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Pt. 2 to this. Careful what you wish for. TF141 x reader +18 mdni TW: Heavy smut warning !!!!

Honestly, you didn’t know what had completely possessed you to suggest such a thing. Maybe it was the crushing lack of sleep, or perhaps the raw adrenaline of finally making it back to the safe house alive. But before you even realized the gravity of what you were doing, you were standing entirely bare in front of four hardened men whose intense stares burned into your skin with a nasty, unyielding need.

A volatile mix of too much testosterone and months of touch deprivation had completely sealed your fate. You knew exactly what they had in store for you.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you freed your hair from the towel, allowing the damp, dark strands to cascade down your bare shoulders. You watched with a smug satisfaction as the four of them stood entirely frozen, practically vibrating with tension as they waited to see who would dare make the first move.

Deciding to set the pace, you sauntered over to Gaz. His eyes were darting frantically between your bare breasts and the floor—a nervous little lamb caught in a trap. You stepped directly into his space and wrapped your hand firmly around his clothed erection.

Also, shoutout to @wooceanic becuase she requested, and i got inspired ;P

The first time you realized Simon was actually making love to you was after your first big fight, when you had given him the silent treatment for almost two days.

​You didn't live with him then, so you tried to ingore his texts and calls, simply choosing to rot at work until the dead of night just to keep your brain from obsessing over him.

​Oh, but how naive you were to think you could escape him, or that he could last a day without seeing you.

He still had a key to your place just in case, a fact you totally forgot about until you walked in and found him waiting on your couch like a lovesick puppy, with an order from your favorite Chinese restaurant.

​You really had him completely wrapped around your finger, you realized, smiling to yourself.

​By the time he actually started begging for forgiveness, you were too far gone to remember why you were even pissed.

​He had you down bad, too. So dumb of you to think otherwise.

​Your bodies moved in sync and with the way his hips rolled with every drive, sinking deeper with every movement he gave you, you simply forgot your own name.

​He had your legs spread wide, bent almost to your shoulders, creating that sharp, sweet tingle in your belly every time he slammed into your sweet spot. And oh god, that fucker knew exactly how to hit it perfectly.

​Every. Damn. Time.

​He did that thing where he would curve his hips up and hold there for a moment, whispering into your ear, "It's right there, huh? I found it again." His head was buried in your neck, and the pathetic, desperate whimpers he let out after he felt how wet and warm you were, filled with his cum, made you clench your pussy around him even more, turning him into an animal obsessed with dragging every last orgasm out of you.

​Then it hit you. That this time was different.

​Usually, sex with him was hard and rushed. It wasn't bad, but this? Yeah, it was something else.

​He never whimpered like that. He was taking his time, watching every twitch of your body, caressing you slowly until you fell apart again and again, and it was so fucking hot seeing him like that.

​He practically begged for your forgiveness by fucking you slow and deep into the mattress.

​"Si, look at me," you managed to gasp between moans, yanking at his messy blonde hair until his eyes met yours.

​"You feel so good, love," he whimpered while looking into your half opened, glazed eyes, his pace growing slower. His hand was on your breast, squeezing and rubbing your nipple between his fingers. "Will you forgive me, and let me cum inside again?"

"If you keep fucking me like this I might."

​His hips stilled, but his cock remained buried deep inside while he started grinding slowly, so you could feel every inch, every vein, and that delicious curve of his cock pulsing inside you. Almost as if he wanted to prove how good he was for you.

​"Please, love, forgive me." He hooked your thigh around his shoulder, fingers digging into your skin and already leaving red marks.

"Fuck, let me just fill you up, pretty girl," he groaned into your ear while gently nibbling your lobe.

​You gasped, eyes rolling back, but you could not care less because you felt so incredible. You dug your nails into his bare back, tracing lines along his muscles and scars. They moved along with him, and you smiled, feeling the goosebumps erupt on his skin.

​"God, you're going to make me cum if you don't stop, Si." You bit into his swollen from kissing lips drawing a little bit of blood, the pleasure forced its way down your body. You tugged harder seeing how he wanted to hide in your neck already, his eyes were completely lost, and it made you clench around him. Usually, you were the one who struggled with eye contact.

