dark mischievous little and other things

simon ghost riley x female reader, 18+

Ghost had never planned to act on the filthy images that flooded his mind whenever you were near. He'd buried those thoughts beneath layers of discipline, telling himself you were off-limits; too young, too bright, with a life stretching ahead of you.

He could be your friend. Or better — your LT.

He could ignore the way you reacted when he caught you staring, the way your laughter danced in the air when you found his deadpan humor unexpectedly funny, and the goddamn wet, rhythmic sounds that seeped through the thin wall each night when you thought no one was listening.

It began innocently enough. Almost. One night, drifting toward sleep, the first soft mewls reached him. Your fingers working that tight little cunt, the sound of your desperate whimpers piercing the darkness. He'd pressed his pillow over his ears, trying to drown you out, but the wet squelching sounds and your soft whines painted vivid pictures in his mind. You, naked and writhing, legs spread wide, your slick glistening on your fingers as you plunged them deeper.

His cock had thickened against his thigh, demanding attention. He kicked off the blankets, palming himself through the thin fabric of his boxers. The more you moaned, the harder he gripped, the wet sounds from next door driving him mad. You cried out — a high, broken sound— and his control shattered. He came hard and fast, soaking his boxers like a fucking teenager. He'd had to sneak to the bathroom to clean up before sleep could claim him.

And I'm not just talking about filling out reports or taking notes during meetings.

I'm saying, in the middle of the entire base cafeteria, she was making airplane sounds while bringing the fork to the lieutenant's mouth.

"Come on! Just eat a little more! Look, the plane brrrruuuu, it's waiting to release the cargo!"

Or how she sat on his lap to help him brush his teeth.

"Just a little more, Lieutenant! You're doing great! Look at all that foam! Say goodbye, cavities!"

Or even when he needed to go to the bathroom. Because obviously, his two immobilized arms would make a simple task difficult. But thankfully, his lovely secretary was there to help lower his pants, pull his dick out of his underwear, and aim at the toilet. Ghost needed to stop thinking about how dangerously beautiful her Hello Kitty-themed painted nails looked around his cock.

"Am I aiming right? I've never had a penis before... it's kind of cool," she said, covering her eyes with her other hand, trying to give the man a modicum of dignity.

And finally, when the doctor finally released him from the immobilization, he missed being pampered by the lovely secretary. Even more so when - mysteriously - Kyle appeared with both arms in casts, causing the secretary to pamper him.

And then, a short time later, John needed to find out how his two sergeants and his lieutenant managed to immobilize every joint in their bodies with casts.

It was all supposed to go perfectly. Your friend had set you on date for Friday night, Simon had the kids at his place because it was his weekend. Kelela blaring from your speakers as you fixed your makeup in the mirror, large rollers in your hair, a nice dress freshly ironed layed on the bed.

Simon absolutely ruined it.

Petty argument that was laced with every bit of jealousy, spiraling into you on your hands and knees, getting your back blown out by your massive ex husband who was stretching you desperate spasming pussy out in the sluttiest way imaginable.

Your slick dripping onto fabric of the dress who worked hard to buy. Sobbing at how good you felt while Simon railed into, using your hips as leverage, practically bruising them. He grunts, “This what you’re doin now? Hm? Hah- thinkin about cheatin

“Fuck- fuck you- mmmph- we’re not- aangh- were nooot-“ you can’t even finish your own sentence, broken moans escaping your mouth, your head falling and toes curling as your ass kept rippling against his pelvis every time Simon bottomed out.

“-We’re not wot? Huh? Wot was tha again?” He cocks an eyebrow at you, slamming his hips into your harder, only earning more keens of his name and curses. You walls quivering around his hefty girth, tears burning your eyes. Then you feel the sting of his hand come down on your rear end, “I’m expecting words from you, that brain on?”

No- probably not- all you knew it was so much- a good much- taking over your entire body. Your hands grinned the headboard of the bed, trying to wiggle your way out of his hold.

“Awww,” the blonde condescendingly croons, dragging your hips down to the base of his member, “Mama can’t take ‘er husbands cock.” He hikes himself deeper inside you, hissing as your nails vlaw as his thigh. “Can help you remember swee’art, ‘s what ‘m ‘ere for.” His arm snakes around your neck, calloused hand around your neck and guiding your hips back into his, the filthy smack, smack, smack! filling the bedroom with every pound of his cock into you.

