hiya, lovie

DISCLAIMER: all of my works are 18+. Minors DNI.

WARNINGS: warnings are mentioned before my writings. most will be adult/sexual in nature. those including smut will have a ♡.

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MINORS DNI

Ryland Grace x You

Words: 5.2k

Tags: Ryland x Reader, Ryland x You

Warnings: Sex pollen, voice kink, hand kink, smut, overstimulation, consent is important PEOPLE

Everyone say thank you Ryan Gosling for getting me out of my writing slump

“-!”.

What?

“-! Can you hear me?”

Head hurts.

Your head hurts. Excruciatingly so. It’s all you can think about. A band wound tight around your skull, squeezing any coherent thought out of your scrambled mind. You take a shuddering breath, lungs stuttering as oxygen is drawn in, attempting to establish a regular breathing pattern. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheek, blinding light sending flashes of stars behind your closed lids.

After a moment, you finally gain control, blinking back to the present. Your vision is blurry, a shape of something in front of you that you can’t quite make out. You feel your brows furrow in confusion, mind desperately trying to reel in your swimming thoughts.

Orange.

Gold.

Blonde.

A man.

A man is on his knees in front of you. His face is familiar; you think you know him. But how?

“There you are. Jesus, you scared me,” he huffs, placing a hand on his hip while the other runs through his already messy hair.

Your eyes flit around, taking in his concerned features. Glasses askew, soft shadows contouring his handsome face. His eyebrows are furrowed upwards, mouth slightly open as he looks at you.

“Are you alright?”

You try talking, throat clicking as the words try to spill out.

“I-”.

You try again, swallowing with a wince.

“I th-think so?”

What the hell happened?

“What the hell happened out there?” he asks.

Well, obviously, he didn’t know either. Okaaaay. C’mon brain. Important questions to be answered. You close your eyes, trying to remember. Flashes of color stream behind your lids. You can hear your breath recycling itself in your suit. Your EVA suit. Okay, yes. You were out on the hull. Of what? An airplane?

No, stupid, a ship. Spaceship. We’re in space, remember? Oh yes. How could you forget the Inevitable death of being sent into the vastness of the unknown on behalf of saving the whole human race?

“EVA,” is all you can spit out.

The man’s gaze falls to you again, a frown forming on his face.

“Yes, you were out on an EVA. We were talking a few minutes ago. Do you not remember?”

Trying.

Trying.

Trying.

“I remember,” you say, a little unsure of yourself.

A huff leaves his lips.

“Yeah, that sounds certain. C’mon, we’re getting you checked out.”

Before you can object, he’s wrapping his arms behind your back and your knees, picking you up effortlessly. Zero Gravity. You remember. Space. Yeah. Keep forgetting that part.

“I can walk-” you start, pushing against his chest in an attempt to free yourself.

“Alright, alright,” he says, lowering your legs before releasing hold on your back.

The sudden lack of gravity has you spinning, liquid in your inner ear sloshing violently. It turns your stomach, and you heave once, not wanting to vomit in your suit. A groan leaves your lips as your head tilts, thudding against the glass of your visor.

Strong arms envelop you again, and you can’t help but lay your head on his shoulder, too nauseous to put up a fight.

“Armando!” you hear him yell before your vision blurs again.

When your eyes open again, there’s a robotic arm inches from your face, distorted by your visor.

“Heart rate 136 - diagnosis - Tachycardia.”

You’ve always hated going to the doctor.

“Eye movement detected - Slightly Delayed.”

You twitch your toes, feeling the soft cotton of the socks in your space shoes. A shrill succession of clicks by your ear has you wincing.

“Auditory stimuli response - Normal.”

Phew. A sigh of relief at that. You reach up to take off your helmet, and the robotic arms maneuver quickly, holding your arms by your side.

“Attempt to take helmet off - Body scan not complete.”

You huff, wriggling against the firm hold Armando has on your wrists. Your own breath fogs the glass of your visor as your breathing quickens. A sharp tap to your biceps, knees, and ankles is performed. You feel your muscles jerk in response.

“Reflexes - Slightly Delayed”.

“Armando, diagnosis?” you hear a voice say.

Him again.

You crane your neck to get a glimpse of him, but can’t move due to the arms holding you down.

“Prognosis diagnosis seventy-five percent complete. Possible concussion. Pupillary response delayed Dr. Grace.”

Dr. Grace.

Yes.

Ryland.

You remember now.

Bits and pieces are coming back. You must’ve hit your head pretty hard to forget him. How could you forget him?

“Ry-” you groan.

A shuffling of footsteps to your left, and then he’s there, peering down over his glasses. His face looks relieved, features softened for the moment.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Almost done, okay?”

You nod, wiggling your wrist to give him a thumbs-up. He looks down and smiles, patting your helmet before stepping back.

Armando moves rapidly above your head, arms attaching to your life support and checking your oxygen levels.

“Contaminant detected.”

You feel your gut drop. What?

“Contaminant? What do you mean by "contaminant”?” Ryland asks, voice tilting upwards in concern.

“Twenty-one percent oxygen, seventy-six percent nitrogen, point zero four carbon dioxide, point nine six unknown.”

“Unknown?” you question, voice wavering.

“Small breach in EVA suit detected. Patching to contain contaminant.”

“Am I going to die?” you ask, chest starting to rise and fall rapidly as you take in the new information.

“No, you’re not going to die.” Ryland answers, already suiting up and taking a step towards the lab. “Stay put, I’ll be back.”

Don’t leave me, you want to say, but your throat is paralyzed with fear, only a soft whimper escaping.

“Body scan complete - Suggested treatment - quarantine for unknown contaminant.”

Armando picks your body up, your arms limp by your sides as you watch the ceiling above. You don’t try to fight him, the cold metal of the arms pressing unforgivingly into your flesh. The quarantine area isn’t big. Right inside the airlock, a small room was made for chemical showers to rid of any extra tagalongs of space exploration. Once the filter switches over and locks, Armando sets you down next to a stainless steel table.

“Undress.”

You look up at the robot, arms twitching as it waits for you to do as it said. With trembling hands you unlock your helmet, the pressure destabilizing as you breathe the air from inside the ship. Your nose burns, eyes watering as you slowly set the helmet down on the table with a thunk.

Calm. Stay calm. You’ll figure this out. Ryland can figure this out. It was why you were sent up in the first place, right?

Your lip trembles as you step out of the EVA suit, leaving the skin-tight suit membrane underneath. You put your hands out in front of you, twisting your wrists to look at the back of your hands and then your palms. Looks normal. Shaky, but normal. Next is the underlayer, you peel it from your body, sweat cooling on your exposed skin. Left in your space shoes and your underwear, you shiver as you turn back to Armando.

“Undress,” it states again.

“We really don’t-”

“Undress”

Fuck.

You quickly shed your underclothes and remaining dignity, using your arms to cover what decency you had left. Armando zips out of sight, coming back momentarily with an ugly yellow paper gown.

“Dress.”

A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you pull the scratchy fabric over your body. Ryland walks in a moment later, head down as he looks at his tablet. You fidget, the paper gown sticking uncomfortably on your body.

“Okay so. I don’t know much about the unknown space contaminant, but for all we know it could be nothing.”

He runs a gloved hand over his helmet, a sigh leaving his lips.

“I’m going to die,” you state matter-of-factly, gaze blurring at your feet.

Ryland looks up then, dropping his hands to his sides and stepping over to the quarantine zone.

“Hey, you’re not going to die. Not yet, at least,” he tries comforting.

You laugh quietly, despite it all.

“So, what do we do?”

“We get to solve this.”

The first hour in quarantine, you scrub yourself down with antimicrobial soap, and Armando sprays you off afterwards, giving you a new paper gown. Ryland had excused himself to the lab, wanting to take a crack at deciphering the unknown reading from Armando’s database scan. You weren’t able to have any equipment within your small room, so you weren’t much help. Grace was going to pull most of the weight. You were the attraction through the glass; any symptoms or new discoveries were to be time-stamped and written down, by mutual agreement.

He checks back in on hour three, with not much to report from you. You’ve taken to sitting against the plexiglass wall, staring at the door until he returns. How incredibly lonely, quarantined until (possible) death.

During hour four, Ryland suggests swabbing the inside of your helmet and your nose. You discuss options on how to safely transfer without infecting anything else. Brainstorming rising and falling away in your conversation.

After debating possible risks, you finally decided to give Armando your helmet to scan, figuring it wouldn’t hurt the cause. There were trace amounts of the unknown contaminant, just enough for a few careful swabs. Armando had gathered the samples and given them to Ryland, who was now looking at them under the lens of his microscope.