​"Yeah? - thrust - You're gonna cum again? - another thrust, this time he reached for your puffy clit. You felt his thumb rubbing delicate circles, not to overstimulate you - You can cum - thrust that pulled the filthiest and loudest moan out of you - as much as you need, baby. I've got you."

​"Oh god, Simon, I'm..."

​"I know. Fuck yeah, cum on my cock, sweet thing. Please, cum on me, I'm begging you." He whimpered.

Since then, everything changed. He would make love to you on every occasion, simply because being that close and intimate with you became addictive in a way. Fuck it, he just loved it. After all, he felt like your relationship was turning into something serious, so it was only fair to care for your needs in every possible way. God, he loved giving it to you. Just looking at you in the bathroom brushing your teeth wearing nothing but his shirt made his cock go rock hard, and hearing your pretty moans and sighs was a different story entirely.

​Yeah, he was obsessed with making love with you.

warnings !! - cnc. dubcon. smut. 18+. rough sex. bdsm. mental illness. comic!simon riley. equally fucked up!reader. various kinks being explored. dark fantasies. dead dove themes.

this photo but its simon “i do horrible things, to women. and i like it” riley. who gets awfully nauseous every time he has sex with you. he just can’t help but to act out those horrible fantasies with you.

he’s always tried to suppress that dark part of him. keep it away from everyone, but especially you; for a time. but don’t get him wrong— it was extremely difficult.

when he first met you, it took everything inside him not to follow you home that same night. it was just a first date, if you could really call it that. he took you out for a coffee in the morning, and brought you home by afternoon. he thought about it. really, really thought about it.

it would’ve been easy. the sun was out so you had your windows open, and the neighbors were either all at work or out enjoying themselves. he easily could have climbed through one of those open windows, or bet on the fact that you hadn’t locked your door just yet. but he drove away; simon knew these thoughts were wrong. and he wouldn’t let them over come him.

the months went on though, you got to know each other, got to love each other— as much as simon could express. you learned to deal with his work, did your best to always understand where he was coming from and how his experiences shaped him. really, you were doing all you could do with a man like simon riley.

you could just… tell something was wrong though. he let you in on most of his history, his illnesses, trying to warn you on whatever the fuck was wrong with him. it was just very obvious he was dancing around another topic, you weren’t dumb, you also didn’t want to push him too far. simon is the type of man to tell you when he’s ready exactly when he is, never stalls, never waits to speak.

and while he can’t let this… secret out, the sex is very restrained. he was always very quick with it, only ever taking you in bed on your back— so he could hold you and sloppily kiss you. that wasn’t the problem— the problem was he always looked oddly uncomfortable. eyebrows knitted together, jaw clenching like it did when he was upset. always came so quickly too.

the aftercare was awkward; like he didn’t know what to do. he wanted to hold you, so, so bad. but every time he looked at you, he also got the need to see how you looked when you cried. wondered how long it would take to make you, who trusted simon so blindly, scared of him. the only time he’s ever seen you cry was during a movie; and like a creep he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

burning that image into his head, not even just to please himself but to replay over and over again— putting you in different scenarios. the sound of your sniffles was gradually becoming boring, the motivation to give you other reasons to cry (harder) over.

on your end— the sex got so agonizingly boring that you had to bring it up to simon. something had to change, and you were honestly sick of faking orgasms. so when you told him all of the degrading things you wanted him to do to you; simon was sure he was going to marry you (and that scared him).

suddenly; both of you are getting satisfied in your own weird, little fucked up ways. the favorite scenario between you two was simon finally getting to play out his stalking fantasy. you taking little to no convincing to leave your doors unlocked at night, letting yourself fully fall asleep so that when simon came in— the scare was truly in your bones for a moment.

it only fueled the sex. suddenly, simon was ruining you. taking you on your knees, bent over in public spaces, even chased you down through the woods and tied you up.

made you truly scream that time, throwing your legs over his shoulders did nothing because each thrust just made you jostle around— digging your back deeper into the mud. had to lift your ass up to bury his cock in deeper, holding you there as he spilt his seed deep into your core— hand smothering over your mouth when you began to complain about his lack of condom.

and then there’s the basement scenario. where he keeps you there only for a night (because otherwise he begins to miss you too much), and uses you whenever he pleases. rolling you over into the hard concrete, scuffing up your knees and elbows till they were raw. left handprints on your ass so red and purple he was sure they might never fade.

and the absolute best part about it? the sickening smile on your teary eyed face— plus the way you’d get down lower and spread your legs further.

