunned, and then a flood of warmth rushes up your neck and cheeks, your gaze dropping to the floor, face turning away in embarrassment.
Your reaction is something. It is something other than tiredness. Other than exhaustion and weakness. This is a piece of you he’s seen before and wants to see again. You shouldn’t be shoving it away to take care of others.
Against his chest is your flattened palm. Your fingers curl inward as your embarrassed demeanor turns into observance. You’re staring at the laundry, upper body twisting back and forth as you look for something.
“What is it?” prompts Simon, following your movements as if he can read your mind and know what it is you’re searching for.
Reaching down, you toss a few unfolded pieces of laundry aside to reveal your phone. Retrieving it, you glance down at the screen.
“Shit,” you mutter. It doesn’t light up. Your phone is dead. No wonder you haven’t been answering him.
“We’ll worry about that later.” Simon nods toward the stairs. “Go.”
Back at his flat, Simon takes your packed bag and drops it off in the bedroom. You stand in the space between the living room and kitchen, lingering with your hands clasped in front of you.
“Sit. I’ll make us something.” Simon gestures toward the couch and you slowly unfurl, nearly falling into the sofa once you get there.
Simon rummages around in his pantry and fridge, knowing that it’s best to find a snack for you to munch on while he cooks dinner. When is the last time you ate a real meal or fucking slept? Would you even admit the truth to him?
He eventually brings you tea and a variety of crisps. Your “thank you” is slightly slurred like you’re close to falling into the lands of Morpheus. Bravo curls up next to you, one paw touching your thigh while the rest of his body reclines away.
Simon stays in the kitchen. When he emerges to bring you food, he finds you asleep, grasping one of the bags of crisps against your chest. The opened end is facing Bravo and the poor dog is having an existential crisis on whether or not he should stick his face in or leave the bag be.
He should let you sleep, but Simon also knows you need to fucking eat something.
Gently, Simon places your plates on the coffee table. He removes the bag of crisps from your arms before rousing you. The meal is devoured. Tea is had. Simon throws on a movie, and you snuggle up to him, sinking into his warmth.
 This is how it should be. With you in his arms.
Twenty minutes in and you’re asleep again. Simon doesn’t care at all. You are here. You are close. You are safe. Like this, Simon can protect you. He can take care of you. Simon finishes the movie by himself, deciding that only after he’ll carry you to bed.
As he shifts to lift you, you awaken slightly, arms sliding around his neck to snuggle closer. Simon turns his face into you, breathes you in, allowing your scent to fill his lungs. You’re drifting off again as he adjusts his grip and stands. His bad leg wants to give out but Simon bites back the quick flare of pain.
Fuck that. Simon is stronger than that.
In the bedroom, Simon bends at the knees, thighs straining as he tosses back the covers on one side of the bed. Sliding you underneath, he tucks you in. You turn over to face the opposite direction, arms curling around his pillow like it’s him. He watches as you bring it closer, nostrils flaring as if you’re inhaling him too.
Simon changes into more comfortable clothing before sliding in next to you.
For him, his sleep is absent of dreams.
There are no shadows or fire. No memory. Just blankness. Nothing.
He wakes early, well before the time he actually needs to open up the shop for customers. Simon doesn’t want to. He’d like to stay in bed all day with you, but he also knows that trying to rearrange today’s schedule just for a bit of personal gratification is a fucking rude thing to do.
Simon stretches, all the joints in his body popping as Bravo’s head appears above the end of the bed. The dog tilts his head and Simon gestures toward the door. Bravo takes off, heading outside to go guard the place from squirrels.
Shifting to the edge of the bed, Simon rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. More popping but the stiffness quickly recedes.  Glancing behind him, Simon finds you still asleep. Things have changed though. The bedding is twisted around your body and you’ve removed some clothes in the night.
He cannot help himself. Simon’s gaze glides over all the exposed skin. The itch to reach out and run just his fingertips across the curve of your hip is unbearable. Simon has to clench his hands into fists just to stop himself from touching you.
Pushing off from the bed, Simon enters the bathroom, seeking a hot shower. All his clothes including his mask go on the floor. He is aching between his legs, all the blood in his body rushing happily to his quickly swelling cock.
“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping under the water.
Wrapping his hand around the base, Simon begins to stroke. The small bit of underwear he kept as a token is still tucked away in his dresser, but he doesn’t need it. Not anymore. He now has the memory of you, and the fact that you are currently in his bed. It’s enough to drive that pulsing desire higher.
Simon rests his forearm against the shower wall. He leans forward, his forehead coming into contact with that arm. He’s so fucking busy stroking his cock, that he doesn’t hear the opening of the bathroom door.
He doesn’t hear it close.
Nor does he hear the shower door.
It isn’t until your hand slides over his that Simon realizes what’s happening.
Your other hand rests against his back, splaying wide, moving up and down in gentle passes.
“Let me,” you murmur and Simon releases himself, only for you take his place, stroking him perfectly in utter pleasure.
A shiver rattles up his spine. You’re not looking at his face. You stand off to his right, face lightly pressed against the right side of his upper back near his shoulder. Lips move against skin, leaving kisses behind. You give Simon these small gifts with each stroke of your hand along his shaft.
Do you know that your mouth and hand on his back are caressing his scars? Do you know? Because Simon does, and it make him feel unworthy. Those are no longer earned marks but ones of failure.
But it’s not like you know that.
Over the scars is ink. Black ink. Perhaps you feel their lines and ridges under the tattoos. Perhaps you don’t. Yet Simon knows, and he doesn’t hate the touch. Other people he’s fucked have touched them, commented on them, tried to even sexualize them.
You’re not touching the scars. You are but you aren’t. You’re touching him. Touching Simon.
With a gentle twist of your wrist, you glide down his cock and circle the head with your thumb. Simon groans, leaning into your hold. He imagines you sinking to your knees and taking him into your mouth. He imagines you spreading your legs wide in open invitation. Of him sliding into you, watching himself disappear into your welcoming body.
Your pace increases slightly, just enough to drag Simon toward his end.
He bursts, his release marking the wall, but Simon is already grabbing your wrist, twisting around to face you.
You’re fast. Already, you have one hand thrown over your eyes, a playful smile plastered on your face.
Simon doesn’t care. Not really. The mask is just habit.
Gently, Simon guides your hand away from your face and yet you still keep your eyes closed.
“Don’t want to look at me?” he asks teasingly.
You giggle. “Feels a bit wrong.”
Simon smirks and then grabs your shoulders, turning you around to face the shower wall. He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear. “Your turn.”
Your hands go out to steady yourself as Simon slides his hand between your legs. He moans softly at the contact. You’re already wet for him, and it’s not because of the water. You’re fucking aroused. Needy. All Simon can think about is fucking you with his fingers before he fucks you with his tongue.
Simon wants to give you more but that has to wait. When he takes you like that, he needs to have all of you. Without interruptions. Without distractions. That’s how he wanted it to be three years ago at Riot Room. He wanted to take you home and fuck you on and over every surface in his flat. He wanted to make you scream his name until your voice went hoarse.
He circles your clit with his thumb a few times before testing with a finger. It slides right in and Simon feels the gentle flutter of your pussy adjusting to him. With his other hand, Simon slides it up your body to grab the front of your throat, holding you still. He presses his lips to the top of your head, not caring that the water is close to running into his eyes.
Simon begins to thrust and swirl, inserting a second finger quickly, wanting to feel how you’ll stretch for him. You whimper when his thumb makes another pass over your clit. It is sweet and Simon grins against your scalp, drinking in your little sounds.
But you are also reaching for him, left hand dropping from the wall to move behind you, palming his cock back to hardness even as Simon’s fingers fuck your pussy. You rock back, indicating what you want.
Simon nearly loses it right then.
He nearly snaps.
All he has to do is arch your hips a bit, maybe bend slightly at the knee. He’d fucking slide right in. He could fuck you right here against the shower wall, watch you whimper and beg, pinned between two hard surfaces.
You arch your back. Rub against him. His cock slides against the spot where your cunt and his fingers meet.
A vision of you clawing at the shower wall as he fucks you senseless clouds his mind. It infiltrates. Digs its feet in.
Simon nearly gives in right then as you orgasm, squeezing around his fingers. He nearly breaks the promise to himself.
But he somehow controls himself. Instead of giving in, Simon removes his hand from between your legs and twists his fingers in your hair, tugging to arch your back and bend you enough so he can reach that gorgeous fucking mouth.
His lips come down on yours and you moan against him. Simon’s hand at your throat eases, slips away, trailing over breast and waist and hip before stabilizing on your lower stomach. With this support, Simon slides his cock between your legs.
He does not penetrate, just rocks back and forth. With your thighs pressed together, and the slickness of your orgasm freshly coating your sex, he can pretend he’s inside you. Simon knows it isn’t enough but it’ll have to do for now.
The hand on your stomach sinks lower, shifting to your pelvis. His fingers find your clit. You’re already so sensitive from the previous orgasm that the second takes moments to come to life. Simon savors it, allows it to feed his own movements until he cannot contain his own. Pressing on your pelvis, Simon keeps you in place as finishes, his cock soaking in your juices.
The water is growing cold and Simon is fucking smug.
Slowly, he eases his cock from between your thighs, perfectly content with what just transpired. But his cum is fucking everywhere. It’s literally dripping from your sex.
“Fuck,” murmurs Simon, gently wiping some of that away with water.
That’s something the two of you need to fucking discuss. The first time the two of you had sex, there was a condom. This time, Simon doesn’t want there to be any barriers, but that cannot fucking happen without birth control. You might not be on it, and if that’s the case, the two of you will have to figure something else out.
You press into him. “Simon,” you groan, lips parting in wanton need.
A growl leaves his throat as he gives you what he wants. He nips and sucks on your bottom lip before drawing away, leaving you to face the shower wall. Simon shuts off the water and lightly tugs on your hand.
“Come on.”
He tugs on your hand again but you don’t move. Frowning, Simon grabs your shoulders and forces you to turn.
He blinks and then bursts out laughing. “What are you doing?” Your eyes are closed and your mouth is a thin line. “You can look at me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Simon chuckles, releasing your shoulders. He places one hand flat against the shower wall. Leaning in, Simon drops his voice to low purr. “Think I’m monstrous?”
With his words come the pebbling of your skin. He watches in real time as it fans out across your body. He grins in triumph.
“The very worst,” you reply softly.
Pushing off from the wall, Simon stands tall, shoulders squared, chest forward. “Look at me,” he says, and this time it’s a command.
You suck in a breath before one eye opens. It’s more of a squint but then you open the other, blinking a few times.
For some stupid fucking reason, Simon is a bit nervous. He’s never been nervous like this. Not when it comes to his face.
At first, your eyes widen, and Simon’s chest clenches tight as if a ribbon is twisted around his ribcage. Then, your brow softens, and your mouth forms the most gorgeous smile he’s ever seen. Your hands instantly reach toward his face in eagerness only to pause just before making contact.
The retreat is shallow. You’re asking permission.
“It’s okay,” murmurs Simon, because it is.
You close this distance and Simon turns his face into your soft hands. Your thumbs stroke over his cheeks. Your fingers trace his brow and nose. Every touch is exploratory and gentle, but fucking bliss.
“Hiding all this from me?” you tease. “You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.”
He chuckles, happiness vibrating in his chest. Clasping your hands with his own, Simon brings them down to his chest. In one motion, the two of you are coming together, lips meeting. This is all softness. All tenderness.
Simon draws back, licks his lips. “Will you go away with me?”
“On a trip?”
He nods, stealing one more kiss before continuing. “Next weekend? I can move a few things around.”
“I’m not sure,” you say slowly.
“If you say no I’m telling Amelia.”
You laugh, almost snort, and shake your head. “Fine. Where to?”
“It’s a surprise,” whispers Simon.
You pull back slightly, an amused expression on your face. Simon grins and steps out of the shower, bringing you with him. With towel in hand, Simon soaks up the droplets on his skin. He never takes his eyes off you as you dry yourself. The moment you’re done, Simon snags the towel from you and tosses it to the side.
“Come here,” he growls, needing you all over again.
You playfully bat at his hands but it’s all for show. You easily give in to him, allowing Simon to drag you onto the bed. He sighs as he pushes your legs wide, settling between them to drape one over each of his shoulders.
Dragging you to his mouth, Simon forgoes all teasing and closes the distance. Your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his head as his tongue penetrates your pussy.
It is morning.
He’s simply enjoying his breakfast.