He had stayed in his suit until Armando sealed them between two slides of glass. Precautions.

“Huh,” he tuts, adjusting the light of the microscope.

You had been lying on the floor, silence between the two of you comfortable as he worked. The change in tone had you resting up on your elbows, wary to hear what he had to say.

“What is it?”

“These samples look like pollen granules.”

“Pollen?” you ask, sitting up fully to make sure you heard him right.

“Yes. I would need to stain them, but I can sort of make out the sporopollenin.”

“So, not dangerous right? How is pollen surviving out in the vacuum of space?” you ask, letting your hands fall in your lap.

“Are you allergic to pollen?” Grace asks, not looking up from his slides.

“No, not really.”

“Then it has to be something else. You’re starting to sweat,” he states, grabbing the slides with gloves to prepare them for staining.

You reach up to feel the back of your neck, fingers coming back damp with sweat. Huh.

“At least run the stain to see,” you plead.

“Already on it. Armando, water please.”

Two arms drop a sealed package of water through a small opening in the quarantine room.

“Sip it slow,” Grace instructs.

You feel yourself flush, a warm syrupy feeling crawling down to your belly. Woah. What was that?

You turn away from him, hiding your face in your knees as you sip the water as he instructed. Proximity was a thing. You were aware of these things. It wasn't like the thought hadn’t crossed your mind before. You and Ryland worked a lot of long hours together, planning on how to fix the astrophage problem.

There had been plenty of late nights indicated by Mary’s internal clock that you had fallen asleep at your station, only for him to gently shake you awake, telling you to go to bed. You looked out for each other and had grown closer during your time together. Isolation does that to a person. That and the fact that you two were the only humans within millions of miles of stars.

“I’ll be back, the stain’s gonna take at least two hours. Yell if anything changes.”

You watch him leave the room, broad shoulders shifting as he maneuvers through the door. Something had changed, you wanted to tell him. But you couldn’t. It would ruin everything.

On hour seven in quarantine, you start feeling achy, muscles sore like they used to be after practice EVA runs before your time on Mary. The stain readback didn’t offer much, just that Ryland had been right about the sample being pollen. What type of pollen? Neither of you was sure.

“Starting to feel achy,” you state, thunking your head against the wall again.

Ryland has moved part of the lab to the airlock, mainly invested in his laptop as he researches Mary’s expansive library on every type of documented pollen in the history of mankind.

“Writing it down.”

“You think it’s a virus?”

“Maybe,” he deadpans, focused on a specific article at hand.

“If this were you, would you be freaking out?”

“Freaking out isn’t going to solve anything. So no. We’re one step closer. It is a pollen. I just don’t know what type. Trying to narrow it down.”

You scoff.

“You’re avoiding my question. You’d totally be freaking out.”

“Yeah, you’re right to both,” he laughs.

By hour nine, your skin feels like it’s on fire. You’re covered in sweat, the paper gown doing nothing but irritating you.

“It’s hot,” you whine softly.

“Ship temperature status - sixty-five degrees - eighteen point three three celsius.”

That can’t be right. You’re burning up on your side of containment. Sweat’s dripping down your back, pooling in the crevices of your elbows.

“Anything?” you ask Ryland, attempting to cool down by lying on the stainless steel table.

He’s been staring at the microscope for over an hour. You watch the slight shake of his head, brows furrowed in frustration.

“No. Buggers are unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The structures aren’t similar to any reference.”

“Bummer,” you sigh, fanning your neck.

“Bummer indeed,” Ryland sighs, putting his hands on his hips.

“You’ve been at this for hours, probably need a break,” you offer.

“I’m fine.”

“Ryland.”

“Okay, I am a little hungry.”

“Go on, I’ll be fine,” you sigh. “Hour nine and I’m not dead yet.”

“You yell if anything changes. I mean it,” he says sternly, putting on his best teacher voice.

“Yes, Mr. Grace,” you joke.

That gets you a smile.

With Ryland out of the room, it was a bit easier to think. Not by much though. All you could focus on was the internal heat burning your nerves. Every point of contact on your body was set alight - the table, the paper gown, your hair on the back of your neck. It was unbearable.

You shifted on the table again in an attempt to get comfortable, but to no avail. Thighs rubbing together, heat building between your legs. This couldn't be pollen. You’d never had a reaction like this. All your mind could wander to was Ryland.

His arms.

The cuffs of his t-shirts stretched thin by his biceps. God. You felt yourself clench around nothing.

Pull it together.

Hour ten creeps up as slow as ever. Body trembling with want. Ryland. Ryland. Ryland. You bite down on your lip, feeling a sharp sting and the taste of blood in your mouth.

Hands. So strong. So certain when helping you into your EVA suit. Long fingers typing collected data into Mary’s database.

Nose. Crooked but pretty. Always sporting his golden glasses, never pushed up all the way. God the way he looks over the rims at you.

Voice. So soft spoken. Never raised it at you. Calm. Collected. Guiding in a way you didn't know you needed.

“No, back up, back up. There. Good.” Showing you how to read the map for your route to Tau Ceti.

“Could use another set of eyes on this.” Asking for your help with a calculation. “Use that pretty head of yours.” And when you solved it, “Knew you could do it. Smart girl.”

Good god. Your eyes roll in your head, a whimper escaping as you thump against the table. What time was it? How long had you been out of it? Yeah, this definitely was not normal pollen.

“Ryland?” you call out, voice wavering.

It's quiet for a few moments.

“Dr. Ryland Grace, your presence is requested in the contamination room,” Mary chimes.

“No, that's okay Mary-,” you blurt out, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Dr. Ryland Grace-.”

“Enough Mary!” you yelp, shutting down the command again.

Ryland enters a few moments later, looking disheveled. He’s halfway in and halfway out of a shirt, arms scrambling through the sleeve holes and pulling it over his head. Your mouth goes dry, and it takes everything in you to keep it closed.

“Sorry,” he pants. “Was trying to get a quick shower in.”

You can't help but stare, his hair is still wet, curling messily over his forehead. Those dammed glasses he has still have residual fog from the steam of the water.

“Everything okay?” he asks softly, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt.

“I don't think this is a normal pollen,” you whisper.

“Well, yeah,” he laughs warmly. “We’re in space. Gonna be a little different.”

“N-No I mean-” you start, body trembling as you grip the edge of the table.

Ryland’s brows furrow in confusion, watching you closely.

“Go on,” he encourages, full attention on you.

God. Damn. It.

“You can't say stuff like that,” you laugh exasperatedly, throwing your hands up to cover your face.

“What do you mean?” Ryland says, a hint of concern in his voice.

“I think the pollen is some sort of aphrodisiac,” you blurt out, twisting your hands anxiously.

Grace looks at you, stunned. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, sputtering on choice of words and air.

“Let me check the stain again,” he says eventually, words surprisingly level-headed with the new information.

“Fuck the stain!” you cry out. “Every single symptom I’m having points to it.”

“I-,” Grace starts.

You feel tears of frustration spring up in your eyes, spilling hotly down your cheeks.

“I didn't think- why didn't I catch that?” he mumbles to himself.

He looks over the list again, timestamps he wrote over the course of the day.

“I didn't tell you everything,” you sigh, slumping forward in resignation.

“Why?” he says, voice sounding hurt. “We’re supposed to work on this together. Do you not trust me?”

“Of course I do,” you pant out. “But this-this will ruin everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s an obligation. I don't want you to feel obligated to help me.”

“You know that's not-” he starts, shifting his weight on his feet and looking up at the ceiling. “I would do anything for you. Y’know that right?”

Your eyes land on him, tears welling up again.

“You’re all I have. You're important to me. This is important,” he says lowly, stepping towards you.

“Ryland-.”

“And I want to help. Please tell me what I need to do.”

He places a hand on the plexiglass, tapping his fingers in a soft rhythm.

“Just- be here with me,” you breathe out. “Just got to wait it out, right?”

“Right,” he nods.

At hour eleven, things took a turn for the worse. Your brain becomes clouded, the only thoughts you could focus on were as dark as sin. It took everything to keep your mouth closed, whimpers slipping through your crumbling resolve.

“Breathe,” Ryland encourages, tapping the glass to get your attention.

A long whine escapes your throat, crawling up faster than the embarrassment of the whole thing.

“Ryland-” you cry softly. “I can't.”

“C’mon, in…two…three…Hold,” he instructs. “Out…two…three. Breathe with me.”