The stranger appears like an avatar of the slow, starving extinction of the wastes, a swaying conglomeration of bones and rags. Beady, sunken eyes look out from frostbitten flesh. You freeze when you notice the apparition staring at you with those dead fish eyes.

He is not menacing, not in the way you can see Simon being. His back is bowed over sharp ribs, bloated belly, and protruding joints, his breath wheezes from blackened, ash-clogged lungs. But he is desperate and desperation has made an animal of him.

You are not a person and neither is he. You and all you have are means of survival and he is the starved animal that will take until there is nothing left.

He is faster than you anticipate. He lunges with a renewed vitality at the life you hold like a spluttering flame. Ragged, sharp nails rip into you, through the bulky layers of your clothes. Hands grasping, wrenching, slamming you into the ground. He is a fury of madness, his fetid fear spilling from him as rotten blood from a putrid knife wound.

Simon appears so fast that the sudden presence of his mass makes your ears feel like they need to pop, his gravity encompassing you like a collapsed star.

His event horizon passes over you, colliding into the man instead. Ash plumes from the ground where Simon slams the man down under his weight.

His violence is a brutal, efficient thing. Silent and final. The stranger doesn't even manage a gasp before it's taken from him. Gloved hands separate vertebrae as if that was the first thing they ever learned to do before discovering the tenderness they're capable of when holding you. There is no second glancing at the body on the ground, no compartmentalization. It was a threat and now it is nothing. Death as transformation.

When Simon turns his eyes to you, you feel time stretch between the space separating you. Two black wells, pulling you into their dark infinity with a swooping vertigo. In them is the darkness at the end of all things. You feel its phantom weight wrap around you like the depth of it all is too vast to be confined by just the borders of him.

His hands, clean of blood but still soaked to the bone with it, rise to your face, fingertips grazing your cheeks. The skull of his mask touches your skin when he lowers his forehead to yours. This close you can't see his mask, can't see death. All you see is Simon.

Palms drag across your cheeks, over your ears. Fingers lace together at the back of your head, cradling you, further securing you into his gravitational orbit.

Simon says nothing, skin still crawling from the sight of you in the ash. A Ghost howls in his blood, baying for the world's to be spilled.

Simon smothers the Ghost, focuses on the weight of you in his hands. A flame still burns.

His mask leaves your skin as he angles your head down. You lose sight of his face, vision instead taken up with the fortress of his chest and shoulders.

In one moment you feel nothing but the biting cold on your skin and in the next you feel warm, uncovered lips pressing to your forehead. The heat of them scalds you. The texture of their scars sink into your skin like a brand.

He moves down, laying a kiss on each of your closed eyes like coins for a burial. They remain closed as his lips travel to each of your cheeks, face upturned to the warmth of his attentions. That warmth drags further down like the last sunset the world had ever seen.

Simon pauses. A man made into a ghost made into a man again. His hands, which were born into the language of violence long before the world ended, which know the feeling of broken bone and steaming blood better than the weight of something alive have remained steady through every reaping of every soul they severed.

Never once have they faltered. Immovable through the war and death of every known thing, the remains of which continue to fall like snow years later.

i imagine the live camera feed goes off one night while youre lying in bed. new sheets still hugging you warm after the dryer. the boys are off doing their personal night routines, heavy guard dogs lay at your feet.

with the chime of your phone, a notification alerts you of outside movement. you consider it to be a waving branch or passing car, yet check it nonetheless. something about inner intuition.

youre glad you did.

watching silently as someones shadow skirts along the darker parts of around your house. passing the kitchen windows with a ducked head, then round the back.

"fuck," you bite your lip. sighing quietly as you toss your phone. "johnathan!" four heads from the bathroom peek around the doorframe slow, eyes open with the use of a full name. johnny fights a grin, ready to watch his captain get chewed out by their lady.