And Simon won’t leave the table until he’s finished his meal.
taglist:
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callofdutysimpsstuff · 5 months
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ghost would love having a housewife-
being able to love you is enough for him, and yet he still gets to come home to home cooked meals? and a cute decorated house? that man is folding.
he’d open the door and spot you in the kitchen, your hair falling perfectly around your face, aroma of the dish making the whole house smell good. he doesn’t say a word just rushes over to you and pulls you into a deep kiss.
it still takes you by surprise even though his reaction is a regular occurrence. you’ve just never met anyone as passionate as him.
ghost who is obsessed with calling you his wife, most of all in bed.
“yeah, love? that feel good? is my pretty little wife gonna cum?”
“what does my wife need, hm? need me to make you numb like last time? yeah, that’s what i thought.”
you try to respond, but you’re squeezed around him so tight, anything that leaves your mouth us incomprehensible.
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angelatsumu · 5 months
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bedtime with olderboyfriend!simon <3
thinking of older!boyfriend!simon who says “lights off” before turning off your nightstand and leaving you to scroll endlessly on your phone in the dark. he thinks it’s an indicator that you should be going to bed, but once he’s rolled over he can still hear the incessant tapping of your fingernails scrolling through each video and image on your feed. he clears his throat, hoping you’d get the hint. when he hears the clatter of nails again, he grunts at you. “phones off too, pup. y’know damn well it’s jus’ gonna ruin your sleep,” he huffs matter-of-factly, and you whine a little protest before conceding. you place your phone down next to your lover’s and curl up under the covers beside him.
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angelltheninth · 6 months
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Simon Being Free-Use for You
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader
Tags: nsfw, smut, free-use, established relationship, dick riding, cum eating, blowjob, hickies, kitchen sex, size kink, cockwarming, size difference
A/N: Why is it always the woman who is free use? It can be a big, strong guy like Simon too!
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Took a very long time for the both of you to be comfortable with this arrangement
Simon is all about your pleasure, even if he can act otherwise when you're having sex but he will never be a selfish lover, which is why he wants you to be able to fuck him whenever you want
He knows that you'll get tired before him anyway and it will be up to him to tuck you into bed at the end of the day
Almost always naked for ease of handling and because he knows that just the sight of his big cock makes you drool for him
Doesn't mind being woken up with your mouth, it can easily turn into throatfucking so you best be ready to choke on his dick when he's fully awake
He could be reading a book and you'll pass by, see his cock and get on your knees, start to rub him until he's hard and telling him to read loudly
Keeping his voice even is a struggle when he's feeling your prefect mouth sucking around the tip of his cock or your hand making a rotating motion near the base, squeezing and leaving his cum with nowhere to go until he's done with the page
Simon has more love bites on him then he has scars from various missions he's taken over the years, the issue is that you have to renew your love bites a lot
Not that either of you mind
Walking behind him gives him a small smile because he'll tilt his head back just a bit and see you mirroring his smile as you reach to his front and take his cock in both hands, keeping him still while you milk him
You often struggle with getting him into the position that you want because of how huge and beefy he is
Because of this it makes you swoon when you see how willing he is to be pulled wherever you want whenever you want it, on top of you in the kitchen, his hands gripping the counter the same way they were when you were sucking him off and not letting a drop of his cum go to waste since you swallowed it all
One moment he's talking to his friends, the other his phone is on silent because you decided you needed his dick right there and then and started riding him hard
Every time Simon comes home he knows that he will spend the next week being cockwarmed by you, the only time he will be away from you is when he's going out for errands
He will fuck you into the ground because you want it so bad you can't contain yourself anymore, he will give you his cock day in and day out because he knows that your pussy won't be able to stop aching otherwise and he will hold you against his chest while he does all of this because you're the most precious person in the world to him
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ghostaholics · 7 months
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𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑
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➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn medic!Reader (same reader from here, but this is a stand-alone) ➸ SUMMARY: You kiss Simon's very minor injuries. And then some. (Or, alternatively: He's not actually wounded. He just wants to see you.) ➸ WARNING(S): some graphic descriptions of old injuries ➸ A/N: Need to preface that this isn't smut despite how the title and summary sound. Anyways, Jo knows I listened to Hozier's Other Voices 2020 version of "Work Song" for a week straight while writing this. ➸ WC: 2k
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❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃, ❞ he admits, low-timbered. It feels intimate, especially coming from him. Simon's sitting on the cot; it sags under his weight. He curls his hands over the edge of it as he leans forward. No casualties post-mission means he's got free rein to pick wherever he wants in the medical tent.
"Oh, yeah? What about?"
"That I should probably do my best to avoid injuries so I don’t keep pestering you. Can always just tell me to fuck off, y’know.”
“You’re gonna break my heart if you stop coming around.
“Mm,” he says in agreement. “Can’t have that can we?”
You nod your head earnestly. “I like your company.”
“Tryin’ to say that you’ll miss me?”
“I would.” More than he knows.
It’s routine now. He gives you just enough room, adjusting his position. You step into the space made between Simon’s splayed knees, his massive legs nearly bracketing yours with how close they are. He’s bigger than you. Well, considerably more mammoth-like in his proportions compared to an overwhelming majority of the soldiers that you’ve encountered, to be quite honest.
Simon acts as though he’s acutely aware of his size. You suspect that he purposefully makes himself smaller in your presence. Like now, how his shoulders are rounded forward, the column of his spine not as straight-arrow in that standard, militaristic posture most servicemen have adopted. As if he doesn’t want to appear too intimidating. Not that Simon could, to you. Hours doing his stitches and idle chitchat on your part have taught you that he’s much less ruthless than people seem to paint him as. But you appreciate the thought anyway.
You conduct the assessment – a typical evaluation normal for combat casualty care, more in-depth than the one you’d done when he initially stopped by and you did a quick once-over for any obvious injuries. Though given the complete vacancy in the medical tent, you find it hard to believe that you’ll come across anything on him since the mission went that smoothly.
The first thing you notice this time: he doesn't smell like spilled blood. It's different. Not that sweet, rusted iron of wet tackiness – the one that reminds you of a generous stack of two pence coins held between a pair of hands cupped together. He comes in that way a lot. Reeks, because war means that he's no stranger to charging through a shower of copper and lead-forged bullets out on the field. Everything else is still there, though. Maybe a dying campfire – crackling logs and blackened earth. Soft dirt excavated from a foxhole for cover while under enemy fire. All gunpowder and Marlboro Lights and diesel-fuel smoke. Fresh rain and a blue-violet sky after a storm. Victory without consequence.
You'd breathe it in if you could, pull the collar of his jacket up to your face. At this proximity, it’d be easy.
He drops the act when he’s in front of you. Lieutenant. Ghost. Battle-hardened, gruff. A natural-born leader. The kind of person to rip this world apart brick by brick – scraped up palms clutching onto broken pieces – to make sure that the plan is executed accordingly, no matter the cost. It’s hard for him to shed that layer. A drop in the bucket of information that you’ve gathered about this man.
You’ve seen him at his best. But you know him at his worst.
The laundry list of injuries over the years: blows to his torso and his back and his limbs that were brighter than technicolor – purples and reds and sickly yellow-green shades – deep, blotchy medals of violence decorating his skin like some kind of fucked-up kaleidoscope that was nothing to be proud of; when some bastard drove a knife right into his upper thigh, that dirty blade wedged through tissue and muscle which was sure as hell going to induce the nastiest infection without serious TLC and a tetanus shot; rib fractures 7-9 because he aborted an exploding heli, seconds to spare before landing on his side wrong from a height that was equivalent to three stories tall; old GSWs dotting his body the same way you’d shove push pins into a paper-flimsy map to mark the places you’ve been to.
And then there’s no contest for the top contender. 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 #𝟏: when he was rushed in on a stretcher, barely clinging to life. Lower abdomen shredded by exploding shrapnel. He was outside of the window of opportunity. Too far beyond that golden hour, so his chances of surviving plummeted to a single-digit percent.
He’s more than just a patchwork of scars. There’s a complex person underneath the surface. A miracle in the flesh to have toughed it out through all of that. Resilient. Perpetual. His callsign makes sense. Ghosts really do live forever.
Several seconds pass before you speak again. It’s a silly comment, teasing – poking fun at him. You don’t have any reservations when it comes to picking on Simon; he’s good about taking these things in stride. Funny, actually. He’s got a dry sense of humor. “I think… you like the idea of someone taking care of you.”
His response isn’t immediate. It’s delayed, said with intention. He doesn’t ever waste words. “Not just anybody.”
You nearly reel back at that. Warmth floods your face. You aren’t quite sure what to say, didn’t expect it. So you let the comment hang in the air between the two of you, busying your hands with slipping off his tac vest, triple-checking for hidden wounds, doing anything to keep yourself occupied while you stand this close to him in the wake of that remark. You’re engrossed in your work, in search of a distraction.
(He’s a distraction, isn’t he?)
And then your eyes stop in their scan. Right there: a small nick on the exposed sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve – open to the direct path of some wayward debris that happened to graze him. So tiny. You’ve seen paper cuts more harrowing than this – wouldn’t have even registered on your radar, especially if it’s being dwarfed by other critical wounds that hold decisive sway over somebody’s fate when it comes to your average life-or-death scenario.
Of course, you take your job very seriously.
You feign a sharp inhale. “Ah,” you say solemnly, guiding his arm up to your face for a closer look. “Found your problem.”
“I’ve got a problem,” he echoes, voice laced with amusement.
“See, you came to the right place. Anybody else would’ve missed it.”
“The verdict, then?”
“So terrible. Earth-shattering, in fact—”
Simon starts pulling away. “Alright, that’s enough of you takin’ the piss outta me,” he gripes.
You chase his arm to recapture it into your grasp. “Wait!” you say, huffing out a laugh. Your mouth sprouts into a wide grin that makes him roll his eyes.
“You gonna treat me or what?”
Your humor bubbles away as you come back to your senses. Those once-loud peals of laughter start to die down when you take his question into consideration. Because there’s really nothing for you to do; he doesn’t need you.
The realization is slow-moving. It washes over you, rolls like waves as you finally begin to sober up.
Simon wants to be here, and he’s looking for any excuse to stay. He just can’t find the courage to own up to it.
“I dunno. Might be unconventional,” you throw out casually, playing along. “Risky, maybe – never been done before.”
But he’s undeterred. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”
You pause for a beat, fingers still wrapped around his forearm because you haven’t managed to let go yet. His skin is warm under your palm. You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to do it – emboldened by his encouragement, given complete carte blanche; he’s leaving this to your discretion. So you press your lips to that area where the cut is, right over his pulse point. If you had lingered for longer, you probably would’ve been able to feel it thudding, that solid rhythm and easy strength reminding you he’s alive.
You expected him to withdraw his arm in bewilderment. He should’ve kicked up a fuss about you violating his boundaries, should’ve told you that you overstepped. Something, right?
But he doesn’t do any of that. Simon’s studying you. Dark pupils. So chasm-deep that the ground beneath your feet might slip away. Ocean trenches, midnight-black like the charcoal smudged around his eyes. When they land on you, his gaze goes molasses-soft. He’s fond; there’s little room for doubt. The way he looks at you says everything. None of that usual coldness he harbors during an op. Instead, relaxed and more human than you’re used to seeing – all of his attention focused solely on you.
“Where else, Simon?” you whisper.
He’s thinking – carefully weighing his options – the same expression that he gets when a crossroads lies ahead of him and he knows his make-it-or-break-it decision will invariably affect the outcome of a mission.
After several moments, his hand comes up. Simon’s fingers curl underneath the hem of his mask; he’s been wearing the fabric balaclava more often since you’ve fixed the stitching on it. Then he lifts – not the entire way. Just to reveal the bottom half of his face. There he is. Sandpaper-rough stubble. The sharp cut of his jaw. A mouth that you’re convinced wears a scowl 24/7 behind his mask but is now slightly twitched up.
Even though you’ve seen it before, the sight of him never fails to steal your breath away. Feels like meeting him for the first time again. With how rarely he does this, it might as well be – that slow, heart-melting sensation is steadily filling the cavern of your chest.
And you lean in. Your lips brush against his; it’s a chaste thing – the kiss – if it can be called that. Gentle. Like how you’d stitch up his wounds with a light touch and kind intent. He’s built of sterner stuff, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s capable of breaking just as easily as everyone else. You always handle Simon with care: unequivocal compassion and empathy when there’s so little of those left on this side of war – privileges that he’s never taken for granted.
“Better?” you ask quietly, tipping your head in question.
Simon hums his approval – this pleased, low sound in his throat. His hand slides across your lower back. He tugs you towards him. “Wouldn’t mind some more attention,” he murmurs, before slotting his mouth over yours. And then he kisses you like it might heal him from the outside in.