You attempt to listen, lungs shuddering with jagged breaths. Tears blur your vision, your body burns with want. Your hips lift off the table, searching for any type of relief.

“Fuck it,” you hear him huff, and then the depressurization of the quarantine lock hisses.

“What are you-?” you gasp out, backing up as far as you can on the table.

“I can't just sit here and watch you go through this. What if this alters your brain? Let me help,” Ryland says.

“I can't-,” you shake your head, grasping onto the reality of the situation.

“I’m offering. Take the branch.”

You look at him then. Really look at him. There's certainty written all over his face. His eyes, locked on you - wait for an answer.

“The pollen,” you breathe, “won’t it affect you too?”

“Won’t know until we know.”

“You communicate with me,” you bargain. “On anything, okay?”

“Okay,” he compromises.

You nod and he steps forward, long fingers encircling your ankle. His touch feels like cold water, stinging your overheated skin. Relief. Ryland pulls you gently to him, your legs on either side of his slim waist. His left hand traces swirling patterns onto the soft skin at your knee, while the other brushes your sweaty hair from your forehead.

“Poor thing,” he whispers, giving your knee a soft squeeze. “Got a few ideas. Gonna stay with me?”

You nod fervently.

“Words. Use your words.”

God bless.

“Ye-es,” you whine, his voice already unraveling you.

“Let me know if it's too much.”

“Okay.”

Ryland moves slowly, like you’re made of glass. Delicate. His thumb brushes across your cheek as he leans forward, capturing your lips in a kiss. You gasp softly, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside. You feel your body tense and then relax, allowing him to explore your mouth.

His left hand slides up your thigh, squeezing at the fat there, each touch soothing for only a moment.

“Please,” you beg against his mouth. “More. Touch me more.”

He tilts your jaw up and to the side, placing wet kisses down and under your ear. A sharp nip to your sweet spot has your stomach doing somersaults. You grasp at his bicep, fingers curling around the taut muscle. His weight rests on his one arm, the other is placed on the side of your neck, fingers resting against the skin.

“Interesting,” he murmurs against your pulse point, nose brushing up against your jaw.

You shudder at the vibrations against your throat, squeezing your thighs against his hips.

“Are you experimenting on me?” you gasp softly.

Ryland hums.

“Maybe.”

Smug bastard.

He nips at your pulse point again, reveling in the soft noises falling from your lips. Your body arches against him on its own accord, needing to be closer.

“You would like this,” you scoff, no heat behind your words.

Ryland’s large hand lands on your hip, squeezing as he whispers in your ear,

“Guilty.”

Your eyes roll again at the sheer honestly of it, his want for you unwarranted.

“And you like the sound of my voice,” he states, smiling against your skin.

“I-,” you flush, skin burning at his observation.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

Why of all times, now he decides to be smug, you’ll never know. Maybe the pollen was affecting him too. Ryland’s lips part, placing hot open-mouthed kisses down your neck, stopping at the paper gown.

“Didn’t answer me.”

Your stomach flips again as you drag in a shuddering breath. Dizzy with want, you try to focus and remember what he even said. Thoughts fully focused on not having enough of him.

“Losing train of thought here,” you whine. “Overstimulating.”

“Lie back,” he says, pushing your shoulder gently.

You rest back on your elbows.

“What’re you-?” you start to ask, brows furrowing and mouth going slack as he pulls your thighs to rest on his shoulders.

“Trust me?” he asks, peering over his glasses.

Those god damned glasses.

You nod, eyes wide as he pushes the paper gown up to your hips, exposing cool air to your quivering lower half.

“Ryland-” you start.

“Testing a hypothesis,” he says, eyes focused on your spread legs. “You’re soaked.”

His breath comes out punched, the sight of you splayed on the table going straight to his cock. Ryland pulls your hips up, up, up, before pressing his tongue flat against your soppy folds.

“Oh fu-uck-” you choke, throat clicking as you gasp.

You watch his eyes flutter closed and you feel him moan against your core. His tongue glides slowly through, searing the taste of you to memory. Your fingers slide into his messy hair, gripping the strands in a way to keep yourself semi-composed.

He’s relentless, chasing your bucking hips as you grind against his face. The stubble on his face burns deliciously, rubbing the soft skin of your thighs. Your stomach pulls taut, legs trembling as he circles your clit in rapid succession.

Ryland makes a mess out of you, your slick coating his chin and dripping on the table below.

“God-,” you gasp, legs kicking out in a futile attempt to get closer? back away?

You’re not even remotely sure, lost in the pleasure burning through your spine.

“Gonna-” you warn.

“Come,” he groans against your pussy while pressing kisses against your folds.

It comes fast and hard, pleasure rippling through your body and ending in your fingertips. You gasp, lungs stuttering as you writhe. Ryland guides you through it, slow licks and pets to your side as you come down.

Body trembling, you blink your eyelids, not having realized that they had closed. Your fingers are tight in his hair, fingers cramping. You release them slowly, patting Ryland’s cheek to let him know you were alright.

“Jesus-” you laugh, the burning hot feeling slowly residing to a warm pulse under your skin.

“Hypothesis confirmed,” Ryland grins. “I know how to fix this.”

“How?” you ask, playing along.

You know the answer too.

You take his fingers next. They're long and thick when they press against your walls.

“Fu-uck, Ry-,” you pant out, lids heavy as he curls them up towards your spongey spot.

“Yeah,” he pants softly. “Good, isn’t it?”

You nod, eyes focused on his lips. He leans down and kisses you again, pulling his fingers back and thrusting them back inside as he bites down on your lip.

That tears a groan from your throat, crawling up unabashedly and swallowed by the man above you. He’s panting into your mouth, thumb rubbing against your clit.

“C’mon,” he praises. “You got another in you.”

You clench around his fingers, whimpering at his words.

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, almost there.”

Fuuuuuck.

You feel the second one coming, nerves bunching tightly in your core before sending your limbs into a trembling fit. Pleasure burns at the base of your spine, hips twitching with the aftershocks.

“Ohmygod,” you sob, Ryland’s fingers milking every last drop of pleasure from you.

Your chest heaves as you cry, relief settling in your body before starting a slow simmer again. Insatiable. Utterly insatiable.

“There we go. Good girl,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Your eyes flutter closed, whining as he pulls his fingers out. You feel your hole flutter, slick dripping down your thighs.

“Messy girl,” he admonishes, swiping through your folds and bringing his fingers to your lips. “Open.”

You oblige, letting the pads of his fingers rest on your tongue. You taste sweet, the sweat on his fingers triggering your saliva. The two of you stay like that for a moment, sharing breaths, fingers resting in your mouth. You lick them clean. You’re exhausted, body and mind in a post-orgasm haze.

“Check in,” Ryland says as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, tapping your cheek twice. “How’re we doing?”

“Good,” you breathe.

“Good,” he mimics back.

You take in the sight of him. Glasses fogged, eyes dark as sin. He’s got a pretty flush, cheeks and the tips of his ears red.

“Pretty,” you murmur.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“One more,” he coaxes. “Give me one more?”

You whine softly and he pets your side.

“Promise.”

“O-kay,” you say, pleasure fogging your thinking.

Ryland steps back for a moment, pulling his shirt over his head and letting it drop to the floor. He’s gorgeous. Tanned skin, lean physique - all muscle. Pretty little happy trail leading into his sweatpants. Your mouth waters at the sight. He shimmies his sweatpants down to his thighs, the tip of his cock peaking out.

Red and swollen, the head slick with precome. He palms himself over his boxers for a moment before pushing those down too. It bobs up against his stomach, resting against a bed of soft curls.

“Don’t know what you do to me,” he sighs, stepping forward and placing one of your legs on his broad shoulders.

He slides the swollen head through your folds, the tip catching on your entrance. You’re already soaked, and he’s able to slide in with no restraint.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, eyebrows furrowing in pleasure.

Ryland inches slowly, pushing down on your abdomen to feel himself fill you up.

“Incredible,” he muses, slowly pulling back and thrusting back in.

His gaze is fixed on where your bodies meet. Your skin burns against his own, finding reprieve the closer you are. You’re so fucking full, dumb on his cock as he opens you up. It’s overwhelming and not enough. You clench around his length, loving the way his hips stutter.

“Harder,” you beg. “Please Ry.”

Ryland glances at you over his glasses, a quick look of confirmation and his hips slap against your ass. He griiiiinds against your clit, cock tilted perfectly against your cervix.

“Mmmm- fuck,” you moan. “Right there. Right there.”