Simon has you cumming and cumming, endless as a car pulls into your driveway. Simons eyes are nodded over, holding you so close and tight as he grinds into you, “My dear wife,” the military man’s stomach tightens, jaw clenched as he rests his head on your shoulder, sloppy thrust after sloppy thrust in your your oozing pussy, slowing filling with your mix of cum. “pretty fuckin wife, love you so- shit- sooo much dovie” he slurs out, leaving more little bruises up your neck, breathless and sucking your ear as he empties his creamy load into your perfect cunt, “where else would I be without you, baby, bloody hell-“

It’s those screams you’re letting out that has your date thinking your calling out bloody murder that makes the guy rush in your unlocked house. The noises are louder with every step he man makes up the steps the bed threatening to break with every brutal thrust. And you’re there, on the bed, legs over Simons broad shoulders, while he pistons into your slipper pussy, balls smacking against your ass. Your ex husband is pushing you down by your plush thighs, feet flat on the bed and drilling into you without a care in the world. Simon whips his head around, the stranger gobsmacked in horror.

A sinister smirk grows on Simons face, “Guest ‘f honor is ‘ere dovie, don’t you wanna great ‘em?”

Your heat only clenches, only thinking about your husband- the father of your kids, love of your life— Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon-

“So cockdrunk yer speakin out loud,” he lowly snickers, pushing your knees up to your earlobes, smooshing his strawberry cockhead against your cervix, pushing his fingers in your mouth for you to shut up, but you only moan at the sensations he’s giving you. Both mouths stuffed, both set of puffy lips drooling in delight.

Simon cracks his neck, staring holes into your ex date, “If you could close the door on your way out, her husbands taking care of ‘er now.”

tears threaten to spill from his eyes, and if he were a different, softer person, they would fall.

he's reading her diary because she left it open on her bed, and he was looking for a reason to dump her. he was ready to see all hate she feels toward him. all ways he hurts her. all the ways he's wrong and unlovable. and he was going to throw it in her face, and see the inevitable fate of this relationship happen right before his eyes.

but he's seeing something much more confusing. diary entry after diary entry about how much she loves him. how his blues mix so well with her reds. how she hungers for his soul and dreams of their wedding day. how she has no end of love to give him and just wants to put flowers in his hair and soothe his scarred mind.

with his fist tightened around the book, he storms into the bathroom and shoves open the shower curtain, making her squeak and blush. 'hey!'' she whines, grabbing it to cover herself as if he's never seen her naked before, her eyes narrowing at him.

his eyes are dark and hollow and messy with emotion all at once. she's looking at him and the book in his hand. 'that's private, Simon Riley,' she warns, heart thumping against her ribs. 'it's not -

he's grabbing her face and kissing her, stepping into the shower fully clothed after placing the book on the sink. 'you love me so much,' he husks, holding her face in his palms, body towering over her, yet she doesn't feel scared; she feels happy.

'm'naked,' she pouts, voice soft as her heart. 'shower naked feels different than sex naked.' she's peeking up at him. 'but yes. i do love you very much.'

f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.

You only notice it because your hand slips.

It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.

You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.

All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.

You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.

Blood.

You, on the other hand, already had a whole day planned out. From the colors of the napkins to the floral arrangement, you handled it all carefully. You never got mad, just quietly adjusted anything that didn't fit into your vision. You'd politely decline a bakery when they didn't have the exact decoration you wanted for your cake and found another one as quickly as possible.

One night while you and Simon were sitting in bed, you gasped, sitting upright. You shoved your phone into Simon's face.

"Look!" you exclaimed.

"I can't see if you hold the phone so close to my face," Simon grumbled.

When you held it further away, he saw the page you were on. A wedding painter.

Simon thought it was annoying. A random woman who didn't even know you trying to capture not only your physical appearance but also your energy. It was silly, the person lingering in the background and studying, watching, listening, painting, spying.

Your pants hit your ankle and you look up, see the dark bloom at his crotch and smack your teeth. “Seriously?”