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Secret Lovers
Simon "Ghost" Riley X F!Reader
Simon wasn’t someone who very willingly opened up to anyone, his teammates were no exception either, save for Price. It was always better to keep things quiet and let people assume what they pleased instead of trying to answer their questions. Better to remain mysterious than show your cards to the wrong person. a/n:this was originally started because of a snippet @thebeesatemyknees had written, thank you so much for letting me turn this into a full fic! I hope I was able to do it proper justice warnings:none, just tons of fluff Part 2
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Simon wasn’t someone who very willingly opened up to anyone, his teammates were no exception either, save for Price. It was always better to keep things quiet and let people assume what they pleased instead of trying to answer their questions. Better to remain mysterious than show your cards to the wrong person. Johnny had badgered him from day one if he had a partner, going on and on about how much he loved his girlfriend. SImon wasn’t going to tell him anything, no matter what he’d keep his lips sealed.
Kyle was the next one to ask, though it was more in passing rather than a true and genuine question when he cornered the older man. They had been discussing mission details when the topic arose, did he have a next of kin? And if so, who would be the one to inform them if Ghost were to be KIA’d? He never asked Simon after that day, instead going on to different topics whether they had to do with the mission or what they wanted to eat. Kyle treated him like a friend, it was nice.
And John, well he knew all about Simon’s personal and very private life.
~~~
You were a new addition to the team, a medic that could stitch up a wound within a minute and get you back on the field within five. They were thankful to have you come around with them, helping stitch up a wound on Johnny’s arm, or cleaning up a gash on Kyle’s head. The only person who seemed to be a little wary around you was Simon, which both Johnny and Kyle felt odd. You fit in their group like the puzzle piece that was missing, and yet Simon acted as if he wanted nothing to do with you. Surely he’d warm up to you a little more, they were all sure of it.
“Thank you all for meeting me on such short notice. We’ve got word that an arms dealer is hosting a gala and we need to get more intel before we can swoop in.” Kate was a woman who took no shit and left no prisoners, she wasn’t going to risk this.
“Who do we want to send?” John was nervous, his men were trained for this, but putting them into a situation where they’d have to become someone else entirely? Nerve wracking.
“I was discussing it with Shepherd last night, and we’ve decided that Simon and Y/N will be going on this mission while the rest of you stake out the building.” All eyes suddenly shifted to Simon who looked calm as ever.
He’d forgone the mask for this mission briefing, knowing that only his teammates and Kate would be in the room with him. Knowing that you were going to be there made things a little more tense, could he handle something that dire?
“If you think that’s what’s best, I fully support the decision.” John wasn’t going to argue, Simon could be suave and charm the pants off of anyone if needed.
“Thank you, we’ll be heading out tomorrow and meeting up at the hotel. Promise me you’ll behave so no one suspects you, please.” Kate knew how much of a troublemaker that Johnny and Kyle could be, given the opportunity of course.
“I’ll make sure of it myself if need be, don’t you worry.” John smiled up at her, leaving Kate to wonder how much trouble there would be.
They would need to debrief you on the plane ride over, given that you weren’t even in the room with everyone. Having something like that just dumped on you with no time to prepare was the worst, how could they manage? Simon would just have John give you the rundown so he could worry about more important things, like how he’d have to act like the two of you were so desperately in love.
You would have an entire day to get comfortable in the hotel room, there would be a few people lingering so you’d get used to being stared at. Simon knew they’d mainly be staring at you, you were downright gorgeous. And with the clothes that had been picked out? A deep navy blue tux, with a pitch black button up and black silk tie. It perfectly matched the dress they’d picked out for you, a deep V down the front that left just enough to the imagination. The color matched his tux almost identically, the only difference was your dress was silk. 
“They’ve packed everything for you to do your own hair and makeup, we don’t want you to stand out too much, better to blend in.” It was the smartest idea, if you or Simon were to attract too much attention things would end badly.
“Yeah, Kate told me as much as she could, I made sure to pack my best heels.” You were nervous, it’d been so long since you’d been able to go out to something fancy.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” John knew you were smart and quick witted, but something about this mission unnerved him.
“I’m positive, Simon and I will get the intel and get out before anyone even notices we’re missing.” You were confident everything would go smoothly, Simon could be silent if needed.
John nodded at you, settling back into his seat as the plan began to descend down onto the tarmac below. Simon was staring at you from across the way, palms sweating slightly as the time drew closer to getting inside the hotel. Johnny was going to see how nervous he was and make comments, he was sure of it. The sound of tires squealing brought everyone’s attention to high alert. It was time to grab your things and head to the cars, you were driving over with Simon, leaving the other three to their own car.
It was mainly to not raise any suspicion, if you were seen driving with any man that wasn’t your husband word would spread before you managed to make it to the party. You were absentmindedly playing with your ring, twirling the obnoxiously large diamond with your other fingers. It was a habit you picked up whenever you tended to wear jewelry, though it was much better than picking at your cuticles.
“You feeling alright hun?” Simon glanced over at you, though his own nerves were shot, he wanted you to feel comfortable.
“A little nervous, but that’s to be expected considering the circumstances.” You kept twirling the ring, glancing between Simon and the road ahead of you.
Simon took a quick breath and grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together without skipping a beat or taking his eyes off the road. You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face, you had been waiting to see how long it took before he finally felt comfortable around you. You’d need to practice around everyone else if you were going to look natural around a bunch of strangers. Everything was going to be just fine, you were sure of it.
John had set up everything in the hotel room, along with hanging up your dress and Simon’s tux to help steam out any wrinkles if needed. So far there was nothing to worry about, save for Soap acting like a little shit and pranking Simon and Kyle for the most part. You’d all settled in, changing into comfortable clothes and ordering food so that you wouldn’t have to leave. Simon was cleaning up the kitchen so he could sit down and enjoy dinner with you.
“Do you need any help?” You walked over to him, pressing your hand against his lower back.
“Nah, just need to finish cleaning this plate and we can eat.” Simon smiled at you, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.
“Whatever you say.” You patted his back gently, heading over to the small kitchen table.
Johnny raised a brow at how you and Simon seemed to naturally work with one another, he didn’t want to raise any suspicion. Kyle on the other hand was ignoring him entirely, digging into his own meal and scrolling through his phone. Simon had finally finished, grabbing his plate of food and heading over to sit with you. He could faintly hear that you were both discussing the mission and going over your alias’ one last time.
“Simon, you need to wear your ring.” You’d gotten on his case the entire day, he kept taking it off complaining that it felt weird to wear it.
“I’ll wear it during the mission tomorrow.” Simon brough the fork to his mouth, focusing on his plate rather than your raised brow.
“You say that now, but when we end up leaving you’re going to forget it and then we’re going to have to drive all the way back because you won’t wear your ring.” You had put yours on right away, mainly because you were forgetful and didn’t want to end up forgetting it.
“Are you really going to make me wear the ring all night?” Simon’s expression would normally terrify a recruit, but you’d gotten used to it.
“If I want to make sure you have your ring on? Yes, I’m going to make you wear your ring until we get back on that plane and go back home.” You’d glue it on if need be, but Simon knew better than to disobey orders.
John chuckled to himself watching the two of you, it was a dynamic he hadn’t seen in quite a while and it was pretty funny to witness. Johnny on the other hand was now even more flabbergasted at the way you worked together. Why did you seem so comfortable arguing with a man who’d killed for less? This was something sinister and it unnerved him to no end, he’d get to the bottom of this.
You’d offered to clean up everyone’s dinner dishes, carefully cleaning any knives before laying them on a towel to be dried by Simon. He walked over to where you were, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull your bodies flush together. Johnny’s jaw dropped open as he slapped Kyle’s arm to get his attention. The playful bickering was one thing, but watching Simon the Ghost Riley be so affectionate? 
“Damn, he’s a good actor.” Kyle watched the way you and Simon began to sway gently, giggling at something he’d whispered into your ear.
“Scarily good, didn’t think he had it in ‘em.” Johnny shook his head, turning back towards the computer in front of him.
It wasn’t until the sound of someone kissing caught their attention once more. Simon had dipped you, lips pressed against yours as his arms wrapped around your waist. Johnny’s jaw dropped wide open, well if you weren’t together already that was surely going to change. You pressed your hands against Simon’s chest, laughing happily as you stared up at him.
“Cap, do ya think Lt and the medic are gonna get together after all this?” Johnny had high hopes, no one gets kissed the way Simon kissed you and simply part ways.
“What’re you talking about?” John barely lifted his gaze from the screen, typing up the pre mission notes to help catch up on them before.
“Simon’s practically tonguing the medic! He’s gonna woo her.” He waggled his brows at the older man, cackling when John rolled his eyes.
“Oh, yeah that’s not gonna happen.” John’s attention focused back on the task at hand.
Johnny’s laughing abruptly halted, what the hell had he meant that Simon wasn’t going to woo the medic, it was obvious! Clearly John had no idea what he was talking about, Johnny could see the little twinkle in your eye from across the room.
“Gaz, am I wrong or do ye think Ghost and medic are gonna end up together?” He was determined to get someone to agree with him.
“Oh, if they don’t I’m asking for her number for him.” Kyle may have had a slight crush on you, not that he’d ever admit it.
John sat upright in his chair, focusing on Johnny and Kyle who thought they were being more subtle than they actually were.
“Have you ever looked at their name tag by chance?” John wanted to see if the other two would finally catch on.
Both Johnny and Kyle shook their heads, neither of them had a reason to over analyze your name tag when they had injuries to be taken care of. He sighed softly to himself before glancing over to you and Simon. You were laughing at some bad joke Simon had whispered to you, a bright smile on his face.
“Her last name is Riley.” John watched as realization dawned on their faces.
You’d been married this entire time and no one, besides Price, was none the wiser. How the hell had you managed to keep it hidden from everyone? Then again Simon wasn’t the most overly friendly or affectionate when it came to anyone. You were his wife though, that was different! Surely you could bring out a different side of him, something that no one usually got to…of course.
“Would’ve been nice to know at least.” Johnny shrugged off his disappointment, this was a big thing to keep hidden away.
“It wasn’t my place to tell, just remember that.” John wanted to respect your privacy, it was the least he could do considering your line of work.
Johnny and Kyle understood why Price hadn’t admitted to questions about your relationship, but knowing the truth? It felt good. They watched the way you and Simon danced to the music playing from your phone. Simon’s arms were wrapped around your waist, pressing kisses all over your face as you tried to squirm away. It was a side of their teammate they’d never thought to see, and no one outside of this hotel room would ever get to see it.
At least, not until after the mission of course.
tagging: @gaylemonshark
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dmitriene · 12 days
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THOUGHTS ABOUT GUNSLINGER SIMON MEETING YOU AS HE PASS BY.
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cw: fluff, comfort, sugesstive, kind of established relationship, groping, teasing, playful banters, kissing, dirty talk, marking, lot of intimacy, boner, pet names, brief mentions of female and male anatomy, could be posessive behavior, hints on sex, simon is filthy. pairing: cowboy simon ghost riley x fem reader
✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄
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thinking about gunslinger!simon — he meets you at the store, riding through town on a powerful black stallion to cross the road, and maybe buy a few things, if the sharp gaze of his dark bottomless eyes hadn't caught on your silhouette in a small grocery store, well, seems like he would definitely linger a little longer there, spent a night, even.
you've gone out to buy some small grocery shopping and maybe treat yourself to some pastries, but all your plans go down the drain when the wooden door of the store opens with a bell ringing above it and a cunning, smug bright red skull shaped mask walks in, carrying the identity of its owner, Ghost, whom you know as Simon.
— «ah, see who the horse has brought — eek!» you're in a hurry to notice sharply, but you don't have time to anticipate how quickly he'll cross the line from the door to you, letting you only feel the hurried touch of rough leather gloves over the curve of your waist, clad in the fabric of your dress, before he reaches out and squeezes your rounded ass, ripping out a high squeak out between your lips which he swallows hastily.
he turns you around to pin your back against the shelves of canned food and other goods, blocking the view of surprised eyes of another folks towards both of you, as he casually lifts his mask to his nose to slot his dry, tobacco scented lips to yours, licking inside your warm mouth with fervor of hungry mutt, intertwining his warm tongue with yours for just a fleeting moment before letting go of you.
simon pulls away from your lips just slightly, letting your breath blend together and his teeth pass against your lower lip in a playful bite, as you curl your dainty hand against his dark vest, shooting him a glare as your another hand grip a shopping basket stronger, your tongue slips between puffy lips to lick them, while your gaze focus on simon's sly squint of eyes and his wide grin that he hides behind his mask, and you spat stricktly — “and what this was about? that's how you say hello now?„
simon is amused by your play of the strict, spoiled girl, cause he sees how your eyes flutter shyly during a kiss before closing, and how you sigh into his mouth very quietly, only for him to hear, so he allows you to behave in this way, and in return he demands nothing more than a submission, even when he hoists you by the waist and carries to the exit, forcing you to hurriedly put the basket on the wooden shelf of the store and grab his biceps, pulling, demanding to designate his actions with at least a word, and he chuckles hoarsely — “jus' taking what's mine, can'' i, dovie?„
that makes you huff, «taking what's his» he says, in the meantime preventing you from shopping and doing whatever he pleases to you in public, you have long since lost all shame in his company, so that the words and looks of the townspeople do not mean much to you, but you allow yourself to let him know how displeased you are with his actions, frowning and pouting your lips, adding meekly — “and don't let me shop properly so i'll have what to eat, huh? very kind of you, Sir Ghost„
he visibly rolls his eyes, resembling boiled caramel in the sunset light, before glancing at your frowning brows and the way you pout your swollen from his kiss lips, before his leather covered gloved fingers wrap around your chin and turn your face a little more in his direction, so that simon can press the fabric of his mask into your ear.