He does it again, praise encouraging him. One deep stroke and a slow grind, breaking your body open and putting it back together again. He presses his forehead to your calf, breath shuddering with each thrust. Devastatingly observing every breath, every gasp, every whimper as you come undone. Your hands grab at him, any expanse of skin you can touch. Crescents from your nails left behind. Ryland’s kisses burn into your skin, branding you as his.

He’s divine - a sight painted in full Renaissance above you. Lids heavy, pink lips parted and panting, a slight sheen of sweat on his skin. You want to taste it. His eyes glimmer mischievously, hand snaking between the two of you to rest on your throat. A placeholder.

A hum of appreciation leaves your mouth, mixing with the sounds of skin meeting and parting over and over again. Ryland’s other hand rests on your torso, fingers splayed over your ribs.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, rolling his hips languidly against your own.

Your vision blurs, overwhelmed. You choke out a moan, orgasm punching the breath from your lungs. It’s sudden, causing your walls to flutter around his cock. Ryland’s hips stutter again, tight heat pulling him near the precipice of his own pleasure.

“Not gonna last,” he laughs, the airy noise turning into a moan.

“Inside,” you plead.

“Y’sure?” he asks, words fumbled due to pleasure.

You nod.

“Words. I need words.”

“Yes. Ryland god please yes,” you ramble, arching your hips up to meet his own.

“Fucking Christ,” he gasps, hips stuttering for a moment before stilling, warm release coating your walls.

The warmth beneath your skin dissipates and you cry in relief. Ryland slumps against your chest, the weight of him pleasant on your spent body. It’s quiet for a moment, your breathing cycling with each other up, mirror systems regulating.

“Thank you,” you say, running a hand through his hair, it’s damp with sweat.

“You’re welcome,” he breathes, swirling patterns into your side.

Another quiet moment.

“So-,” he starts.

“So?” you question.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Much much better.”

“Good,” he says.

“You?”

“Very good.”

You laugh.

“Thanks for not letting me die.”

“Thanks for trusting me.”

“Always, Ryland. Always.”

tw: mentions of past trauma, simon having a hard time, awareness of body?, mentions of death, suicidal ideation, i felt like writing angst ooof.

the unforgiving pass of time reminding him how long it has been since … that.

that being the unspoken event Simon refuses to acknowledge. barred deep inside. pushed so far down, the remnants press against his ribcage. it crawls up the closer it gets, inching it's way up until it presses in the back of his throat.

squeezing the muscles tight, making it hard to catch a good lungful of air. has to remind himself to take deep, slow breaths. calculated. doesn’t want to hyperventilate. he’s good at keeping busy. counts his teeth with his tongue. he has 26. permanent spaces a result of information being withheld.

somewhat decent enough to leave his canines. wanted to mold him into something feral, broken down and built back into a killing machine. and what a damn good one he was. bones broken, repositioned, calibrated to perfection. accurate strikes to his targets every. single. time. he remembered them though. the ones lucky enough to leave this plane of existence.

wishes he was one of them.

christmas was once one of his favorite times of the year. for one day, everyone pretended to be normal. get together as a nuclear family and enjoy each others company. his mum would sneak their stockings to them the night before, chocolate slipped between his teeth before bedtime.

the saccharine remnants coating his tongue, smile on his face as he locked his lips tight, never to tell of their transgressions. it was something his mum, Tommy, and himself shared. a memory so far away, the chocolate now remembered as bitter.

simon had no one to go home to. flat empty, no meaningful things set out, because he had none. didn’t want to give anyone the chance of taking anything from him again. he’s given enough.

his teeth. his identity. his body, full of scars. skin no longer a part of him. ripped by unforgiving metal, each slice reducing him by a minuscule amount. bullet wounds and burns marring his skin to a keloided mass. suffocating at times, simon wanted out.

broken bones reset again and again. always pushing forward. a good soldier, up and at ‘em as soon as he was called upon. that was one thing he was good at. doing what he was told. obedient. pliable. nothing tethering him down. not anymore.

couldn’t even remember his mum’s voice. a whisper of almost there, but not quite. he believes he dreams of her sometimes, but her voice isn’t quite right, subconscious filling in for where his neurons can’t connect the dots in waking moments.

eats at him. down to the bone. gut twinging heavy with guilt. the days count closer. shoulders squeeze tighter, his heart thumps faster, wild against a cracked cage. could escape at any moment, if he’d let it.

he’s tired. when it’s all said and done. being half-alive is exhausting. living between worlds, determining how to maneuver both. a hard task, one he’s had to learn on his own.

always on his own. comfort in the solitude, backed in the corner and snapping at any hand who happens to pass by. doesn’t know any better, poor thing. left for dead. crawled out of his own grave. died that night but somehow still survived. not quite back into his body, constantly floating above or around it.

a ghost of his former self.

good riddance.

wasn’t amounting to anything well off anyways. least he could do was give up his old life. everything shattering around him to reveal the new one. wasn’t sure if this was an acclivity or a test from god himself. testing to see how far the man’s body could break and bend. a cruel dance of revival and reanimation.

“you’ve been through a lot,” his therapist reminds. “this isn’t going to be easy.”

honestly getting stabbed between the 5th and 6th ribs was easier than this ever was. opening up, especially to someone always meant death for him. simon had spent years running from his problems. now that he was getting older, he didn’t have the stamina he once did. was getting slower, slices at his achilles limiting him more and more.

he was nearly crawling now. still fighting like hell instead of surrendering. surrendering meant giving up - and he wasn’t ready quite yet. couldn’t face the man in the mirror. dark eyes the only remnant he allowed himself to see. scarred face, ripped apart and sewn back together hidden behind a mask. physical. safe.

his therapist didn’t mind.

it infuriated him. how patient she was. never raised her voice or accused him in that tone his dad always used. she was gentle, soft spoken. always coaxing him out of the corner. hand outstretched, letting him come to her. he had the control. too much control.

dug into his palms and left red indentations into the flesh. blood draining and pooling within the divots. ached. begged to be let go. like simon did when therapy was mandated.

but he couldn’t just yet. what if something went bad? what if he was found again, everything ripped from him again? he can’t bear anymore loss. his identity the main fragment, lost in the abyss of the long forgotten. occasionally coming out at moments of intense terror.

he’s a boy again. eyes wide and breathing rapid. tense, fists tight against his sides. nails pressing into the flesh, leaving crescents in their wake.

simon envied the moon. the ever changing faces she presented. able to transform - thin sharp crescents, a yin-yang of darkness, full and in view-scars and all to see, and completely covert.

he isn’t sure what face he carries. anonymous. no consideration of recognition. likes it that way. no family to comment on how much he’s changed in the past year. no comments on his body, his scars, his missing teeth. still has 26. no small talk of day to day things. painfully boring. numbing to the skull.

silence. simon enjoys silence.

home in his entryway - triple checking to make sure that the door is locked. next is his boots - pressed against the flat of the wall, leather shining and toes facing him. can almost see the salute. his clock chimes from the hallway, reminding him of bedtime. he always goes to bed early tonight. skips his trazadone dose and climbs into bed.

doesn’t want to push his nightmares away tonight. tonight he wants the chance to hear his mum. tommy.

idk what this is but i had to write it down lmao

lots of dialogue yippeeee

a bit longer than normal, tension is thiiiiick

you and ghost had placed a bet.

a few weeks previous, the two of you on an op, holed up in a flimsy shack on the side of a mountain. nothing fucking better to do.

temps below freezing, forced to be huddled together to keep warm, despite the military grade weather gear. waiting on the word from price, imagination’s running wild.

you’d been up there for 17 hours. stoking the fire, silently debriefing, catching up on intel notes, cleaning your weapons. repetition, keeping a routine.

ghost didn’t speak for the first 12. quiet guy. nearly scared you to death when he finally did say something.

“worst than soap,” he grumbles.

“christ!” you shout, jumping nearly a foot in the air.

“easy, bird,” ghost says with a bit of humor in his voice.

“oh now he speaks,” you huff, pulse hammering in your ears.

“drivin’ me mad. sit still sergeant,” he orders, not looking up from his papers.

“sir,” you nod, sitting back down into your chair.

it’s silent for a moment. you look around the small room, your hands on your knees, trying to relax.

you can’t.

your foot starts tapping, nerves causing you unease. ghost huffs through his nose, irritation clear in his body language.

“sorry sir,” you squeak. “nervous.”

“about?” he asks, extending an olive branch.

“what if the fire goes out?”

“got plenty of wood,” he deadpans. “matches.”