Im invested now. (Lemme know if I should make more of these.. lemme build my empire)

~~~

The Task force is already greatly protective of each other, I mean there’s Ghost who would fight to death to keep the others safe, he would literally jump in front of a train if it meant so. And then you have Price who already doesn’t let his boys stray too far away from him at any given time. Which explains why they’re all Velcro children and have separation anxiety.

Then with Alejandro and Rudy to the mix, you saw how Alejandro carried Rudy out that house fire— THAT is a man in love.

And now you have protection 80x more. Because after the Graves situation? They’re closer than ever.

It was a silent agreement after the shit that happened in Las Almas, after “killing” Graves and getting the vaqueros base back, they all kind of just collapsed onto eachother. Of course they dealt with Hassan before coming back to Las Almas because if there was one place the task force would rather be, it was probably the Vaqueros compound.

I like to imagine they would help clean the place. Y’know, graves only touched about sixty percent of the base, quarters were still intact. That meant sleep. That meant actual beds and not camping outside with a gun strapped to their legs because ambushing would happen.

While I think they wouldn’t mind being put into an extra room, Soap just follows Rudy and decides to take over Alejandro’s side of the bed. Then haz comes because wherever the other sergeant goes, he follows.

And then Ghost because why not.

And before Alejandro or Price could even have a say, they come back to the room and just find it covered in their soldiers. Rudy was probably buried underneath one of the two sergeants. Soap’s position did not look comfortable at all. Gaz was curled, not an inch of space between him and the others. Ghost wasn’t even in the bed, he was on the floor, face down.

Price stares at Alejandro, “So.. about that proposal.. Seems my boys have already claimed Rudy.”

“I have no choice but to accept.. that and because Rudy can be whiny.” Alejandro murmured. “I will say, they do cuddle like puppies.”

“You haven’t seen a cuddle pile until you wake up under all of them.”

~~~

Now one might think how the hell does this even work. Task Force 141 is centralized in Europe, they don’t even have a proper base because they were always moving.

Alejandro and Rudy? They don’t leave Las Almas. They have a bad, a whole fucking compound.

But they make it work. They will always make it work, even if they aren’t needed for each other. Which is why Price was so shocked when backup came and it was the Colonel and his sergeant Major.