— “we can pretty stay here, darling, if you won' me to bend you agains' shop's woll and fuck you for everyone to see?„
of course, the question is nothing more than rhetorical, because you won't agree to this, but it's worth it to see how your eyes widen and round like beads, and your skin definitely flushes, you can't utter a word, your lips parting silly like one of a fish, while simon takes advantage of this moment to put you on his horse before untie it from the rope, and climb in after you, sitting comfortably behind your back.
a position that allows him to grab your hips to pull you closer to him, making the softness of your ass brush against tenting hardness in his trousers, which pokes in the swell of your ass that is definitely not his revolver.
pleased, simon grabs the reins and tugs them, lightly tapping the sides of his black stallion with his feet, as his chin suddenly touches the curve of your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine.
— “i think i need to leave another one in more visible place, wha' do you think, dove?„ drawls his smoky voice, when he pulls the sleeve of your dress slightly with his chin, looking at the devil's mark, his bite, on your shoulders skin for anyone to see, if it weren't for the clothes behind which it can be hidden, not that he likes it, simon himself would have liked if you had worn it openly.
— “s — shush it„ you mutter, looking at him out of the corner of your vision with a little seriousness, adjusting the sleeve of your dress with slightly trembling fingers before continuing to stare ahead, while his broad muscular chest behind you quiver in a hoarse laugh, as he quietly, meant just for you, adds — “course, darling, i'll save this for later, yeah? sure you would be more talkative in bed, hun„
and he may be right, but it will be for his ears only.
— “when i would be balls deep in this little cunt of yours, birdy„
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jackactuallywrites · 1 month
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Hidden Paradise
Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader
Rating: Explicit (detailed shagging)
Warnings: Unprotected sex and also shower sex which we all know is unsafe
Summary: You walk in on a man in the shower, it takes you seeing him in the skull mask a week later to realise it was Ghost, and he is very intrigued by your reaction
Notes: This absolutely wouldn’t be possible without @xxven my muse and pookie and beta reader who gave me the plot 🤍❤️ (also raven on TikTok for making a hot thirst trap that inspired a whole scene)
Word Count: 4,195 (I am very horny for ghost)
ao3 link
There was very little luxury to be found on a military base; your military fatigues were never soft, your boots were the cheapest given by the contractors, your bed squeaked every time you so much as moved an inch, and there wasn’t so much as a tealight allowed in the barracks.
However, you’d found a quiet sanctuary. Far from the rest of the buildings on the base, there was a small shower block, disused and forgotten about in favour of the newer, more convenient showers. The water pressure wasn’t all that great, and the tiles would probably never return to whatever shade of white they’d started out as, but all that mattered was that it was so wonderfully, blissfully quiet.
Silence was one of the hardest commodities to come across on a military base; there was always something going on, whether it be a training exercise with a hard-edged sergeant screaming at recruits or the grunts trying out whatever shiny new piece of equipment the government had seen fit to waste money on, but out there in the shower block, muffled by a copse of trees, there was nothing. Beautiful, precious, nothing.
Today had been yet another long lesson in tedium, worsened by the fact that your most beloved friends were out in the field, busy repairing the vehicles with whatever they could scavenge from the base. You already felt exhausted at the idea of how much paperwork you’d have to do after they’d torn through the place, and the day proved you right, with you having to go to every single place in the garages to check what stock had been taken as mechanics had an annoying habit of forgetting to write down what they’d used. It was long into the evening by the time you’d finally finished putting in the orders to replace every strange bit of junk the mechanics had used, and all you could think about was the long shower you were going to take.
The route through the forest was one of the only places you could get away with wearing your headphones and listening to music without getting scolded by the sergeant on patrol, and you took advantage of this privilege every time, blasting some classic disco music in your ears as you approached the shower block, blissfully unaware of the world outside. If not, you might have noticed the sound of the shower running.
As such, you walked into the block thinking of nothing but how your new eucalyptus shower steamer would smell, having got fairly good reviews online. You already had a favourite shower at this point, the one on the very end, with the best water pressure that the rusted old pipes could provide, though it had no door to speak of. You walked along the yellowed tile floor, passing by the empty showers until you finally reached your favourite one, only to find that it was very much not empty.
Standing under the sputtering stream of water was a tall, well-built man, his tan back glistening under the hundreds of droplets of water, highlighting the various white scars on his back, some of them small, some of them intimidatingly large. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander down, admiring the muscles in his back and perfectly toned legs, as well as a surprisingly sculpted ass. Whoever he was, he was statuesque in his beauty, as though he had been carved out of marble, and as he turned around to face you, showcasing the golden hair that trailed down from his abs, you caught a glimpse of his shaft, thick and long, yet quickly covered by a large hand.
It was that movement that broke the lustful spell you were under, and your eyes finally stopped ogling his body and flicked up to his face. You didn’t recognise him, not his pale green eyes or his crooked nose, but you could absolutely recognise the outrage on his face, and you yanked down your headphones, keeping your eyes firmly above his waist, “I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was in here.” His voice was little more than a snarl, “Get out.” You had absolutely no desire to argue with a man built like that, so you gave a quick nod and hurried back out of the shower block, not willing to spend a single second more in his presence.
~
Since your encounter in the showers, not a single night had gone past where you hadn’t dreamed about the man, his body, his hands, the dark blond hair that led down his navel, and the thick veins on his forearms. It lurked in the back of your mind, eternally present as a lustful little memory to entertain you during the more boring moments of your day.
Yet again, you were in another meeting writing down what items had been used over the week and what needed to be ordered for the next month's exercise. It was made slightly more interesting by the fact that this time, you were working with the SAS, and not just that, but with some of the most feared soldiers there were, including the worst of the worst, Ghost .
You swore you could almost feel the insidious aura coming from the man in the skull mask, as though it was radiating off him in dark waves. When he spoke, his words were sharp and to the point, never expending more energy than was strictly necessary, and rarely directing his attention to you, sitting in silence and taking notes, not that you were complaining. Every time the man spoke, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as though your body was trying to warn you that he was dangerous. It was only toward the end of the meeting that you finally spoke up, standing and reciting everything that you’d written down in your notebook.
It was times like that where you’d have to put on a brave face as if you feared the room of men no more than a pack of kittens, making sure your voice was loud and firm, forcing them to listen to you. None of them seemed particularly interested; after all, you were a perfect, albeit boring professional, yet you remained undeterred, making eye contact with each of them. Even Ghost was looking at you; you could see those pale green eyes watching you from underneath his skull mask with a strange intensity. You remained undeterred, staring back at the man as you read out the various things that were in stock and what would have to be ordered, yet there was something niggling at the back of your head. Those eyes were strangely familiar.
It took you a second to remember, and then the barely buried memory came back: the beautiful man in the shower, his body glistening, his toned muscles, and the dark blond hair that covered his navel. The words in your mouth died on your tongue, and you saw Ghost’s eyebrow raise underneath his mask as if he was intrigued by your reaction to him. You cleared your throat, hoping that the heat you felt in your cheeks wouldn’t show up on your skin as you dropped your eyes back down to your notebook, pointedly ignoring him as you focused back on your task, ensuring that you hadn’t missed anything.
Inexplicably, Ghost spoke up, interrupting your admittedly dull recital of your list, “How soon can we get a restock of the M16 mags?” His question forced you to look over at him, and his pale green eyes seemed as though they were trying to drill right through your head. You refused to back down this time, meeting his gaze no matter how prevalent the image of his naked body was in your mind, even if you did stumble over your words as you flipped through the pages, “Those mags, uh, the ammo for the M16 that is, we ordered those last Tues-Wednesday , so they’ll be in by the end of this week.”
You couldn’t see his expression under his mask, but you could have sworn that it tugged in a way that suggested he was smirking underneath the black fabric, a touch of smugness in his eyes. Was he flirting with you? There was no possible way for you to find out in the middle of a full room, so you decided to put that tantalising idea to the side, wrapping up the last few items on your list and then glancing around the room, “If there’s anything else, please send me an itemised list by the end of the day.”
With that, the meeting was over, every soldier packing up their files, undoubtedly each one as bored as you, and you had little desire to spend any more time with them, especially with the suspiciously intense look Ghost was giving you, so you gave your farewells and left the room as quickly as you could, doing your best to rid your mind of the confusing thoughts whirling around in your mind. Ghost, the supposed ‘psycho’ killer, was flirting with you. Or perhaps threatening you. You weren’t entirely sure which. And yet, you had a strange desire to find out, that small part of you that longed to step into dangerous territory. But how could you? That meeting had been the only time you’d ever interacted with the man; other than your brief encounter in the shower, it didn’t seem like there would ever be another opportunity to be alone with him.
Unless.
Regardless of how outraged he’d been previously, he’d seemed entirely intrigued by you in the meeting, almost amused. You’d seen the direction he was headed; if your mind wasn’t already overtaken with delusional optimism, you could have sworn that he was striding in the direction of the old shower block with what seemed like great determination.
This was one of those deciding moments, a fork in the path where you got to choose what the outcome would be: adherence to your usual routine or something far more thrilling. You could almost feel the clock ticking in your head, your time running short, and for once, you decided to be brave and at least a little bit stupid, heading to your barracks to pick up your things before heading out toward the shower block, adrenaline pounding in your veins as you made your way through the small woods to the brick building.
Even from the outside, you could hear the shuddering of the pipes as they desperately pumped water, your heart beginning to pick up the pace as you pushed open the heavy wooden door, closing it softly behind you, now able to hear the pattering of water on the tile floor and see the black clothing draped over the bench that ran the length of the wall. You walked down the centre of the block, approaching the last stall on the end, and yet, you couldn’t take that final step. Everything below the waist was screaming at you to leap into the shower with the man, yet your brain conjured images of the humiliating HR meeting you’d be in if you had, in fact, entirely misinterpreted what were admittedly very subtle hints. You didn’t dare push over that line with a man so far above you in rank, but you weren’t prepared to entirely give up, so you merely slunk into the stall next to his, stripping off your uniform and hanging it on the backside of the door, pulling it to and surrendering yourself to an unsatisfying shower.
The shower head shuddered as you twisted the knob for water, a few spats of water dripping out, yet nothing more. There was a good reason you stuck to that end stall; almost every other shower there had been neglected to the point of failure. You took this as a sign to give up, turning around to get your things, only to find Ghost standing in the now open doorway.
There was nothing but a towel lazily wrapped around his hips to cover him up, his blond hair already soaked, water leaving little trails down his body, pulling your eyes down. You quickly snapped your attention back to his face, your hands already going to cover your chest and between your legs instinctually. Ghost’s eyes lingered on your body before finally flicking to the broken shower head, then back to your face. You could see that intrigued twinkle in his eyes as he gave you a slightly smug smirk, gesturing toward the other shower stall with his head, “Mine works. We should share.”
You almost couldn’t believe what he was suggesting. The exact situation had been playing out in your mind ever since you’d seen him naked, yet never once had you made the connection between your shower Adonis and Lieutenant Ghost. The two couldn’t be reconciled in your head, but you quickly decided that this was a problem to be solved later, if at all. You turned your non-functioning shower off, though slightly reluctant to use the hand covering your chest to do so, and then walked out of the stall, ducking under Ghost’s arm holding the door open for you, and rounding the corner into the warm stream of the only functional shower, allowing the water to wash away all the important questions that should have been asked, only focusing on the present moment.
Though you’d chosen to face away from him, you could still hear the noise of his towel hitting the wall as he tossed it aside, your entire body tensing up as you felt his presence behind you, the nerves nipping at the back of your mind. You didn’t dare turn to look at him, trying to find something else to focus on to quiet your frenzied brain, your eyes flicking to the one bottle of his on the floor in the shower, trying to figure out what scent ‘original’ was supposed to be, and whether one liquid really could be shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.