“what if our radios die? it’s been 12 hours.”

“you packed y'bag, yeah?”

“yes,” you say sullenly.

“you forget batteries?” he looks up at you, raising an eyebrow.

“maybeee,” you squeeze out, face sheepish.

“guess you’re outta luck,” he states.

“what, you’d leave me out here? to freeze?!”

“highly considering it.”

you huff, a little offended.

“not my fault you didn’t prepare.”

“i didn’t think we’d be out here this long! price said 6 hours at the most.”

“your fault you believed him,” he huffs. “now be quiet.”

you frown. ghost thinks you’re an idiot. you’re not, you were just following orders. none of your missions had been long, price testing you in the field as you were fairly newer to the team. still, you have a few years of experience under your belt. joke’s on you, right? god forbid someone actually take instructions literally.

the silence fills again, stuffy. there’s the sound of the wind and crackling of fire, but that’s pretty much it. occasionally ghost would flip a page, you didn’t dare make a noise.

pride hurt, you fill tears well up in your eyes and turn your head. you act like you’re checking on the fire, trying to be as quiet as possible. it’s suffocating.

you last about an hour, much to ghost's dismay.

“what about an avalanche?” you question.

he laughs at that. genuinely laughs. you feel your cheeks heat.

"tha's what you've been thinkin' about this whole time?"

"no," you shrug. "just happened to pop up."

"i don' think we're gonna deal with an avalanche, quit your worryin," ghost sighs.

"you ever worry, sir?" you ask.

"worry that i may never have silence again," he semi-jokes.

sees your frown and rolls his eyes.

"lighten up, bird. jus' jokin' with ya. of course i worry. s'good to worry. means you're alert - smart."

you nod in agreeance, fiddling with your gloves.

"apologies again sir."

"no apologizin'. 'm sorry, used to being alone's all."

his voice is sincere, gaze softening slightly as he looks at you. it's hard to meet his eyes, they're dark - certain. scares you a bit. you take a deep breath, gathering the courage to look, but by the time you do, he's looking elsewhere. it's awkward for a moment, another silence filling the void as there isn't much to talk about.

what would you even talk about? two completely different people. two completely different lives. ghost - much older than you - more experience. you're a baby to him. soft.

"soo..." you begin. "you goin' to the christmas party when we get back?"

ghost laughs again, a soft huff through his mask.

"probably not."

"why?" you ask, glancing over at him.

he's looking at you again. your stomach flips.

what was that?

"don't fancy christmas all too well."

"me either."

"why'd y'ask?" he questions.

you hum indifference, shrugging.

"you're odd," he blurts out.

"what do you mean?" you ask.

"can't get a read on ya."

"that good or bad?"

"can't tell yet," ghost sighs, fiddling with a strap on his vest.

"looks like we've got some time, see if you can figure me out," you grin, turning in your chair and giving him your full attention.

you talk for a few hours more or less. you'd almost consider it a date, if it wasn't for the reminder that you were out in the middle of nowhere. the sun had gone down, and your chairs had somehow inched closer. fire crackling along the dry log you had just placed over it.

"eldest," ghost hums.

"what?" you ask, zoning back into the conversation.

"'re the eldest. can definitely tell that one."

"what gave it away?"

"y'kidding? perfectionist. self-critical. rule-follower."

your cheeks burn again; furious that he can read you like a book.

"you said you couldn't get a read on me," you say, squinting your eyes at him.

"'m picking up the more we talk," he says, voice soft.

"i can't read you."

"good."

"that's not good. you picked that up from small conversation but i've got nothing," you pout, almost childishly.

"not payin' attention. 've given you plenty," he barters.

"like what?"

"think back for a moment."

you huff, thinking through your conversation. which is really difficult when his eyes are on you. you can't think straight, thinking of his voice - the way his octave sounds - deep, but nonchalant. it's infuriating.

it's hot in the shack now. you feel sweat drip down your back. not sure if it's one hundred percent of the fire's doing. ghost's eyes rest on you, gaze unblinking.

"we've talked about a lot of things," you finally say, a half-attempt to turn the direction of the conversation.

"mhm," he agrees.

ball's back in your court. fuck.

you meet his eyes. watching the flames of fire flicker in them. all thoughts out the metaphorical window. you sigh, defeated.

"guess i wasn't."

"wasn't what?"

"paying attention."

ghost laughs again.

it's past midnight, your eyes are drooping. ghost notices. always does. always on alert.

"should sleep," he says.

"not tired," you argue.

"beg to differ." there's a hint of a smile in his voice.

you stifle a yawn.

"how about we make a bet?" you ask, sitting up to get yourself alert again.

"a bet?" he questions, intrigued.

"yeah, a bet."

ghost raises an eyebrow, the movement of his balaclava indicating so.

"going back to the avalanche," you start.

"dear god," he groans. "really?"

"yes." you state, matter of fact. "possibility's not entirely zero. if there is an avalanche - and we survive - you have to come to the christmas party."

"what kind of fuckin' bet is that?" he asks incredulously. "no chance you're winnin'."

"aaaand," you add. "you have to dress up as santa."

"santa?"

"yes," you nod. "i think you'd be perfect."

your cheeks burn as the words slip out of your mouth. tired brain trying to catch up.

"y've gone mad."

"nah."

"get some shut-eye sergeant."

rule follower - you do.

turns out, you weren't completely mad. there was - in fact - an avalanche. and currently, ghost and you were trying to get out of said avalanche.

it wasn't catastrophic, around a category 2. manageable but unpleasant. your radio had died two hours ago. ghost's on its last pack. 17 hours dragged into 25, the snow piling against the door, packed tight and heavy.

the rumbling sound of cascading snow had woken you up - eyes burning from only a couple hours of sleep.

“no fuckin’ way,” ghost breathed out.

your brain wasn't fully awake yet, brows furrowing at the cacophony of noise.

"what's going on?"

"a bloody avalanche," he grits out.

no. way. you feel a grin spread out on your face.

"are you fuckin' grinnin'?” he asks, eyes wide.

"guess christmas wishes do come true," you say, laugh evident in your voice.

it took almost another half day to get out. you and ghost were radio silent, hiking up the mountain to try and get a better vantage point. the shack was snowed in, and you had to bust a window out to escape.

ghost had hoisted you up on his shoulder, pushing you up and through the window before climbing out after you. it was fucking freezing, at least below -20. you were exhausted, hiking a few hours in the cold used most of your energy.

ghost was getting agitated, you could hear through his breaths, see the tension in his shoulders. the snow was blinding, glittering crystals making it hard to see. but you couldn’t deny how beautiful it was.

on the side of a mountain, alone except for your Lieutenant. no contact with the outside world.

“L.T,” you huffed out. “wait up!”

you trudged forward, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

“keep up, not waitin’ for you,” he barks out, not turning around.

he’s gone cold again, fully focused on the mission. you bite the inside of your cheek and sprint to catch up. it’s painstaking work, you’re freezing but sweating at the same time, pack heavy on your back. by mid morning you make it to the top, legs wobbly and chest heaving. you bent over, hands on your knees to try and catch your breath.

“we making it out?” you ask, winded.

“don’t know sergeant,” ghost replies coolly.

doesn’t even sound like he’s out of breath. bastard.

“i’m sorry,” you pant.

“stop apologizin,” he says, finally turning to face you.

“i caused the avalanche.”

he huffs a laugh.

“didn’t cause the avalanche.”

“feels like it,” you sigh.

he doesn’t comment at that, looking around and reaching for his earpiece. it’s covered in frost, and he cups it in his hands to try and thaw it. it’s quiet for another moment. and you take a second to look at him.

he’s beautiful. dark eyes sharp in the overwhelming white. his lashes are tinged the same color, full of frost. your teeth are starting to chatter. you close your eyes, the frost burning your face. you take a deep breath, imagining somewhere warm. the headpiece starts to crackle, somehow having a little juice left.

“price, how copy?” ghost speaks into the headpiece.

silence. except static.

“price?”

you nearly give up hope. ghost reaches out periodically and your breath catches every time - anticipation making your stomach queasy.

you don’t know how long the battery is going to last. it gets used sparingly each time. the sun is starting to set, the real chill rolling in. your face is numb, the feeling of pins and needles long gone. you stay as close as you can to ghost, trying to leach warmth without overstepping. you haven’t moved much in the past few hours. staying put in case price may have heard you.

tasked yourself with picking up some kindling to start a fire. everything’s wet though. tough to ignite.