Laswell just scolds them over comms every time this happens, “Less flirting and a bit more advancing boys”.

~~~

reader who is, unfortunately, a “too honest for their own good” kind of drunk who gets dragged to the bar with tf141.

“kyyyle,” you slur, leaning over the table to which Gaz cracks a smile. “so pretty…anyone ever tell you you’re pretty? like ‘men should be buying you dinner’ pretty.”

soap snorts, an amused smile on his lips. “Ya don’ even get a handsome, just fuckin’ pretty.”

“oi, piss off, soap,” replies gaz with no real heat behind it. “and you,” he starts, bringing his attention backed to your slumped form, “are a shitty drinker.”

you giggle, barely lifting up your head from the table.

price shakes his head, taking a large swing from the pint. “kids these days.”

the laughter dies down, everyone enjoying the relaxing ambiance that’s been so hard to enjoy with missions on end these days. that is until-

“ugh- I’m so horny.”

the table stills, all eyes landing on your slumped form before soap bursts into uncontrollable laughter. his fist slams the table as gaz tries to still the man who’s slightly tipsy and leaning back in his chair.

“bloody hell,” ghost mumbles, crossing his arms. “you’re one them, huh? those honest-to-god-drunks.”

“you shouldn’t be saying those things out loud,” advises price, knowing full well that it’s going to go unheard seeing as you’re shit-faced drunk right now.

you groan, forehead connected with the table again. “you don’t get it. you’re old- probably have the sex drive of a tumble weed.”

gaz and soap have a poor attempt at stifling a laugh and even ghost cracks a small and an unseen smirk at your comment. price doesn’t bother with a retort, knowing you’ll have your regrets when they tell you about this conversation in the morning.

soap puts an encouraging pat on your back. “aye, cmon lass, if ya wanted to get laid, all ye gotta do is ask.” it’s clearly a joke but your head perks up anyways.

“don’t tempt me, cause I’ve thought about it.”

“you don’t say…” his eyes light up with interest.

ghost interrupts with a warning tone. “don’t encourage her, Johnny.”

“too late, LT.” soap stalks around your chair, sliding his arms ‘round back. he leans in close till you pick up the scent of beer on his lips. “tell me, what d’ya think of?”

you match his lean with one of your own, eyes blown wide and curious. “are you rough in bed? tell me you’re rough in bed.”

soap smirks, flashing a charming wink. “aye, lass. why? want my handprint on your ass?” ghost flashes him a stern look but soap merely shrugs unapologetically.

you groan at his answer, “god, I hope I remember that in the morning.”

“we get it. we get it. you’re horny for soap. let’s stop before I hurl.” gaz puts his hand on your shoulders, urging you to drink more water.

“dont be jealous, gaz. you’re in there too.”

and suddenly, the angel on his shoulder disappears. “oh yeah?”

“god, you have no idea how hard it is to work with hot men all day long. takes everything in me to not just give up on the mats and let you just pin me down.”

by now, soap has his phone out, recording this for evidence when you’re inevitably going to try to walk back on your words in the morning.

“would love to be bent over a desk, don’t even care who’s behind me. or who’s the biggest? LT? probably not you then- at least not first.”

you ramble on and on… about how you could get off to the gruff sound of your captains voice alone, or how sometimes you’d be soaking wet through your panties if they praised you enough.

and it’s not until you go into an explicit and ultra-specific scenario that involves all four men, some rope, vibrators, and a blindfold, going to ultra-specific detail about soap in your pussy, price in your mouth, and how maybe you’d even let someone in your ass, does someone do the sensible thing of slapping a hand around your mouth.

“I’m gonna take my hand off’ya, and you’re gon’ be quiet, yeah?”

your eyes glance up to a stone cold stare behind a mask, meeting his gaze before you nod. “good girl.”

his hand slowly withdraws and you’re silent. it stays that was for a moment, everyone unsure how to break the tension left in the air after your revelation…that is until-

“aye, what’s that LT?”

and that, would be the stiffy that’s hardly concealed behind his jeans- perhaps he needs to buy baggier clothes from now on.

black smoke seeped through the oven and the machine beeped dramatically. You rushed over to switch it off, coughing as the smoke weaved through your lungs.

The chicken was ruined, making you stare at it for a minute.

Completely burnt.

You almost laughed, as the smoke still curled lazily toward the ceiling.

Almost.

Because after everything that had gone wrong tonight, the blackened chicken felt less like a disaster and more like an insult.

The candles had melted hours ago. The flowers were beginning to droop. The fancy dress you'd put on at six o'clock had been exchanged for sweatpants sometime around nine.

And Simon still wasn't home.

No text, no call, nothing. As if he had totally forgotten about you.

You checked your phone again, 11:47 PM. " where are you simon..." you mumbled to yourself.

An unsettling ache settled in your chest and.....disappointment. Not because he late, not because he'd missed dinner but because the day meant something to you.

And now it was over.