"..ye' love?"

"theres some weird guy wandering 'round the house outside," you inform dryly. plucking your phone back up and leaving it there. you reach for your wine glass on the bedside table, sipping as their hearts fall to their ass.

sure, anxiety stirs low in your gut. nipping at your reason and concious. but youre also keen of what your boys have lived through, the dirtest negotiations and most horrific actions.

alway do they come back home into your arms.

you could blame it on pure lack of sleep, but its nicer to pin it on the assumption youre probably the safest person in town. you were even willing to bet in the city.

so you continue with scrolling through ao3.

paying a half mind as military tense rounds over their bodies. simon whistles for the dogs and grabs his pistol. grunting and rolling his bare shoulders in atonished anger at somones sheer audacity. i mean for fuck sakes the mans tired. 

johnnys sneaking grin falls, replaced by a flat face as hes quick to grab a flashlight and gun. moving out the door on simons heels. big dogs herding around them.

"stay 'ere yeah love? dont open the fuckin' door," johns voice is a low growl. grabbing a hunters knife ( anniversary gift from you, his names carved in the wood ) and moving to the window. room lights flipped off when johnny left. scanning the open grass with an annoyed brow twitch. "kyle, wi' me."

kyle nods, glancing back three times to make sure youre content. careful to lock the bedroom door and leave a weapon with you, which he drills in not to touch less you hear the burglar. with a final glance, hes gone with the rest of them.

your ears perk for movement outside. glass shatters and a door kicks open. youre pretty sure you hear the guy shriek — most definitely simons doing, weird fucker was waiting in the dark — a brisk struggle before the house falls silent, words they dont want you hearing are exchanged then hes thrown out onto the grass.

hes quick to jump up and scurry off, wet pants uncomfortable and now stinking.

ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.

you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed off—in reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.

so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.

and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.

first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it was—since he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.

it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.

with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.

until you notice something odd.

coming home from work—this time, your car light remains off—you get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.

what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?

yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.

so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.

except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.

his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.

"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."

planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.

but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.

but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.

You are drunk and pissed all because Simon decided it was time to leave the bar. He threw you over his shoulder, patted your ass, told you that you have had way too much to drink and walked out like nothing was unusual about the scene. On the way home, you sat angled towards the window, giving him the silent treatment, and every time he tried to touch your thigh you dramatically pushed his hand away and huffed in annoyance.

Such a brat.

Simon knows exactly how to take care of his bratty lady, which is why the second the two of you walk into your shared apartment, he’s throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the bedroom.

What he doesn’t see is the sly smile spreading across your face when you think of the best way to fuck with him.

You’re face down, cheek smooshed against the pillow, ass up, pussy bare to him behind you, and ready to get on with your evil plan. His hands find your hips, and he nudges his cock at your entrance. Your folds are soaking, glistening under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, and the second his tip pushes through your entrance, you’re biting your bottom lip and shoving your face even further into the pillow.

This will be harder than you thought.

​You didn't ask. But you begged for it.

​Simon didn't notice at first; he just thought it was a mere coincidence. How you always chose to drink the same beverage, using the same straw. The same bottle of water right after he had taken a drink. Or when you two shared food, and you always bit the exact same spot he had just bitten.

​Now, you two were in his room. You were in his lap, kissing his neck, leaving noticeable marks that anyone could see without effort. He desperately sought your lips, biting and savoring them, deepening the kiss.

​"Si, would you do something for me?" you asked, your lips brushing against his.

​"Anything for you, darlin'," he said, his voice sounding more like a whisper.

​"Could you... spit in my mouth?" you asked shyly. You had been wanting to tell him for a while, but you hadn't been able to find the bravery.

​"Spit?" Simon wasn't concerned at all; he just hadn't expected you to like such things. "I can do that for ya, luv."

​Simon cupped your chin, his touch soft against your skin. "Open your mouth, sweetheart."

​You obeyed, opening your mouth and showing him your tongue. And finally, your wish came true. Simon spit into your mouth.

​"Now baby. Swallow it down."

​And that's exactly what you did—you swallowed his saliva.