“i’d kill for a hot chocolate right now,” you sigh, words sounding a bit funny due to your lips being frozen.

ghost doesn’t really respond, sitting down next to you, arms resting on his knees.

“hey, if we make it back, i’ll have to let you try my recipe. it’s killer.”

“is it now?” he asks, finally looking over at you.

“mhmm. secret ingredients.”

“what’re they?”

“can’t say. top secret.”

"jus' sayin' that cause it's bad."

"is not!" you exclaim.

"think the top secret is tha' it's store bought."

you feel your cheeks flare; he's riling you up on purpose.

"you bastard. always riling someone up aren't you?"

he just shrugs.

"guilty. bet it's delicious. would love a cup right now."

you smile for a moment, feeling it falter after the realization sets in. you're far from home, slowly freezing due to weather exposure. alone on a mountain with no way out.

"ghost?" you ask meekly.

"hm?"

"are we going to make it back home?"

his gaze is fierce, eyes holding uncertainty. it makes you uneasy.

"don't know."

the words scare you. there's no finality, scales not tipping one way or the other. you like certainty. hell, most people do. but one thing is for certain, if you're not collected soon, you will certainly freeze to death.

you've managed to get a small fire going, despite the environment. thank god you packed a flint striker. the sun has gone down, and your fingers have stopped hurting. ghost and you are huddled together, bracing the weather. you're sat in between his legs, his large frame sheltering you from most of the wind. the trees help a bit, but not much.

this is survival. you tell yourself. don't think about him pressed against your back. you're trying not to freeze to death for fuck's sake. his arms are wrapped around your torso, chin resting on your shoulder. his grip tightens when the wind starts to blow again, snow shimmering around the two of you.

you don't talk much, trying to conserve energy. he's warm against your back, and you know he's cold. taking a lot of the chill so you don't have to.

"thank you," you whisper, teeth chattering.

takes him a moment to respond. deep breath in and out, breath fogging in the air.

"for?"

"keeping me warm."

"likewise," he grunts out.

you don't know how, but you doze off. it's 0312 when you wake again, eyelashes sticking to your face, painful as you blink them open. ghost's trying the headpiece again.

"price?

"this is bravo 0-7. how copy?"

static.

"fuck," he curses.

"bravo 0-7?" the headpiece crackles, voice warbling in and out.

"PRICE?" you exclaim.

ghost's eyes go wide.

"copy. price. get us the fuck out of here."

static again.

"heli-,"

your brows furrow in confusion.

"what?"

"shh," ghost shushes.

"heli."

static.

static.

"in route."

"oh thank fucking christ," you sigh, leaning back against ghost, your head bumping his clavicle.

he squeezes your side, a sigh of relief falling from his lips. a shiver runs down your spine, but not from the cold.

it takes two more hours for the heli to find you, but once you're up in the air, you truly relax. the humming of the small craft nearly lulls you to sleep. completely worn out.

you doze in and out. ghost right by your side. he's not sleeping every time you wake, eyes focused on the ground. occasionally he'll radio to price, relaying information about what had happened. filling out the paperwork so it doesn't have to be done later.

your fingers and toes burn once they start to warm up, causing you to fidget. you try your best to stay still, knowing ghost would most likely be irritated.

the ride back to base is over before you know it. morning blurring by as you are whisked to medical and every inch of your body checked over for frostbite. you're exhausted by the time you're done. clean bill of health, blanket wrapped around your shoulders as you slowly walk to your room.

all you want to do is collapse. your fingers struggle for a moment with the keys, dropping them once before you get them in the lock. when you open the door, ghost is there, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

"fucking christ, L.T.," you shriek, blanket falling along with your keys.

he blinks at you, eyes dropping to your fallen items.

"dropped something."

your eyes go wild for a second (the fucking audacity).

"no shit," you grumble, bending down to retrieve them.

"what are you doing here?"

"fancied a cup of y'famous hot chocolate."

"oh," you blush.

"are there rules to this santa thing?" he asks, mug of hot chocolate steaming between his large hands.

you rest yours on your knee, looking off as you think.

"no. just have to be santa."

"jus' santa?

"mhm," you hum, taking a sip of your drink.

you and ghost are huddled close, you on the bed - him in your vanity chair. it creaks when he adjusts his weight.

"you really gonna do it?" you ask, small smile on your face.

he sighs, lifting his mask up slightly to take a sip.

"s'good," he hums, licking his lips.

you try not to stare. pink tongue coming out to catch the cream of the marshmallows.

"thank you."

"guess i have to, yeah? bloody avalanche and all."

he looks at you, a glimmer in his eyes. they're pretty. hazel now that he's relaxed. he looks funny in your room, like he shouldn't be there. but he is. and enjoying your hot chocolate.

"yeah, guess you do," you laugh softly.

you don't see him much for the next week and half. a flurry of paperwork, short missions, and party planning preventing you from seeing him. you'd gotten roped into decorating, and somehow someone asked about your hot chocolate - wanting you to bring it to the party (don't know how that one got out).

before you knew it, it was christmas eve. party starting at 1800. despite your nerves, you got ready anyways, wearing a soft knit sweater and little jingle bell earrings. your hot chocolate was ready to go in the kitchen, the aroma of marshmallows and cocoa filling the air. the tinsel you had hung twinkled, lights from the christmas tree reflecting off of it.

you milled around, chatting with a few that stayed on base for the holiday. plenty of reasons why they'd stay. you'd come to enjoy their company, finding a little family of your own to spend the holidays with. it was hard going home the longer you were away, so you usually opted to stay put. busying yourself through the holidays pushed away the guilt.

price, johnny and gaz showed to your surprise, figuring they would go home for the holidays. you made them all a cup of cocoa, adding extra marshmallows for johnny.

"delicious, love," price compliments, eyes crinkling as he takes a sip.

gaz and johnny nod their agreements, johnny going for a second cup before you know it. it makes your chest swell with pride, small smile on your face.

a few people had done secret santa this year, and you watched as they opened gifts.

"you goin' home for christmas?" gaz asks, bumping a shoulder against your own as he stands beside you.

you shake your head, arms crossed as you bump his back.

"no," you murmur softy. "you?"

"yeah, headin' out tomorrow. soap too."

"i'm guessing price is staying?" you ask, looking over at gaz.

he looks happy, small smile on his face as he looks back over at you.

"mhm, ghost too."

"speaking of, have you seen him?"

"no. not here lately. never know where he's run off to."

you feel a frown tug your lips down, doing your best to hide it.

"not a fan of christmas," gaz explains.

you nod, taking a sip of your drink and sputtering. the taste of alcohol burning your throat. gaz's eyes widen in surprise as you turn around, glaring at the culprit.

"johnny!" you yell. "did you spike my drink?!"

he laughs, face already red and eyelids heavy.

"merry christmas!"

you shake your head, laughing softly. price mimics you, leaning against the wall, always watching.

"crazy bastard," you sigh.

at some point a movie is put on, and the warmth of the hot chocolate (and alcohol thanks johnny) sits warm in your belly. you're cozied up on the rec couch, chin in your palm as you watch. gaz and johnny are playing clue, prize is dozing on the couch, and the others are still milling about - eating, laughing, sharing stories.

it's warm. and that's one thing you're appreciative of this year. warmth. after being stuck in the cold, you've grown to appreciate it. seems like it was a lifetime ago, stuck up in the mountains. talking with ghost. sharing stories, getting to know each other. knees nearly touching with how close you were.

braving the cold after the freak accident. his hand around your waist, holding you close - warmth seeping into your back. you shiver, taking another sip of your spiked cocoa. your eyelids grow heavy, a sigh leaving your lips.

"well i'll be damned," you hear gaz murmur, and the rec room goes silent.

your brows furrow, and you push up on your elbow, turning around to see none other than ghost.

dressed up as santa.

you laugh. loudly. alcohol warming your cheeks and feel a huge grin on your face. he's standing in the doorway, not quite in yet. deciding if he wants to step in or not.

"this was the bet?" johnny asks, looking back at you. "dressed up as santy?"

you nod, watching ghost. you don't want to blink, almost afraid he may disappear. he's dressed as close to santa as he can be. dark red sweater that stretches deliciously across his shoulders. black tac pants and boots, along with the signature hat. he's opted for a black balaclava, sans grease paint.

your chest squeezes with emotion, the soft notion that he did this for you. he takes a step in, eyes focused on you as he does. his gaze is dark as always, but softer in the christmas light.

"you're late," you breathe, but there's no malice behind it.

"'m sorry," he murmurs, reaching out to brush his fingers across your cheek.

he lingers for a moment.