Your thoughts on his toiletries were brought to an instant halt at the first touch of his hand on your hip, a questioning touch as though he was gauging your interest before moving any further. He might have been feared special forces, yet here, you retained a level of control, of security. You relaxed into his touch, leaning back until you bumped up against his chest, and his arm snaked around your stomach, wrapping tightly around your waist as he stepped forward into the stream from the shower, his head dipping down to rest in the crook of your neck. You could feel his other hand trail a path up your thigh before it, too, wrapped around you, pulling you snug against him in a tight embrace, like a man starved for any sort of touch.
For a moment, the two of you remained in that simple intimacy, your arms resting on top of his, enjoying the sheer pleasure of his embrace. Your hands were the first to move, your fingertips gently trailing over the muscles in his forearms, admiring the strength in them, unable to hold back a smile as you saw the not-so-subtle way he flexed them for you. His hand moved then, and you followed them with your own, one trailing down over your hipbone to the top of your thigh, gently stroking the skin there, the other one shifting up until it was just underneath your breast, pausing right before he touched anywhere interesting.
Clearly, he wasn’t about to touch anywhere without your explicit permission, and you decided to test him, pulling his left hand up until it was settled over your breast. His fingers paused, and you felt the tenseness in his arms, yet after a beat, he stretched out his fingers, tracing a little pattern over the swell of your breast, circling your nipple before his hand covered your boob entirely, gently squeezing it in his hand. You could feel his breathing growing heavier, every exhale blowing air over the skin of your neck, but you had no intention of stopping, relaxing into his touch, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, your eyes closed. The hand on your thigh had grown tight, fingers digging into your flesh, and you began to move his hand further in to where you could feel a growing need for his touch.
The further you moved his hand, the tighter his grip on your chest got, pulling you closer against him until you could finally feel his hardness pressed against the small of your back. His clear excitement emboldened you further, and you pushed his hand firmly between your legs, letting his fingers slightly part your labia to rest on your clit. That action earned you a low growl from him, and he buried his face into your shoulder as he pushed his fingers further down, touching the slick wetness beginning to leak out of your needy pussy. The second he felt your wetness, he drew his fingers back from you, digging them into your hip and pulling you firmly against him, rubbing the bridge of his nose against your neck as though he was trying to ground himself in the moment.
You had no problem allowing him to take his time, focusing on the simple pleasure of the warm water on your skin and the heat emanating from his chest to your back. His hand moved back to your pussy, more determined than before, as he slid his fingers down your slit, gently probing your slick hole with his fingers. As he slowly slid one in, he let out a strangled groan, shifting his face so he could bite down on the flesh of your neck, his other hand massaging your breast as his finger began to easily slip inside you. He stretched his thumb up to rest on your clit as he gently began to pump his finger in and out of you, rubbing in little circles, and you couldn’t help but let out a little moan.
The slightest of noises from you seemed to spur him on, and he pushed another finger inside you, beginning to kiss and suck at your neck as he did so, your body easily accepting his two fingers, and so he followed it with a third, his dick twitching with excitement against your back as all three of his fingers sank inside you without resistance.
Whatever good sense you had left was beginning to dissipate in the haze of your lust, and you reached your hand behind you to wrap around his cock, slowly beginning to stroke him as he gently fucked you with his fingers. He rewarded you with a soft groan in your ear, and so you quickened your pace, beginning to pump his dick in earnest, wanting him to receive the same pleasure as you. Your body was eagerly opening up around him, and the last bit of your intelligence vanished as your desperation for him overpowered you, and you begged for stupidity in two words.
“Fuck me.”
There was no hesitance in Ghost’s touch now as he pulled his fingers out of you, turning you to face him and then bending down to grab your thighs and lift you up, pinning you to the cool, damp wall of the shower stall. You could see the lust in his eyes as he shifted to hold you with only one hand, the other quickly moving to his dick, positioning it at your slick entrance and then slowly beginning to lower you down onto him. There was no comparison to the pleasure you felt, not only from feeling him slide into you, but to watch his face as he did so, his open lips, the desperate look in his eyes, his gaze entirely focused on you as though you were Aphrodite herself. You sunk your teeth into your lip to stop yourself from moaning out loud as you felt him stretch out your insides, yet you let your hands dig into his shoulders, your nails raking his skin as you felt every inch of him.
When you finally sunk down to the base of his cock, he leant forwards to rest his head on the wall beside you, clearly struggling to contain his composure, his hand digging into the flesh of your thigh, the other splayed out on the cool tile wall. He took a second to breathe before he began to slowly thrust up into you, his hand shifting from your thigh to your hip to pin you in place. Even in your wetness, you could feel how big he was, filling you up so perfectly, and you arched your back against him, desperate to feel every inch of him inside you. His eyes were on you now, and he moved his hands from the wall to your lips, tugging your bottom lip out from between your teeth and issuing you a singular command, his gaze intense.
“I want to hear you.”
Even in your pleasure, you couldn’t stop yourself from obeying a command from your superior officer, and you let out the moans you’d been holding back, tightening your legs around his waist to pull him into you as much as possible, your fingers raking against his back as he fucked you, his hips beginning to move more forcefully against you. His fingers now moved to your hair, brushing the errant strands out of your face and then shifting down to cup your cheek, lifting your face, his voice soft, “Look at me.”
There was no mistaking the utter lust in his gaze when you looked up at him, yet you could also see quite a great deal of tenderness, of genuine care, which only served to heighten your pleasure, your hands moving from his shoulders to the back of his neck as you clung to him, desperately grinding your hips against him. He picked up his pace further yet still restrained himself from fully slamming into you, his grip like a vice on your thigh. His voice grew hoarser as he caressed your cheek with his thumb, clearly strained, “Touch yourself.”
In another situation, you might have felt insecure, yet you were entirely awash in lustful pleasure, and so you obeyed, reaching down with one hand to begin rubbing circles around your increasingly sensitive clit, feeling that same build of pleasure in your core as Ghost fucked you faster still, his expression growing more desperate by the second. He leant forward to whisper his final command against your lips.
“Come for me.”
Your body seemed honour-bound to obey him as your pussy clenched around his dick, your pleasure building until it finally crescendoed, with Ghost’s lips crashing onto yours as you finished, his hips moving frantically as he desperately fucked you, his thrusts stuttering as he finally shot his load deep inside you, his body crushing yours into the wall in a tight embrace. Your kisses became softer as the both of you came down from your frenzied high, his grip on your body loosening slightly, your death grip around his neck becoming less deadly.
With a satisfied groan, Ghost let himself sink to the floor, pulling you down along with him into his lap, letting his dick remain inside you as you settled more comfortably on top of him, resting against his chest as he lazily wrapped his arms around your lower back, cradling you against him. After such bodily heat, the comparatively cool water of the shower felt heavenly on your skin, washing away your intermingled sweat.
You probably could have slept there, with Ghost still buried inside you, yet he was not so spellbound. With a gentle movement, he pulled his softening length out of you, reaching over to grab the bottle of soapy liquid he’d left on the floor. Then, he repositioned you so you were now sitting in between his legs, his thick thighs boxing you in as he opened the bottle behind you. You weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, nor did you care, still awash in a pleasant afterglow. The touch of his fingers gently massaging the liquid into your hair was a heavenly surprise, and you practically melted into his hands, a human-sized pile of putty perfectly manipulated by him. He ran his fingers through the length of your hair, thoroughly soaping up every strand before he let the cool water wash away the suds.
Then, he got to work on your body. Never had you been so grateful for three-in-one soap as it meant you didn’t have to miss a second of his warm chest against your back as he began to soap up your body, his fingers incredibly gentle against your skin, paying attention to every single part of you, and then letting you lean back against his chest as the water washed everything away, his arms coming to rest around your waist. Every single care of yours seemed to follow the soap down the train as you relaxed into him, enjoying the way he rested his chin on your head as you closed your eyes, finally entirely at ease.
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sketchyfandomgirl · 2 months
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Thinking about Simon who is too quiet for his own good. I’m talking Michael Myers level of stealth. Despite being 240 pounds of pure muscle and badassery, Simon is ridiculously quiet with his footsteps. Even his breath is soft and controlled whether or not he realizes it.
He doesn’t always mean to pop out of the shadows, maybe you should learn to be more observant!
Simon always scares the daylights out of you when he seems to suddenly appear right behind you to ask a question, or looming around the corner like Michael Myers and his stupid hedge.
The only way he can reveal himself is when the traitorous floorboards creak under his weight, or the rustling of clothes if you listen carefully enough.
He sometimes uses it for evil, and gets a kick out of stalking right behind you like a lion on the prowl, spooking you when he’s basically on top of you. A simple “boo” is all he ever whispers, but he might as well be screaming in your ear with how high you jump in surprise.
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seresinhangmanjake · 9 days
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Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader - We Both Know
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Summary: Simon broke up with you but you both know it was a stupid choice.
Notes/Warnings: Stalker-ish Ex!Simon; Soft!Simon; Insecure!Simon (a little bit); some smut (18+), fluff, cursing, typos probably
Words: 1642
He’s here. You know he’s here. Not because you can see him or hear him or feel him—he’s too skilled for that—but because you know Simon Riley like the back of your damn hand. And Simon Riley won’t let you go. He has not proven himself capable of letting you go. Not yet, not fully, and if you can help it, not ever.
When you close the door behind you and kick off your shoes, you don’t bother turning on the lights. You’ve spent nearly two months flipping that switch in your entryway, pretending he isn’t somewhere in your apartment. Two months of going about your nightly routine as if there isn’t an intruder in your home. Two months of ignoring the soft shutting of your front door or window once you’ve settled into bed. But you’re tired of playing this game, and frankly, you miss him—the man; not the ghost who has been haunting you, trailing you, hiding in plain sight.
“You've been watching me,” you announce into the void. 
A handful of beats pass but not for a second do you let yourself believe you’re crazy for attempting to converse with blackness and silence. Then the little cord on your lamp is pulled by thick fingers, illuminating the side of the apartment where he stands. He’s a shadow in the corner of your living room, drenched in black from head to toe, skull-printed balaclava included, and it takes everything in you not to rush to his side, shove that piece of fabric up over his chin, and kiss him.
“You've made it necessary,” he scolds; the first words he has spoken to you in nearly sixty-five days. It’s the longest he has forced you to go without hearing his voice, having been attached at the hip since you met; and having that smooth, deep tone in your ear is like soaking your body in a hot bath, sloughing off the wear and dirt and grime to come out renewed and refreshed.
You nod because you know what you’ve been doing. You’ve known your choices would bring him back to you. You hoped, at least. But you also hoped he would give himself and his stalker behavior up long before you would have to call him out. He’s usually much more possessive when you spend your evenings drinking and freely dancing amongst crowds, and the thought of you flirting with other men has always put him in a sour mood. You thought seeing it up close would make his vision go red, but he's held himself back. However, you suppose him watching and following you from a distance is better than not caring to watch or follow you at all. 
“You're not being safe,” he tells you. 
“You mean I'm doing things you're not happy with.”
Simon doesn't respond to that. He can’t, because you’re absolutely right and he isn’t the type to disrespect you by lying to your face.
“You broke up with me to—what was it—‘live my life’ while you're gone? Do you really have a right to be pissed at me for getting a head start?” you ask as you take steps further into the apartment and toss your purse on the counter. “If that's the case, maybe you should've dumped me a little closer to your deployment date so you wouldn’t have to witness it.”
Now you do feel him. You see him through the mask. He’s bubbling inside, the beginning of a boil, because he made a silly choice and doesn’t like to be reminded of his mistakes. He hasn’t exactly voiced that, specifically, but it’s the truth. It was silly. It’s also the truth—though again, not specifically expressed—that he regretted it the very minute he walked away from you, leaving you in tears because he is the one afraid of what will happen when the two of you face his first deployment in your relationship. He is afraid to come back home expecting a loving welcome only to find disappointment if you’ve chosen to seek out the comfort of another man. So, ‘Don’t let me hold you back, love’’ he’d told you. ‘Live your life, and I’ll figure out what to do with myself.’
Simon groans, grumbles, vibrates the room. He begins to close the distance between you until he thinks better of it and halts beside your couch. “I did it because–”
“Do you miss me?” 
“That is not rela–”
“Do, you, miss, me,” you press.
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple protruding under the balaclava. His fist clenches at his side. You don’t think he's going to give you the satisfaction, but then he sighs and says, “Of course I fucking miss you.”
Your breath catches in your throat and your vision starts to blur at the edges. Those words heal the bits of your heart that he broke when he left.
“Then don’t be stupid,” you say, crossing the room until your chest is nearly pressed against his. You rest your hand on his cheek, or what would be his cheek if not for the mask. “Don't make us spend your last week here apart from one another.”