You sank into one of the dining room chairs, staring at the untouched plates sitting across the room. Waiting, just like the plates were.

A lump formed in your throat. You grabbed a napkin and scribbled a note.

Three words.

Maybe next year.

You left it beside his plate and went to bed, still clutching your phone in one hand. just in case.

Simon got home at 3:16 in the morning. His shoulders slumped with something more than tiredness. his stomach sank the moment he entered the apartment.

The mission had gone sideways. Communication had gone down. His phone had died. All of them excuses.

Because none of them changed the fact that he'd missed it, again.

Simon made his way to kitchen but stopped right in his tracks. he stared at the set dining table, the candles which were now reduced pools of wax, the faint smell of something burnt and a note.

"Christ", he whispered to himself. Something twisted painfully in his chest as he picked up the note.

Read it once.

Then again.

Maybe next year.

The disappointment hurt worse than he could imagine. He let you down, and he hated himself for that.

Simon lowered himself into the chair opposite the empty one. The chair that should've been his. The chair you'd probably stared at all evening.

Waiting.

The realization made him feel sick as his eyes drifted toward the kitchen. The burnt food, the dishes, the effort. Every little detail you'd spent hours preparing.

For him. And he'd never shown up.

A sharp ache settled behind his ribs, the familiar kind. Guilt.

You blinked awake as bedroom door creaked. For a moment you thought you'd imagined the sound. Then you saw simon standing awkwardly in the doorway, still wearing his gear and looking exhausted and guilty.

Relief hit first, at least he was home. Then the anger followed, as heat crept up against the back of your neck. You turned away, trying to hide the tears prickling at the corner of your eyes and pulled the blanket higher.

"I'm sorry.", Simon whispered, sounding truly sincere. And you hated that cause it made staying angry so much more harder.

"Phone died."

"Mission got extended."

"I tried.", he said finally ,voice breaking slightly.

Your throat tightened. "Do you know how many times I checked my phone tonight?", you accused him, on the brink of breaking down.

Simon didn't answer. Probably because he knew the answer didn't matter.

Eventually you sat up and the sight of him nearly stole the rest of your anger.

He looked exhausted, bruised and worn down. my poor baby. But that wasn't fair cause you were allowed to hurt too.

"I waited." ,you whispered as your voice cracked.

"I kept thinking you'd call."

"I kept making excuses for you.", you sighed.

"I know.", simon whispered.

You finally broke down, damn tears. "I just wanted one night.", you sobbed looking absolutely heart broken. Cause you were.

Simon looked like you'd hit him ,his throat bobbing up and down. Then he approached you, slowly.

Then Simon reached into one of his pockets and pulled something out with his shaky hands.

It was a small, battered envelope.

"What is that?", you sniffled, wiping your tears.

His eyes stayed fixed on it.

"The card.", he whispered.

"What card?"

"The anniversary card."

You frowned as you looked at the tattered piece of folded paper.

Simon gave a weak laugh. "I've been carrying it around for two weeks....just didn't have it in me love. I'm not as strong you think i am."

Your chest tightened as he handed it over.

The envelope was bent, creased and worn from being shoved into gear and pockets. Inside was a handwritten message, three pages long.

His arms came around to hold you in the tightest embrace ever. As if he was afraid his mistake would cost him you.

You stared at the letter and then back at him.

"You wrote three pages?", you looked at him with teary eyes.

His ears turned slightly red, "It's not the point."

A laugh escaped through your tears. Oh how you loved him.

The corner of Simon's mouth twitched at the tiny success. Then he reached over and brushed away a tear, his thumb lingered.

"I know I missed dinner.", The humour disappeared.

"And I know I ruined tonight."

"But if I get another chance, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

You stared because that sounded suspiciously close to a promise and Simon Riley didn't make promises lightly.

Eventually you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his shoulder.

"i love you", he whispered as he tilted your face up and kissed away your tears.

"always"

He can hardly believe it's real. you of all people on top of him, pressing him into the bed by his shoulders. You, the fucking beautiful mechanic that he's been crushing on since you yelled at him two months ago.

"Mmhhh, so well behaved, baby–" you moan, hips moving against his languidly, working his cock in and out in deep strokes. Ghost swears you look like an angel, the soft light of his lamp back-lighting you in a halo.

"Ah– ah– mmghh– please, love–" ghost whines, hands running along your skin like he can't decide where to settle. Switching between your chest, waist, thighs. Rough callouses digging into you like he's trying to make sure you stay.

He gasps when you clench down, hips bucking up and head tossed back. He settles down as soon as quick as it started, thigh muscles clenched to stop himself. He doesn't want to ruin it, doesn't want to disappoint you.