"lots of presents to deliver."

you laugh softly, shaking your head.

"stupid joke."

"call santa's joke's stupid and y'may end up on the naughty list."

"sorry, sir," you say, looking up at him.

his fingers twitch against your face.

"warm."

"mhm," you hum.

he inches closer, eyes glittering when he asks,

"y'gonna tell santa what you want for christmas?"

soap beats you to it, not wanting to pass up the opportunity to make ghost's life living hell for a few minutes. he ends up shoving him off his lap after he tries giving him a wet willy.

"fuck off johnny," he huffs, giving a playful shove.

"och! santy's mean this year," he pouts.

"naughty list," ghost deadpans, eyes narrowing.

"what?! not fair," soap whines.

"totally fair. as 'm santa and all."

"whatever, 'm heading out. merry christmas, hen," soap says, squeezing you with a side hug.

"merry christmas johnny."

gaz and price leave eventually too. but not before sneaking a picture of ghost in his santa outfit. never going to let him live it down. hugs and wishes are exchanged, you waving goodbye as they head out. the party's died down, just the two of you. the air's thick, movie still playing on the background as you share the space on the couch.

the incandescent lights twinkle, giving the room a warm glow. ghost rests beside you, relaxed on the couch as he sips a hot chocolate. you're curled on the other side, feet nearly touching his hip, but mindful of the space.

"thank you," you murmur.

"for?"

"coming to the party. dressing up," you laugh lightly.

"yeah, yeah," ghost grumbles, but his eyes are scrunched in delight.

the presence of him is comforting. you've come to realize, he has a caring side. especially when you were out on that mountain. ghost cares about his people. made sure you made it back in one piece. he meets your eyes after a moment, unblinking as they flit around your face.

his gaze falls on your lips. ghost sets his mug down, reaching across the couch to rest his hand on your ankle. brushes his thumb against the bone. goosebumps erupt on your skin, a shiver running down your spine at his touch.

"ghost-," you start.

his hand twitches again, momentarily stopping as you speak.

"i know what i want for christmas," you breathe, inching closer.

"what's tha'?" he inquires, lids drooping as he looks at you.

you move then, crawling up the couch and sitting down in his lap. hips spread wide, calves on either side of his thighs. his hands rest by his sides, head resting on the back of the couch. ghost's eyes flicker, chest rising and falling languidly. you thank god for the liquid courage in your stomach, leaning down close to his ear and whispering,

"a kiss from santa."

"think i can manage," he grumbles, sliding a hand up your thigh.

long fingers wrap around your hip, other hand moving to push his balaclava up. he tugs you forward, surging up to press a kiss to your mouth. you gasp softly, his lips warm and soft. ghost's hand cups the side of your face, mouth opening to deepen the kiss.

he tastes sweet, sugar from his drink lingering on his lips. he moves slowly, languidly, in no rush to speed things up. content with the moment. your tongue brushes over his lip, resulting in a groan from him.

you pull away after a few minutes, desperately needing oxygen. resting your forehead against his. you're both breathing heavy, eyes shut as you share air.

"merry christmas, ghost," you whisper against his lips.

"merry christmas, love."

cw: shame, past-relationship trauma, simon being a lil shit

you think it’s shame. years of the “m” word being forced as an ugly thing. a sinful thing. ungodly.

doesn’t help that you’re horny. it’s biological.

you can override the shame for a merely five minutes, taking that time to justify getting yourself off. but it comes immediately back as soon as you’ve finished.

flushed hot and sweating, your orgasm quick and painful. just taking the edge off. that was normal for you. until you got with simon.

wouldn’t stand for it when he found out.

had the opportunity of coming home early to surprise you and indeed he did. walked in just as you were coming, hateful, fast, and full of self-hatred.

didn’t speak to him for two days after that. wouldn’t even look him in the eye after what happened.

“lovie,” he would try, only to have you clam up, shut down right in front of him.

you were convinced he was going to leave you. how dirty you were. getting off without him. sinful.

“y’always come like tha’?” he’d asked after a week of the non-spoken incident. “by y’self?”

you had choked on your water, lungs gasping for air as you felt your eyebrows shoot high up on your face.

he’d just waited, expectant. wanting an answer. no shying away now.

you’d mumbled something, not meeting his gaze.

“can’t hear ya, bird.”

“yes,” you grumble. “got a problem with it?”

“yes,” he stated, matter of fact. “‘sposed to enjoy it love, not rush.”

“my method works just fine,” you argued.

“beg to differ. let me try.”

“absolutely not.”

simon bugged you for weeks. any time he had a chance to mention it, he would. you’d turn him down every time.

got to the point where you weren’t even having sex, because you were so pissed at him you didn’t want to be intimate. he made it hard though, always leaving lingering touches, dark eyes watching you around the house.

but deep down you knew it was shame. embarrassment. and it was a touchy subject for you. it was eating at you. the way simon saw you, in a vulnerable state. but he had before, you’d had sex plenty of times. and it was good. too good honestly.

this time was different. you knew you were being silly. but couldn’t help but wallow a bit. the shame making you spiral into a mess. you’d had awhile to think on it, plenty time of isolating yourself away.

“dove,” simon called softly as he knocked on the door before coming in.

he started doing that after the non-spoken incident. it made your stomach churn in guilt, feeling awful about how he had accommodated you. not used to it quite yet.

“come in,” you called softly.

you were sitting on your bed, tv mindlessly playing in the background. simon appears in the doorway, taking up the bulk of it.

“hi dove,” he calls softly.

“hi si.”

“doin?”

“nothing,” you shrug.

“can i come sit?”

“sure.”

he steps into the room, the scent of his shower gel wafting to your nose. he’s still warm from the water, hair slightly wet. sits down beside you in bed, leaving a gap between you. shoulders almost touching but not quite.

handsome as ever, dark eyes watching you carefully. his face is relaxed, content. being here with you. his fingers twitch, wanting to reach out but giving you space.

“anything good?” he asks, gesturing to the tv.

“no,” you sigh, rolling your neck and looking at him.

“pretty,” he hums.

you feel your cheeks warm.

“my pretty dove.”

“si!” you laugh softly.

“‘s true.”

“mhm.”

simon’s fingers brush your knee, pad of this thumb catching against the fabric of your pants. it’s quiet for a moment, but not awkward. if anything, you can feel the tension building. weeks of no touching, your body betraying you.

you know what he’s doing. but can’t seem to tell him to stop.

“miss you,” he murmurs again, looking at you through his lashes.

his eyes are dark, full of want. you watch them shift, almost as if an idea pops into his head.

“please.”

it’s simple. soft spoken and uncharacteristically simon. his voice almost trembles, desire straining his vocal cords. your pussy throbs, unable to think straight when he sounds the way he does.

simon puts his weight on his knee, turning to where he rests overtop of you now. not crushing, caging. his hand slides from your knee to your waist, rests there as he looks at you. your heart’s hammering in your chest, breath stuttering at his touch.

“simon,” you try to warn, but your voice has gone thin.

he smirks, upper lip pulling up devilishly. bastard knows he’s got you. it’s been weeks, tension building up behind the scenes without you even noticing. you’re falling apart at just his hand on your waist.

simon leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple, lingers for a moment, inhaling the scent of your hair. trails down to the soft spot behind your ear, huffs a laugh when he feels the goosebumps erupt across your skin.

“get comfy, dove. gonna be here awhile,” he coos.

squeezes your side the same time he nips behind your ear, causing you to squeal. his shoulders are bouncing, restrained laughter threatening to fall from his lips.

“you’re fucking mean,” you pout.

“want me to be?” he offers nonchalantly, hand unfurling and sliding down your torso.

toys with the edge of your panties, fingers twitching against your skin.

“no,” you breathe, eyes nearly rolling up in your head.

he surprises you then, fingers of his left hand circling your wrist and placing your hand on top of his. your brow scrunches in confusion.

“keep ‘em there. gonna make y’feel good.”

you start to argue, fingers twitching as you almost pull them back. simon’s eyes meet your own, silencing. no questions to be asked. you let out a deep breath, a low moan resting in your throat as your joined hands dip under your panties.

simon presses firm pressure to your clit, resting there a moment before slowly starting to swirl his (your) fingers. you feel your thigh jump, pleasure shooting down your legs. you remind yourself to breathe, nearly hyperventilating with how thick the air is.

“nice and slow,” he reminds, keeping steady pressure and rhythm.

the pleasure ebbs and flows, and soon, you feel your body relax. your eyelids feel heavy, limbs tingling.