With another exhale, his shoulders loosen their rigidity, and in that moment you know you have him.
“Fuck me, Si,” you whisper. 
His eyes flick to yours. A flash burns through his irises.
“It'll just make it harder.” That pathetic argument betrays his actions. One of his palms instantly goes to your waist, gently tracing the curve. The gesture is so natural between you you’re not sure if he even knows he’s doing it. 
“I promise it won’t,” you say. 
Then your hands slide along his shoulders to grip his biceps and you slowly turn his body until you can push him into a seated position on the couch. He lets you lead. He lets you staddle his lap. He lets you lift the mask a few inches and connect your lips as you grind your hips down, hardening him within his pants. 
Simon’s fingers squeeze your thighs. They travel to your hips, encouraging your movements, before they continue a path up your spine. With his tongue in your mouth, you lose track of his touch for some time until he’s settled on a placement for his hands. One wrapped around your waist, hugging you tight; the other woven into your hair, holding you in place as his kisses swell your lips, verging on bruising. 
“Come on, baby,” you mutter into his ear when you break the connection to breathe. “Don’t you want to be all warm and snug inside me? Don’t you miss how well you fit? Like my pussy was made for you, right? That’s what you’ve always said.”
You know how it sounds. It’s desperate and needy, but you don’t care. You’re begging, not just for the man who sets your body aflame, but for the man who altered the trajectory of your life when he entered it. The man you refuse to live without. 
“Love–” he starts, but his groan from the nibbles you give to his neck interrupts him. 
“You can rest deep in me for a while if you want. I’ll stay perfectly still for you. Or I can go nice and slow the way you like.”
Moving your head back, you stop the shifting of your hips and lock your gazes. You pointlessly wait for him to deny you. Pointlessly because Simon Riley doesn’t deny you in situations like this. The equal balance of your need for one another has made that impossible, so it doesn’t surprise you one bit when he nods in agreement.
Your thumbs delicately guide the balaclava over his nose, but you stop there. Only he removes the mask. It’s his right; his decision to show his face and to whom. You are one of the lucky ones, but you’ve never taken advantage of that gift. 
With one hand, Simon grips the top of his mask and jerks it the rest of the way off his head—hair sticking out in a million directions—as he sneaks his other between your bodies to undo the button of his pants. He lifts his hips, bouncing you on his lap, before you do the same so he can push his pants down his thighs. 
You don’t spend time marveling at the thick column of flesh he’s pumping with his fist. You know everything about his cock. Every ridge and valley from base to tip. Every vein. Every inch of him you have memorized, and you’re too hungry to waste another second without him where you want him most.
When Simon finally slides inside of you, you hum in satisfied delight. Like basking in the heat of the sun after the chill of Winter. Like the first bite of your favorite ice cream hitting your tongue. Like quenching a thirst. Like coming home. 
Simon’s head falls back against the couch and his chest heaves with heavy inhales and exhales. His eyes are closed, but you catch a hint of a smile on his face.
“We feel so good together, Si,” you say, slowly rubbing your hand up and down his chest. “I want this when you return. Don’t you want this when you return?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then why deprive yourself of what you love? Especially when what you love wants you so bad.”
He lifts his head and reaches up to brush his knuckle from your cheekbone to your chin. “I was trying to make it easier.”
Palms cupping his jaw, you run your thumb over his bottom lip. “Fuck easy.”
“Love, it’ll be a year. No less.”
“I don’t care,” you swear. You start to rise and then you sink back down onto him. “I'll be waiting for you, Simon.”
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sweetsreverie · 1 year
Note
I absolutely love the Ghost x Pink!Reader fic you wrote! Could you write a sequel? Maybe a breakfast next morning + cute and fluffy waking up with Simon. Those two were apart from each other for a while I assume so being a bit clingy is understandable.
summary: pt. 2 of this opposites attract fic. you and simon spend the morning together before he leaves once more.
pairing: simon "ghost" riley x female reader
wc: 1,147
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Simon and the rest of 141 slept soundly that night. Simon was glad to be at home with you, in his own bed, and the others were glad to not be sleeping on the ground and in a proper house. You’d also given Soap a sherpa-lined blanket to sleep under, and he definitely enjoyed that.
As happy as you were to have Simon home for the night, you knew it was going to be just that: for the night. He would probably be leaving as soon as the sun came up, and it wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary for you to wake up to his side of the bed empty and cold.
But when you woke up the next morning and opened your eyes, he was still beside you. He wasn’t asleep, but rather just resting beside you as you did.
“You guys haven’t left yet?” You ask him softly, and you stretch your arms out towards him, which he welcomes. You lean over and put your head on his chest, with your arm around his waist. Simon isn’t always one for cuddling, but he always lets you rest against him.
“We should probably be gone by now. But I don’t hear Price making a fuss so we must be fine.” Simon says softly in his gravelly morning voice that you’d come to love so much. His hair is tousled and his eyes are droopy, and it just makes you want to tuck him in once more.
“Let him make a fuss in my house. He’ll see.” You mumble against him, and you feel the small chuckle that leaves Simon.
“Yeah. you’ll give him hell, won’t you.”
“That’s right.”
Simon gives the top of your head a little tap of his fingertips, and he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and brushes some hair away from your face once you turn and look up at him. 
His touch is featherlight as always.
“We should get up though. Don’t want those bums to think they can stay here forever.” Simon murmurs, and when he moves to try and sit up, your grip around his middle tightens.
“Five more minutes?” You ask him hopefully, and he settles back down in his spot on the bed.
You and Simon spend a few more minutes in the bed before you get up, and you make your way to the kitchen after freshening up in the bathroom, and Simon stays behind to brush his teeth.
The three other men are awake by the time you enter the room, and Price was already working on folding the blankets and cleaning up the pillows and things.
“Are you guys hungry? I can make some tea or coffee- I think we have some biscuits too?” You offer them, and honestly you don’t have a ton in the kitchen, considering you weren’t expecting to be feeding guests any time soon.
“That would be wonderful, thank you very much Y/N. We’ll be out of your hair shortly. Thank you for letting us stay the night here.” Price says while he takes a seat on the couch, and Soap sits down at the kitchen table while you start warming up a kettle of water.
“You know, I think Ghost is real lucky to have a woman like you in his life.” Soap says, and not even a second later, Simon steps in, clad in his gear and some clean clothes.
“And why is that?” He asks, and while you could barely contain the giggle that left you, Soap was quick to shut up. Simon’s hand brushes against your waist while he passes by you in the kitchen, and that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by the others. 
The five of you sip on tea and munch on biscuits, and you know that shortly after, Simon is going to pack up his things and head out again.
Simon hates having to leave you. He hates not being able to tell you where he is, or when he’ll be home. That is.. if he comes home.
So while Price, Soap, and Gaz start to pack their things into the truck they came here in, Simon takes you back to the bedroom and sits on the bed with you. He sits with you on his lap, and one of your arms is around his neck while you lean against him.
“You know I’ll be back soon, love. I always come back to you, don’t I?” Simon asks you, and he reaches up to tuck some hair behind your ear. You nod, though you still always fear the worst while he’s away.
“You do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you while you’re gone.” You tell him softly, and he puts his hand on your knee and gives it an assuring squeeze.
“I don’t want you to worry yourself sick over me, Y/N. You know that.” Simon says while he rests his chin on top of your head. Simon doesn’t want to imagine you worrying about him while he’s away. He wants you to just take care of yourself, and he’ll return in due time. 
“Meeting your team makes me feel better, you know.” You tell him, and Simon lets out a quiet chuckle while he shifts on the bed, and gives you a gentle nudge so you stand up, and he stands up also.
“C’mon. I gotta get going” Simon says while he leads you out of the bedroom, and he slips his mask over his head during the short walk outside. You take his hand as you walk, and as the two of you exit the house, Soap grins at the sight of Ghost holding hands with someone.
“Alright, you guys be safe, okay? And you take care of my Simon.” You tell them, and Gaz lets out a quiet chuckle while Price gets in the truck.
“We all look out for each other, so don’t you worry. He’s in good hands. Mostly.” Gaz says while he looks over at Soap, who narrows his eyes at the man briefly.
“Alright, you two say your goodbyes then.” Soap says, and he glances at Gaz before the two of them climb in the truck.
Simon turns to you then, and he brushes a gloved finger over your cheek carefully. 
“I love you. I’ll see you soon, yeah?” He says in a hushed voice, as if the guys in the truck could hear him.
“I love you too. Take care of yourself and them. Come back home to me, Simon.” You return, and you stand up on your toes slightly to kiss his cheek over the mask before he gives you a wave, and he climbs in the car with the rest of 141.
You watch as they pull away from the house, and you and Simon share a glance before the truck disappears over the hill.
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tag list: @ho3forghost @juggernaunt @shellfishb34ch @redpool
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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months
Text
What Are We (1 of 4)
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, possessive!Simon, touching (lots of it), kissing, romantic tension
Word Count: 1k
A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series
Simon wants an answer. And if you're going to reject him, you better look him in the eye when you say that you don't want him.
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // what are we masterlist
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You’re not looking in front of you. You’re not even glancing at your feet.
Your gaze is attached to the precarious stack of files in your hands, too focused on keeping them balanced and together to notice anything or anyone else around you.
Which is why you don’t see Simon until it’s too late.
His hand on your upper arm is a vice, and there is no escape from him. With a quick jerk, you’re rudely pulled in the opposite direction, and promptly shoved into a coat closet of an office. Some of the papers in your arms go flying, and you desperately reach for them, irritation burning in the back of your throat.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, after snagging the last wayward piece of paper.
Simon stands quiet in front of the closed door, arms crossed over his chest. Even now, when you’re annoyed with him, you can’t help but to rake your gaze over his muscled form, taking in every morsal. It’s a crime not to do so.
“What’s wrong with me?” mocks Simon slowly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Your eyebrows immediately rise toward your hairline in surprise. Then, just as quickly, your mind catches up to the situation. You know exactly what Simon is up to. He’s done this before, cornered you in a such a way as this as a means to break you, to make you bend until you completely break for him.
“No,” you state, shaking your head. “We’re not doing this. I know what you’re up to, Simon.” You press the stack of papers against your chest, crossing your arms over them protectively, one finger pointed in his direction in accusation.
Simon takes one unhurried step away from the door, and that singular move is entirely too close for comfort. “You don’t have the right to pull me aside whenever you want,” you continue. “To be domineering and push—” Simon takes another step and you nearly drop the stack of papers.
“Back off,” you bite, not entirely believing your own strength in the delivery.
“I deserve an answer.” Simon’s voice is not exactly a growl, but his timbre roots you to the spot.
“About what?” you stammer, already confused and unsure of where Simon is taking this.
“About what we are.”
“What?” Your voice breaks on the end, going a bit high.
“We’ve been on each other the last few months. Or did you forget?”
No. You haven’t. How could you? Just yesterday, you were a submissive puddle beneath him, allowing him everything.
Simon arches a single eyebrow and you immediately comply without thought. “Why would you ask me that?”
Your question is a cop-out. You know this. Simon knows it.
When Simon closes in, you do not move or reprimand him for doing so. He takes another step, this time into your space, and you are blocked from leaving this cramped enclosure.
“Did you think I’d forget, love?” croons Simon, and the sweetness of it is enough to flame the slumbering heat within you into a small fire. “That I didn’t hear you.” Simon leans in. “That I missed what you murmured while I was buried deep inside you?”
You swallow, salvia sticking in your throat as you clearly recall the sighed words of pleasure that dripped almost inaudibly from your lips.
I love you.
It was a mistake. A slip up.
Your voice is strained. Defeated. You’re not escaping from this. There is nowhere for you to run. “What do you want?”
“I want you to admit it.”
You glance away from Simon, hugging the papers close to your chest. “You’re mistaken.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice his chest heave and his shoulders straighten. You turn toward the nearby desk, wanting to unburden the load in your arms. The moment the papers hit the desk, Simon grabs the lower half of your face, forcing your gaze back to him.
“Simon!”
He pins you against the desk, hands braced on the edge, his balaclava covered face inches away from yours.
“If you’re going to lie to me. If you’re going to reject me. You better look me in the eye when you do it.” You stare him down. Unmoving. “Don’t deny yourself,” he murmurs, one hand lightly squeezing your upper thigh.
Simon’s mouth, though covered by the balaclava, is dangerously close to yours. You feel his warm breath against your face as it filters through the fabric. It’s light, almost imperceptible. But it is there, and it makes you wanton, to close the distance.
“Why do you care so much?” you reply softly. “I thought you didn’t want more.”
Simon closes the distance even more, resting his forehead against your own. “Do you want me to recount all the ways that isn’t true?”