"Ah! Fuck– whoah, hey, si. Simon–" you have to grab him by the chin and force him to look at you. Fear and uncertainty under that heavy curtain of lust, insecure about everything, about this with you. Your lips press to his jaw, quick, almost sweet before you pull back to smile "hey, it's okay. You can move, I promise you'll be fine"

His hips give the smallest twitch in anticipation, but he holds back to ask "what– what if it's wrong? What do I do?"

"Then I correct you," you shrug, grinding back into him slow.

"Oh." Ghost stares for a moment, processing. Slowly, his hands creep down to your hips, grip tightening like the springs on a trap "okay."

That's all the warning you get before he's physically moving your hips, your entire body, for you. The thick muscle on his biceps bulging with the force, first replicating your movements then slowly adding his own thrusts. "Ah– ahh, okay, that's good, si— FUCK!"

he angled your hips just right, hitting that spot inside that you had been avoiding in hopes he came first. A hint of that confident soldier you know slips through when ghost chuckles, shuffling his shoulders to pound that sweet spot relentlessly.

Ghost is staring at you with stars in his eyes while he fucks you stupid on his cock, brows knit together and flushed down to his chest. Thankfully, he cums first, and it's in that desperate chase to ride out his own orgasm that you do too, having to catch yourself on the headboard to stop from face-planting against him.

"Fuck, good boy, simon. So good for me, yeah?" You mumble lazily– wait. Surely not.

You roll your hips to confirm, almost shocked when you ask "holy shit, are you already hard again?"

Ghost groans under you, thrusting up hungrily "never stopped."

It was a simple arrangement born of ghost dying to try that chicken you cook every weekend, and you needing someone to watch your little girl at the park while you worked. First, you were scared it wouldn't work out, either ghost wouldn't click or your daughter wouldn't like him.

Turns out ghost loves taking care of kids, and your sweet girl loves having 'Mr Simon' around.

Which is how ghost is woken up at near six in the morning by incessant knocking one day.

You stand in his doorway, face burning in embarrassment while your little girl waves up at him excitedly "Mr simon!!! Mr simon it's me!! Happy father's day!!"

Ghost is too shocked to do anything other than take the paper, with macaroni shapes glitter-glued into the word 'dad' with a bit heart around it. He glances at the paper, then down at your beaming daughter, then at you.

"I'm really sorry, it's so early–" you try to apologize, hoping to get your daughter back to your apartment before she thoroughly embarrasses you "but she was so excited. I hope it's no trouble—"

"...I'm not a father?" Ghost tilts his head, because of course he can dismantle a rifle in ten seconds but can't pick up cues.

"No!!" Pumpkin yells from down by his knees, having already latched on like the clingy thing she is "you're my dad!! Because mom looooovessss you!!! She told the voice on the phone so!"

The voice on the phone being your friend you call every Tuesday while your sweet pea is supposed to be napping.

"That so?" Ghost mumbles, eye's wide. You watch the deep blush spead from his face all the way down his neck, silently dying inside the whole time.

"Yeah!! And she told the phone voice you're gonna give me a little brother—" you gasp, haul your child up and quickly cover her mouth, wondering if moving countries is really that hard.

"Uhm. Ignore that, she's young and doesn't understand things—" you rush out, backing up to your apartment while you talk. "Uhm, sorry for waking you! Okaybye!!"

"Huh." Ghost blinks.

The macaroni art is the only thing pinned up on his wall. Right above his bed.

Simon tilted his head to look at you, eyes softening at your bashful demeanor.

"Yes Dear?" He asked gently, taking your hand in his.

You gulped, eyes wide but certain with the next words you wanted to say.

"simon, I need to admit that I'm in love with you, I've been in love with you since I entered the Task Force 5 years ago"

Simon's expression turned into one of those long suffering things that always made you break in laughter, and you couldn't help it when he smiled and shot you one of those "really?" Looks.

Sasha, a pretty little girl with your eyes and his hair blinked next to him, and slowly stopped painting his tattoos with her colorful crayons.

"Dada, what happens to Mama?" She asked confused, brows furrowing as you had to put a hand on your belly, still laughing, and Simon rolled his eyes, used to this stuff by now, before glaring at you playfully as you burst into gleeful giggles again.

dinner is a fleeting affair. both of them hunched over their bowls and inhaling. you’re staring at them in shock as they devour their flavorless, meaningless slop.

then to the couch for tv time. you feel a bit like a zookeeper that’s just thrown a limb of mean into a lions enclosure. the beasts fed, and now they lick their paws and relax.

they don’t even like the two teams playing on the television right now.

“why don’t you two come to my place tomorrow for a change?”

“wot? something wrong with our flat, dove?”

“no, no! of course not!”