​"There you go, my precious girl. Do you like it, huh?"

​You nodded in response. Thereafter, you always found an excuse for any situation where Simon could just spit in your mouth.

"Simon, come on," you whisper. "Are you mad?"

He stilled for a moment, going more rigid than before. "No," He begins, "..'m not mad.."

"Right...so sharpening knives at 2 AM is a normal hobby-?"

He huffs, setting the knife down a little to hard on the bedside. "..'m not mad at you." his voice is gruff and snappy. Like he's teetering on the edge of fully exploding. He wouldn't, though, not around you...never at you either. He made that clear.

"So then, will you tell me what's wrong? Who your mad at?" Your voice is calm and soothing. Your body moves before your mind realizes, and you're behind him, arms wrapping around his torso. You nuzzle your nose into his neck, taking a breath and placing a small kiss there. "Whatever it is..you can tell me.." you pause "...you know that baby."

He lets out another huff, "Yeah...I do know that," he starts. "But this is different. This isn't..normal."

That makes your brows frown, and stomach drop a little bit. The room is quiet while you wait for him to talk again, but when he doesn't, you pull back slightly. "Simon, look at me," you say firmly. He moves back onto the bed fully, back up against the headboard, and hands clasped in his lap like he was waiting for a blow. Waiting for something to happen, but when nothing did, he relaxed slightly, and looked up at you. "..'m sorry..." He says quietly.

"No, no...shh...don't do that. Nothing is 'not normal' to be mad about, and there is nothing to be sorry about," you whisper gently. You move back to sit against the headboard next to him.

"come 'ere" you whisper, your arms open and inviting.

He moves without a thought. His arms wrap around your torso, and his head rests on your chest. He lets out a long breath, and you feel him relax.

"You don't have to tell me, but at least let me hold you. Okay?"

He only nods. Your hands run through his hair gently, and every once in a while, you kiss the top of his head. You whisper sweet words. Repeating that you love him no matter what, and that he's not alone.

Simon gets dosed with a truth serum, and Johnny is absolutely taking the piss.

Pairing: Simon×Fem!Y/N | Mild Sexual Content | Truth Serum

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"Would you fuck y/n?" Soap asked Ghost, grinning ferally.

Ghost's head snapped toward him with a speed that would have been intimidating if his throat wasn't darkening to a vibrant maroon at the hem of his balaclava. For a single, long moment, the room held its breath—Gaz frozen with his coffee halfway to his lips, Price watching from the doorway with the resignation of a man who had seen too much warfare to be surprised by interpersonal chaos.

Then, the serum kicked in.

"Yes," Ghost said, and the word came out so fast and so forcefully that it actually made Soap jump.

"Absolutely. Without hesitation. In a—" He stopped. Swallowed. The serum pushed. "—in a heartbeat. In less than a heartbeat. In a negative amount of time. I would go back in time an' do it yesterday if that was an option. S'not an option—time travel doesn't exist—but if it did, I'd—"

"Christ alive," Soap breathed, almost awed.

"—I'd do it so fast," Ghost continued helplessly, the words pouring out of him like water through a breached dam. "I'd do it so—y'don't even understand, Johnny. Y'don't understan' what y've just asked me. Y've opened a door that can't be closed now. M'gonna be thinkin' about that question for weeks. Months. Forever. M'gonna be on my deathbed thinkin' about that question because yes. Yes, I bloody would. Have y'seen her?"

"We've all seen her, Lt.," Gaz wheezed, practically crying with laughter now. "She's standin' right there."

"Right there," Ghost agreed, gesturing at y/n with his cuffed hands as if Soap had just made an excellent point. "Right there. Bein' pretty. Bein' the prettiest person I've ever—I already said that, didn't I? I already said that twice. S'still true. S'more true now. S'been—" He glanced at the clock on the wall. "—four minutes. S'been four minutes an' s'even more true than it was when I first said it. How is that possible? How is she gettin' prettier?"

"She's nae gettin' prettier," Soap wheezed. "She's jus' standin' there."

"Exactly. Exactly. She's just standin' there, an' she's gettin' prettier. That's the problem, Johnny. That's the whole bloody problem."

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