“Don’t be cruel.”
Simon presses his hips against you, showing you just how cruel he can be. “Then don’t play games.” From your face, Simon relocates his hand to the back of your neck. “Give me an answer. What are we?”
What are we?
As if you know. As if you’ve given the idea any life. But you have, haven’t you? You’ve imagined more than just simple meetings. And it isn’t like you and Simon get what you need out of your system and move on. There is always after. There is always before. There is always the comfort and the gentleness between all the rough, sharp edges.
What are we?
You give him the answer he’s seeking because maybe—just maybe—it’s what he desires too.
“I’m yours,” you breathe, and Simon’s sigh of relief is like a blooming flower. “I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” repeats Simon, his mouth coming down on yours through the balaclava.
You don’t even care. This closeness is a balm to your soul. The teether you’re seeking.
Simon’s hands drop to your hips, lift you from the ground, and place you firmly on the edge of the desk. He slides between your legs, and your arms drape around his neck in anticipation of what comes next.
taglist:
@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie @cinnabeanz @berarenado @rogerrhqpsody @josephquinnschesthair @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @xxkay15xx @sw33tsnow @kessi-21
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ghostlychief · 1 year
Text
Pockets of Peace
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (goes by code name ‘Swan’)
Summary: More often than not, you find yourself in the presence of Simon Riley, aka “Ghost.” You find that your blooming friendship with the aloof Lieutenant provides you with a blanket of comfort, offering you a place of solace within his company. It’s no different when you’re injured during your next mission.
Warnings: mentions of bullet wound, blood, nothing too graphic; fluff; hurt/comfort
Wc: 3.3k+
A/n: This is purely an indulgent fic, as I’ve become obsessed with the mw2 character ghost lmao. If you stumble across it, i hope you enjoy!! I really had a fun time writing this, so i hope you have as much enjoyment while reading. <3 (sorry for any typos or grammar mistakes, i’ve read this over and over and bound to miss a few)
ALSO: I’ve deemed Peace by Taylor swift this couples’ song so have a listen when you’re reading 🫶🏻
Part 2 found here: Weighted Blanket
--
When you first joined task force 141, it took you some time to feel fully a part of the team and comfortable. You were more on the quiet side, and chose your friends carefully; comes with the line of work, you figure. What you didn’t expect was to become closest to the man that goes by the name of “Ghost.” He was tall, quiet, and the only thing you could see of his face were his eyes, but for some odd reason, you two clicked. You frequently got paired up during missions, working well along side one another. You guys got the job done swiftly and with little difficulty and your skill sets complimented each other as well. While Ghost used brute force and took the enemy straight on, you used your size to hide and take down the enemy by surprise, from a far distance. You were the best sniper on the team.
You and Ghost completed mission after mission with flying colors, only the occasional scratch or two indicated you were ever in combat. Did he still intimidate the hell out of you? Well, of course. His intimidation and brooding atmosphere only made you want to be friends with him more.
Your acquaintanceship with Ghost started to bloom 6 months after you joined the team. After one particularly long and exhausting mission, you and Ghost ended up drinking a 12 pack in his room. It became a regular occurrence after that, with you quickly realizing that winding down with Ghost was the best way to recover from a mission. The conversation always started off with work talk but after a couple of beers, the conversation would steer towards other topics. During these nights, Ghost became more talkative, slowly opening up to you, and you the same. One evening, after Ghost had a couple beers in him, he gave you a nickname, “Little Swan.” That was the first time he ever made your heart race.
During these late-night chats, you learned that he likes his coffee sweet with flavored creamer, but he likes his tea black. You also learned that he only wears black socks and has a whole drawer filled with skull balaclavas. One night, you may or may not have stolen one after he passed out. It was all worth it though when you showed up to the team meeting the next morning sporting it.
As you entered the meeting room the next morning for the debrief, you came up to stand beside Ghost, who had his back turned toward you. The other members in the room raised their eyebrows but tried to hide their shock, as to not to give away Ghost’s surprise.
Smiling, you bumped shoulders with Ghost and said, “Damn, I really pull off your look, huh?” You grinned up at him, eyes bright, then turned back to the table to see all the other team members with their mouths slightly agape. Ghost glanced over at you, and his eyes widened slightly before going back to normal. He shook his head, “Fucking hell,” but not without you noticing the amusing glint in his eyes.
One morning you were eating breakfast in the dining hall, looking down at your book, when someone sat across from you. Usually, you ate alone, so it was a surprise to see Ghost sitting opposite of you with a steaming mug of coffee and a banana. You just smiled at him and went back to reading, and he ate his breakfast. No words were said, but every morning after that, you and the Lieutenant ate breakfast together. There was the occasional banter, but most times, you both enjoyed the quiet morning in each other’s company.
When you weren’t on a mission, you spent your time training and hanging out with the other team members on the base.
You typically trained with Soap, whether it be shooting or hand-to-hand combat. One day while you were on the mats sparing with Soap, he suddenly stopped, smirked at you and said, “I think you’ve got yourself an admirer, Swan.” With your brows furrowed, you looked up to see none other than Ghost leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you and Soap train.
You grinned and waved at him, and much to Soap’s surprise, Ghost waved back. Turning back to Soap, you shrugged and said, “He’s been helping me with my form.” Needless to say, you won the next round, and you didn’t need Ghost to remove his balaclava to know that he was smiling.
--
You and Ghost were experts at your jobs, that’s how you’re on task force 141 in the first place. That doesn’t mean every mission goes smoothly- as you soon found out on your next one.
You and Ghost finally reached the safe house. The only downside was that it was in the middle of nowhere and at the base of a snowy mountain, which did not help your worrying thoughts of making it through the night. Ghost unlocked the door and you both did a quick scan of the place to make sure it was all clear. Once you guys cleared the space, you groaned and plopped down onto the couch, finally finding respite for your injured leg. Although the mission was a success, you guys got banged up pretty bad, nothing fatal, but just worse enough for you to immediately collapse on the couch. Ghost seemed to be faring much better than you, he didn’t get shot after all.
You don’t want to glance down at your thigh, because you know you will be met with a mess of a wound and blood. So much blood. It’s a wonder how you managed to escape and make the trek to the safe house.
You have Ghost to thank for that; he covered your ass and helped you along the way. You guys had spent the last few hours switching between a walk and jog to get to the safe house, and away from enemy lines.
The first time you guys slowed to a walk, Ghost wrapped your arm around his neck to support most of your weight. However, this turned out to make it harder to walk because of the height difference between the two of you. He was a mountain of a man, and as much as you appreciated his attempt to help, it would have been quicker if you just limped along. “I’m going to need you to make it to the safe house, Swan. I can’t have you dying on my watch.”
“Copy that, Lt.” You grimaced, now feeling the full effects of being shot in the thigh. Just your fucking luck, you think.
“Riley, call me Riley.”
That was new. You never referred to him as anything other than Ghost or Lieutenant. Despite the immense amount of pain you’re in, you can’t miss the feeling of small sparks igniting in your tummy.    
Now seated on the couch and breathing heavily, you watch as Ghost removes most of his tactical gear, the skull mask included. Although, you conclude that he probably has at least two concealed weapons somewhere on his body. You try not to think to much about where they could be placed.
You finally bite the bullet and look down at your leg. “Fuck me.”
“How’s it looking?” You glance up to see Ghost towering over you. His hands are on his hips as he assesses your leg, but the fabric of your pants is making it hard to properly see the damage, even though your cargo pants are torn and bloodied where the bullet made contact with your body.
“Well, seeing that a bullet teared through the side of my thigh, my leg has seen better days.”
Ghost lets out a low chuckle, which you think you must have imagined. You must have lost too much blood; did he just laugh? That was also new. You’ve been on this task force for a little over two years, and despite what everyone would call you and Ghost’s acquaintanceship, borderline friendship, you’ve never heard the man chuckle, at least not at something you said. This mission is breaching all new kinds of territories for you both.
“Right. We need to get it cleaned, stitched and bandaged before it gets infected.” Ghost had already set down his pack by the fire place, so he goes back over there to retrieve the first aid kit.
“You’re not expecting me to take my pants off, are you?” Your question comes out breathy, the pain in your leg getting worse and you let out a low groan when you shift.
You think you hear a scoff fall from Ghost’s lips. “I can either cut your pants, so you’re left with only one pant leg, or, you can remove them and salvage what’s left.” When you hesitate to answer, he adds, “Don’t worry Swan, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Now it’s your turn to scoff. Typical man answer.
You cross your arms and think about your choices, well, lack of choices. Ghost is still turned from you, which allows the warmness that bloomed on your cheeks to reside. Now all that’s left is a scowl on your pretty face. Whether you’re scowling because of the effect Ghost’s words had on you, or the sucky situation you’re in, you don’t know.
Quite frankly, you don’t want to know. You can’t let yourself spiral into the abyss that harbors feelings for a certain 6’4 man; feelings that live at the bottom, just waiting to be unleashed. What you have going between the two of you is good, fine. Your quiet routine is the perfect balance between colleagues and friends, you can’t fuck it up now.
He turns around and makes his way over to you, his heavy boots rattle the floor and his tall stature intimidates you. You find that the small sparks start to ignite again and you hate yourself for it.
Damn you, Riley.
“So, what’s the verdict?” He’s back to looming over you, and you can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose or not. His hands are back on his hips, as he awaits your answer.
Arms still crossed over your chest, you huff out, “Looks like I’m taking my pants off, Riley. Don’t enjoy it too much.”
He slightly shakes his head, but you can’t tell if he’s smiling or not because of the skull balaclava covering half his face. A part of you, buried deep down in that abyss, hopes that he is. But you’re only privy to his eyes. Which you’ve come to find hold all the weight of his emotions. You sometimes can’t help but get lost in them, trying to figure out all of the mysteries Ghost holds within him.
He turns around to give you some privacy, and takes off his jacket. You’re quick to remove your pants, wincing when the fabric brushes over your wound.
“You can turn around now.” Your quiet voice fills the room, and Ghost turns around slowly, and his jacket is clasped in his left hand. His eyes roam from your feet to your face, and you can’t help the warmth that spreads through you. He’s probably just assessing you to figure out how badly you’re actually hurt, but your heart can’t tell the difference, and it beats erratically in your chest.
You’ve haphazardly put your pants over your lower half, trying to cover yourself up, but it barely covers you. Ghost can still make out the top of your legs and the beginning of your underwear.
How embarrassing. The first time he see’s me in my underwear is in a grungy safehouse and I’m covered in dirt and blood.
He doesn’t say anything, and stretches his left hand out, his jacket swings towards you. You look up at him, brows furrowed and your mouth forms a slight pout. You don’t even have to ask before he’s muttering, “To cover up, your pants aren’t doing a great job and I’m sure you’re already cold.”
He locks eyes with you and you take the jacket from him, and your fingers briefly graze his, sparks getting brighter and brighter.
“Thank you, Riley.” He’s crouched down in front of you now, and you smile at him. You situate the jacket so it’s covering you up more, but leave the bullet wound uncovered so he can take care of it.
He looks massive even though he’s crouched on the floor in front of you. You’re still not taller than him even though you’re perched up on the couch. Your hands slightly twitch as you fight the urge to run them along his massive shoulders that are at the perfect height and distance for you to do so.
He takes his gloves off, and gets to work. When his hands first make contact with your skin, you slightly flinch. He glances up at you, and you smile sheepishly at him. “Cold hands.”
He lets out a grunt of understanding and gets back to cleaning the wound. Luckily the bullet wasn’t lodged in your skin so he didn’t have to go fishing for it, which would have hurt like a bitch.
You let out a hiss when the antiseptic touches your flesh, it stings so fucking bad and you’re trying not to cry. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him, with no pants on.
Even though your leg is sizzling from the antiseptic, Ghost’s hands are gentle. One is holding your thigh, lightly grasping the inner part, as the other softly wipes the wound and blood surrounding it. You watch him as he continues and in no time, the wound is clean.
“You’re doing great little Swan, but here comes the hard part.”
You sigh and brace yourself for the stitching. You find yourself not caring if you cry anymore, you just want this to be over with. You’re cold, hungry and in pain and figure, there are worse things than to cry in front of him.
You don’t understand how someone with such big hands is so nimble and gentle, but Ghost sews you up quickly. There are tears in your waterline, on the precipice of trailing down your cheeks. One or two tears may have fallen, but you can’t recall because of the searing pain that courses through your outer thigh. The only evidence is the wetness that now coats your cheeks. If Ghost noticed, he didn’t say anything, which you’re grateful for.
He gives your leg a small pat, signaling that he’s done, then grabs the bandage. He wraps you up, and voices that you’re all set.