they may look like lions but they frighten easily. the last thing you mean to do is scare them off.

“course not, just thought a change of pace might be nice?”

they share a weary look. change isn’t their favorite thing, not after years of strict military routine. they agree nonetheless. and they show up right on time, no surprise there.

they share another weary look when you ask them to take off their shoes before coming in.

“i made dinner. just something light,” you smile despite knowing dinner was far more effort than you care to let on.

johnny barrels towards the kitchen. “what’s the occasion, lass? you did all this for us?” and you shrug.

“just thought i’d thank the two of you, y’know. you’re always around to lend a hand.”

they just gape at you like there’s no brain activity happening within their thick skulls.

“well, have a seat then.” you gesture towards the set table with proper cutlery and a vase of flowers in the center.

you bring them both their plates of food, no ground beef, or sweet potatoes, or cottage cheese. and they hunch themselves over, ready to inhale as per usual.

“hasn’t anyone taught you how two to take your time?”

they stare at you again. just as stupidly as they did moments ago. this time they’ve gone silent because both of them are half hard beneath the table.

“going slowly makes it better, you know. not everything is a race.”

and that’s how you end up with simon between your thighs and your back pressed against johnny’s chest as he rubs your shoulders.

“slow, right? that makes it all better?”

simon is rolling his hips agonizingly slowly, dragging his cock against your warm walls.

“simon, faster please,” you beg him. he’s been going at this for the better part of an hour.

he tuts at you. “none of that. you wanted slow, you’re getting slow.

“that’s not—not what i meant,” you pant. you roll your head back to look at johnny, hoping he might help you out. he just brushes your hair from your sticky face instead.

So, you simply wait by the door, standing there pretty and patient until he's towering behind you, and you feel the warmth of his tattooed arms effortlessly scooping you up to sit your ass on the seat.

It's actually funny because you're perfectly capable of getting in yourself, but over time you started doing it on purpose. He'd never tell you that, but he knows it too. The way your face lights up every damn time you wait for him gives you away immediately. Still, he'd never dare ruin your little game.

"Si, come pick me up, please?"

You stood in front of the monster he drove until you heard the door to your house click shut and his heavy boots against the driveway.

You didn't even bother to turn around. The low, amused huff that left Simon told you everything you needed to know.

The car unlocked with a click.

"Y'know," he drawled, coming to a stop behind you, "for someone who runs their mouth as much as you do, you're awful helpless, love."

A grin tugged at your lips as you felt his hands settle on your hips, giving them a light squeeze.

"Mhm."

He snorted.

"Such a fuckin' brat."

One second your feet were planted firmly on the ground; the next, they were kicking in the air as he hauled you up against his warm chest. A squeal escaped you before you could stop it.

"Simon!" You grabbed onto his forearms.

"What?" His voice was full of that stupid satisfaction he got whenever he managed to get a reaction out of you. "Thought you wanted me to help." He murmured close to your ear, sending shivers through your body.

You loved how easy he made it look and hated how your stomach flipped every time.

But fuck, what you loved most was being manhandled by him.

By the time he set you down on the passenger seat, your face was all warm.

His hand lingered on your thigh for a second longer before he stepped back.

You narrowed your eyes. Simon looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Creep."

"Got in the truck, didn't ya?"

You pouted.

"Buckle your seatbelt!" Simon barked out a laugh and shut the door.

"You fuckin' buckle my ass," you huffed under your breath.

The driver's side door opened.

"Did ya say something?"

Simon Riley has been deaf for the past few years of his life due to sudden acoustic trauma from explosions and gunfire. He never had a problem with it, in fact, he never really talked or listened to people in general when he was able to hear. The tinnitus still rings out in his head, still makes him press his pillow against his ears at night, but at least he didn’t have to listen to anything else.

It wasn’t until you came along that he wished he could hear again, but something about the simple intimacy of feeling your voice rather than hearing it made him feel like this is how it was always meant to be for him.

He liked the fact that you would still speak to him as he reads your lips, that you didn’t shy away when he would occasionally reach up to touch your cheek just to feel the vibrations of your voice. Of course, you accommodated him as well, learning how to articulate your words better for lip reading, how to use sign language, but when he would ask you to speak about anything and everything you always did.

You never fail to make his world feel loud in a space that was so consumingly quiet before.

And when it came to sex, it was never anything short of passionate. It was a different kind of intimacy you had never experienced before him.