“there we go,” he coos. “good girl.”

you whine softly at the praise, lip wobbling. simon presses kisses to your neck, nose brushing by your ear each time. his breath is hot against your neck, the scent of him overwhelming. his pace never changes, slowly building you up to your orgasm.

a sheen of sweat builds on your skin, pooling at your back. your other hand rests by your side, fingers sliding against the cool sheets as your hips chase the pressure of his (your) fingers.

he slides them down through your folds for a moment, thick pads of his fingers collecting slick and teasing at your hole. barely dips them in before sliding them back up to your clit.

“s-si,” you whine, tears starting to form.

when did you start crying?

“yeah, doll?” he answers.

always there. always present for his girl. you feel your chest squeeze, pleasure burning hot in your belly as you come.

“oh fuck,” he groans softly. “you comin?”

you can’t respond, breath taken in a gasp. you writhe against his (your) fingers, milking the pleasure until your hips still.

“oh my god,” you reel, brain foggy with pleasure.

simon laughs. genuinely laughs. a gorgeous sound. he’s delighted. your cheeks burn, hair sticking to your face, legs tingling in a delicious way.

“good?” he hums, giddy with the state you are in.

“yes,” you whisper, eyes wide. “how did you?”

“know? i know my girl. know y’needed this.”

“you’re so fucking hot, you know that?”

“that’s the orgasm talkin’,” he laughs, capturing your lips in a kiss.

you get a sudden urge of confidence, biting his lip and pulling a groan from him.

“keep doing that and i’ll be singing,” you grin, fingers dancing at his waistband.

tw: somnophilia

no, not in a creepy way. (okay maybe a little creepy)

it’s on nights that he can’t fall asleep. too many thoughts or a nightmare preventing him. he’ll sit up on his elbow, rub the lack of sleep from his eyes, and rest his gaze on you.

loves watching your little micro expressions as you dream.

pouty lips partly open, eyes fluttering behind your closed lids.

sometimes you talk, stressing even as you’re unconscious. occasionally you’ll get a furrow in between your brow, and he’ll smooth it back with the pad of this thumb.

tonight was a bit different. you were quiet for awhile, face devoid of any ongoing emotions, placid. simon watched you, brushing the side of your face with his thumb. a soft hum fell from your lips, tilting your face against the crease of your shoulder. reaching for him even as you sleep.

his chest pulls tight.

you had shifted, expression changing into what simon thought was worry, your eyebrows furrowing up on your face, your teeth biting into your lower lip.

“what’re you dreamin’ about bird?” he whispered almost to himself.

an unmistakable sound fell from your lips.

a moan.

you were having a wet dream.

and simon-

simon was unable to keep his hands off of you.

already felt himself growing hard. (creep)

your thighs squeezed together, weight shifting as you tried to get comfortable.

“si-,” you sighed softly.

his eyes flickered over to your own, only to find them still closed. still asleep. simon slides his hand down the middle of your torso, lightly brushing between your breasts, watching as you arch into his touch.

his palm rests on your stomach for a moment, watching the rise and fall of your breaths even out. sound asleep. simon’s gaze flicks back up to your face again, watching your brows furrow as he slides his fingers into your panties.

you’re soaked.

“christ,” he mutters to himself.

presses the pads of his fingers onto your swollen pearl, slowly moving them in a circle.

your legs clamp together, squeezing his hand as the pleasure burns. another moan falling from your lips.

“easy, birdie,” he coaxes, voice somewhat reaching your unconscious mind.

your legs relax, allowing him to play with you again. hips jolting as he pats your clit.

simon’s rutting into the bed, hips moving on their own accord. cock harder than it’s ever been in his life. why has he never done this before?

he slides his fingers down even further, your hole basically sucking them in. the pads of his fingers prune, your arousal dripping down to his wrist.

must be one hell of a dream.

he thrusts his fingers into your cunt, relishing in the warm heat your body provides. you’re relaxed, more relaxed than you’ve ever been. his fingers slide right up to the second knuckle no problem.

simon bites on his free hand, a groan leaving his lips.

gonna be the death of him.

he curls his fingers slowly, stretching your walls - watching arousal drip down his hand. you’re soaking the bed. feels you clench around him when he hits your spongey spot.

simon’s nearly dizzy with pleasure. can feel his cock throb with every thrust. he’s gonna cream his pants like a fucking teenager.

comes to realize he doesn’t even care.

not with you beneath him, body pliant for him to take what he wants.

what. a. fucking. creep.

can’t help himself, needs to see you come. his pretty baby.

your brows furrow again, mouth drooped open as breathy moans fall from your lips. your breathing’s changed, rapid as the pleasure builds in your nerves.

“o-oh!” you gasp, simon’s fingers curling just right, his thumb circling your clit.

fucking beautiful.

simon just stares, gaze unwavering as he watches you come undone. body warm from sleep arching up into his touch, writhing in pleasure.

he slows his fingers, pulls them out and immediately places them between his teeth, the taste of his sin fucking delicious.

only then does he realize he’s came in his boxers, the wet patch increasingly noticeable now.

“si?” you ask, voice thick with sleep.

“hmm?” he hums, tongue still chasing the taste of you.

“doin’?”

“nothin’, doll. just admiring.” he coos.

“weirdo,” you laugh softly, rolling over on your side. “had the craziest dream,” you mumble.

“yeah? you’ll have to tell me all about it,” he grins, shuffling back under the covers and pulling you close.

the best are when it’s impromptu.

tension slowly building between the two of you.

electric.

a lazy day at home, chores done for the day. a movie plays idly in the background.

your mind is somewhere else, eyes lazily flicking across the screen.

first time he’s been home this long. you wonder when he’ll leave you again.

a soft sigh escapes your lips.

he shifts at that (you thought he had dozed off) - hands sliding up your thighs, giving your hip a squeeze as he pulls you into his lap.

he’s already hard.

you feel your stomach flutter, biting down on your lower lip.

“this all for me?” you whisper, voice surprisingly sultry.

“mhmm,” a soft hum of affirmation.

he shifts you in his lap, cock bumping your folds on purpose.

pulls a gasp from your pouty lips.

his fingers twitch at your hips.

restraint.

“what’s got into you?” you laugh softly.

“don’ know wha’ you’re talkin’ about,” he says, almost nonchalant.

almost.

you hear the waver in his voice.

want.

leaning in close by his ear, you whisper,

“i think you do know.”

before rolling your hips down against his.

a sharp exhale through his nose, you feel the way his grip tightens on your hips, watch the goosebumps appear on his neck.

“you gonna tell me?” you sing song.

he’s quiet for a moment.

you sit up, watching him carefully.

his eyes glint mischievously.

dark.

insatiable.

you want to fall right in.

“nah, gonna show you.”

his hand slides up your back and cups the top of your neck, pulling you to his lips.

you feel your eyes flutter closed, palms resting at your sides for the moment.

his lips are soft, teasing.

gentle as he presses long kisses to your own, stealing your breath.

you go dizzy from lack of oxygen, not wanting to pull away.

his mouth opens -

slow -

guiding your lips to follow his own.

you feel heat settle in your stomach, rise to your cheeks.

he slides his fingers through your hair, wanting - no needing to be closer.

your noses crash together, sharing oxygen as you kiss.

it's hot.

it's messy.

you can't get enough.

"more," you gasp out, pulling him closer as you grind your hips down.

he groans lowly at that, tongue darting out to lick into your mouth.

a low whine falls from your lips, your tongue desperately trying to follow his own.

he's suffocating, exploring every crevice, every crack.

tonguing over your molars.

committing your memory to taste.

he brings his thumb up to your lips, slipping it past and pressing the pad of it down on your tongue.

your eyes roll in your head, the taste of him seared on your tastebuds.

his cock twitches against you again, lips pressing hotly down your flushed neck.

"needy thing," he tuts.

a groan of protest leaves your lips, muffled by the press of his thumb. he kisses back up to your lips, removing his thumb and replacing it with his tongue again.

you rest your hands on his shoulders, feeling the quickening of his pulse by his collarbone. he's coming undone.

the sweet taste of you has him itching to crack you open and devour you whole.

restrains himself, drinking every ounce you give him. spit messily exchanged between the two of you.

you core throbs, aching to be filled.

he pulls away - panting.

there's a flush on his cheeks, flows down to his chest.

his eyes are hooded, drunk with lust. he's grinning.

lips puffy, shiny with your spit.

"better finish what you started," you pant, leaning down to nip at his lip.

"with pleasure," he coos.