“Fuck, that was painful.” You sigh and rest your head back against the couch, forgetting that you’re pant-less, Ghost’s jacket doing wonders to keep your legs warm and cover your lower region.
Ghost stands, but before he walks away, you reach out a hand and lightly touch is wrist. Your small voice fills the room again, “Thank you, Riley.” The sincerity from you evident in your tired eyes.
Once again, his eyes lock on yours and he gives you a small nod, before heading to the bathroom to wash up. You take this as his way of giving you privacy to put your pants back on, which you do carefully, trying not to upset your wound.
Once you’re dressed you lay back on the couch. You close your eyes, his jacket draped over you. You remind yourself to return it to him, he must feel cold in his short sleeve shirt. I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute.
*~*~*~*
The next thing you feel are your shoulders shaking. Then screaming. Who’s screaming? The shaking and screaming don’t stop and you feel yourself start to cry, worried about what’s going on.
“Y/n? Y/n, wake up!”
Huh?
You jolt awake, and only then do you realize it was you screaming bloody murder, and Ghost was shaking your shoulders to wake you from your night terror.
When you sat up, the blanket that was on top of you fell halfway off the couch. Wait, blanket? Since when did I have a blanket over me?
You’re breathing heavy and place your head in your hands, trying to hide the tears streaming down your face. Ghost is beside you, crouched on the floor and his hand rubs your back. Up down, up down. The feeling relaxes you momentarily, but you still feel on edge, your nightmare still prevalent in your mind.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Your voice croaks, and you wearily glance at Ghost, who’s eyes are already on you. One might say they hold concern in them.
“You did, but don’t worry about it, seriously. I just want to make sure you’re ok.” His hand continues to stroke your back, and he reaches his other to softly push back the hairs that cover your face, tucking the strands behind your ear.
You groan, and wipe your eyes, feeling embarrassed yet again. You’re still trembling from your dream, not able to shake the feeling. The nightmares only started a few months ago but they don’t come every night. They’re sporadic, which makes them feel scarier because you never know when you’re going to be hit with one.
Ghost lets you calm down, your breathing is back to normal now, but you’re still sniffling and avoiding his eye.
He stands up, and before you can voice out another apology, he softly says, “Come here.” And before you can fully process what he said, you feel his warm hands grasp you under your armpits and he lifts you up, pulling you against him. He shifts his hand so its resting under your thigh and signals with his other to wrap your legs around his waist. You lay your arms around his neck and rest your head on his shoulder. Much to your chagrin, you’re still sniffling like a fool, and you let out a sigh. His embrace pulls you down like an anchor and you no longer feel like you’re treading through a flood of murky water. It calms and clears, and feels alleviating.
“You’re breaking my heart, little Swan.” Your only reply is tightening your arms around his neck.
He carries you to the bedroom, where he must have been before you woke him and lays you down in the spot where he was previously. You only know because it’s still warm and smells like him.
He climbs in after you and lays on his side to face you. You still look distressed, but much better than before.
It’s only when you drift your eyes up to his that you notice his mask is off. You notice a small cut near his eye. Reaching your hand out, you cup his face and your thumb glides back and forth over the cut. “You should have told me you got this.”
You feel the bed shift when he shrugs, “Didn’t want you to worry.” His deep voice pierces through you, poking the embers that rest at the bottom of your stomach.
Typical. “I always worry about you.” Your eyes flit to his as you confess this.
“Not as much as I worry about you.”
You bring your hand down to glide over his shoulder, then his down his bicep, then forearm. When you reach his hand, he intertwines your hand with his. His large hand almost completely swallows yours.
He pulls you closer to him, now there’s little to no space between you.
“It’s not a competition, Riley.”
“Simon, call me Simon.” He cups your face, then closes the distance between you and captures your lips with his.
--
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wakatshi · 1 year
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UNTOUCHABLE
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𖥾 ゚ ࣭ SIMON “GHOST” RILEY | &. — fem! reader, you’re angry with simon, teasing, smoking, clitoral stimulation, thigh riding, dry humping | wc 1.3k words | masterlist
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simon riley is a stranger — it’s a thought you can’t ignore anymore.
he doesn’t laugh. he doesn’t smile. not enough. now that you think of it, you’ve never heard simon riley laugh. it’s not his thing. it feels impossible, utterly unrealistic. the idea itself is laughable. it’s always a smirk and it’s almost invisible. too sardonic. too sarcastic and not sincere enough.
you ache for a reaction, a crumb of the real him, but he doesn’t give it you. his caustic attitude is so maddening. exasperation grows inside of you, you’re frustrated and somehow feeling closer and closer to an imminent defeat.
simon riley is too much of a stranger. but ghost isn’t. you’ve seen his face before, but it feels like he constantly hides something; himself, away from you. he’s always on guard. his skin, his deep, visible scars, his every pore, his mouth, his nose, you’ve felt them all under the touch of your very own fingers. he didn’t run away, he stayed, but touching ghost like that simply doesn’t do it anymore.
and how can that be enough when simon is not far from being a complete stranger? his humanity itself is buried somewhere deep inside, it’s a secret hidden behind a annoyingly high wall. simon is there, but is he, really?
this evening is unusually silent, the air is crisp and cold, you wonder where soap went, he swore to defeat you in a poker game yesterday. he wouldn’t have, but still, enthusiasm got ahead of you. captain price isn’t here either. in fact, it’s just you and simon.
you find yourself lazying on a timeworn couch next to him, but he’s too busy. he’s thinking, smoking. acting like you’re not there. you wonder what could go through the mind of a man of his caliber.
“want a cig?” with the pack in his hand, simon breaks the silence, he waits for you to make up your mind.
“no, thanks. why don’t you put that away anyways? that’s your third cig.”
“why?”
“fuck off, simon.”
his gaze shifts away from you for quite some time, the cigar rests between his lips and he inhales the burnt tobacco, smoke drifts away and dissipates in the air. the smell persists and you’re used to it, ghost carries the scent of heavy smoking with him. it’s a constant thing.
“why?”
“i said fuck off. if you don’t wanna, just don’t.”
how stupid. it’s not the cigar, nor this situation in particular. maybe you’re too clingy — you worry. he’s not into that lovey-dovey shit. naturally, he’s ghost after all.
“fucking hell, why are you so angry over a cig? tell me.”
“you don’t… touch me. this… this shit we’re doing isn’t enough. you’re not even talking to me.”
“i don’t touch you?”
simon’s beginning to become self aware. he throws the lit cigar on the ground and crushes it with his boot. “come here,” he meant his lap.
as soon as you make yourself comfortable, his muscular arms begin to move, big, gloved hands linger on the fabric of your shirt and fall on your hips. they stay there, firmly, the lieutenant pulls your body towards him, as close as possible. “relax.”
he’s too attractive.
his body is strong, that of a man who’s seen and fought it all, built for survival and warfare. his mental wounds are yet to be unveiled, but you know simon hides them and it’s beyond you. his forearms thick and veiny, his left arm tattooed, his thighs sturdy, big.
but the man known as ghost treats you like you’re a piece of glass threatening to be broken. he doesn’t think you’re weak— how could he? that’s insanity. how could he think you’re fragile and unskilled when you carry out the missions so well. ghost fears he’s the one who might push you away, and he dreads the flaws of his own being.
“gloves off, simon.”
“gloves off...” he repeats. or rather whispers to himself mindlessly as if you’re giving him instructions. he follows them immediately.
“you’re not funny.”
you grind against his thighs, but there’s some sort of hesitation in your act. he looks untouchable. he’s ghost, not simon, with his mask still on and covering most of his face, except for his mouth and eyes — he follows your movements closely, his eyes wander all over you body, the exposed crook of your neck, your shirt, the waist his hands are holding too tightly. but you don’t complain.
you could’ve made it less obvious that you’re trying to get off on his pants at least. it’s experimental, you’ve never done this before and not with simon. you’re testing the waters. your heart beats annoyingly fast, your chest is heavy and breathing gets harder - it’s almost impossible to resist simon when he touches you like this, even if you tried to hide it, your body would betray any attempt to conceal how much be turns you on. from his body to his voice, everything about him arouses you.
he’d fuck you right here and right now. just tell him and he will. he’d unzip his pants, fill your pussy up to the brim with his cock and make you orgasm in every corner of this room. but for now, he won’t. simon gets some sort of pleasure out of watching you make a mess out of yourself.
it takes a huge amount of self-restraint to oppose whatever is happening right now. he’s well aware and he’s more than used to it.
“come on, i know you wanna do it. i thought we got past that stage.”
“what stage, simon?”
“you shying away from me. i’ve been inside your pussy too many fuckin’ times and you’re still doing this.”
“i hate you.”
“i’m sure you do. now focus, love.”
the feeling of elation comes almost instantly with the friction. you grind your clothed pussy against his pants like you’ve never felt the touch of a man before and you don’t know how to behave. or what to do with yourself. it’s truly embarrassing, a mix between arousal and curiosity.
you’re soaking wet, so, so impatient and you’re filled with a primal urge — to use his body to reach climax.
“say my name, love. louder, don’t be shy.”
“simon!”
it doesn’t take him too long to find his way to your jeans. he unbuckles them and slides his index and middle finger inside, “so wet.”
you feel heavy, your body grows tired and your head falls on his shoulder as your arms wrap around his neck. he pulls you quickly, a prompt don’t escapes his mouth.
“i can’t do this! i’m getting tired.”
“you can. look at me.”
that’s such an easy thing to say coming from a man who’s been sitting and doing nothing but watching you humping his thigh. ghost doesn’t give you a break. he’s merciless, he rubs your clit just fast enough to get a sudden moan out of you. it’s like his fingers were made to play with you pussy and not for what he does out there. they’ve been resting too much under those gloves — they’re warm, but you’re burning.
“feels good? you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you moan my name. say it again.”
“simon…”
“fuck, i could cum in my pants only by looking at you. such a brave girl.” there’s a sarcastic note in his voice, but you ignore it.
simon looks at you the entire time. his gaze pierces through every layer, it’s worse when he wears the mask. your body temperature goes up, you’re close, too close, it’s an explosion, a firework show you’re obsessively craving like nothing else. and it’s here, finally, you’re thankful he stopped you from dry humping his thigh. warm juices drip on his fingers and inside your panties when you orgasm.
“you said i don’t touch you.”
“i wasn’t talking about sex.”
“i know.”
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likes, reblogs & feedback are very appreciated! 🤍
𖥾 ゚ ࣭ &. — TAGGING : @touyyes @suget @itachislut @boyfrwenz @xiiaoww @stoner-with-a-boner @pinheadswhore @cherryppick @qrtmin @cosmicfairygirl @introloves @acc-cal
𖥾 ゚ ࣭ &. — NOTE : this i was supposed to be shorter, but i got sooo distracted </3 i plan to write a second part… maybe !!
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angelltheninth · 3 months
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Simon Riley Fingers You Through Your Panties
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader
Tags: nsfw, smut, fingering, teasing, clit stimulation, semi-public, pervy Simon
A/N: Horny hours are upon us.
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Isn't as patient as his military training would make one think cause when he's horny he won't hesitate to let you know
Tries to make it look like nothing's happening as Simon pulls you onto his big lap and pushes his big hand beneath your skirt
Rubs his finger against your clit, feeling your hips twitching forward until his cock gets hard from the grinding
Can only push his finger in a tiny bit over your underwear but, not enough to make you come, you can't even feel him properly but its enough to make a big stain on his pants from your arousal
Kisses you every time you can't hold back a moan so the two of you don't get caught
Comments on how wet your panties are, practically useless, completely soaked through
Tells you not to throw them away when this is done, he'll use them to jack off later, smelling your sweet horny scent before shooting a big, creamy load of cum over them
Simon feels your pussy clenching, or trying to clench around his finger, only catching the bit of the tip
You managed to stay quiet he agrees to you edging him next time you have sex
But first, he's gonna need those pretty panties for later
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ghostaholics · 10 months
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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥〖 𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐑!𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘 〗 (the full-length series for this)
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➵ PAIRING: neighbor! Simon 'Ghost' Riley x baker fem!reader ➵ TAGS/WARNING(S): grump x sunshine trope; swearing; mentions of eating and detailed descriptions of food; friends-to-lovers; some hijinks; eventual 18+ content (tagged as such later if wanting to avoid) ➵ SYNOPSIS: All of Simon’s neighbors – absolute tossers the lot of them are, except maybe the new one who’s just moved in two doors down the hall from him. ➵ A/N: tag list closed; any asks or comments about updates will be deleted
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✧〖 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 〗
𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 (𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔); 70% complete @ 5.6k
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✧〖 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒 〗
𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨 (𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥) 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐨𝐠 (𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥) 𝐩𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 (𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯)
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