Do not self-destruct

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // mafia!au, mafiaboss!simon, f!reader, husband!simon, wife!reader, pregnant!reader, mention of an age gap, brief mention of intimacy, mention of drugs

The lights were dimmed when Simon returned to the mansion. The door closed behind him, and he paused for a moment, listening. This darkness could never deceive him, because he had been in power for long enough as the head of the clan that even someone's quiet breathing would not be able to escape his sensitive ears.

The TV turned off a second later, and after a couple more minutes you came out. In a thin nightgown that does not reach your knee, you came out of the living room, sleepy.

“Told ya not to wait for me.”

“You know I can't sleep without you.”

He knew. That was why he couldn't get mad.

Simon didn't move when you came closer and touched him, resting your palms on the fabric of his shirt, because he never buttoned his jacket. The only exception was your wedding day. Then his hands immediately shot up and covered your waist, and his thumb gently stroked the place just below, where your belly was already showing.

“Where's the guard...”

“He went to his room. He fell asleep in the living room while I was watching a show.”

“Told ‘im not to leave ya alone.”

“That doesn't mean he has to follow me around.”

“That means he can't sleep at his job.”

You sighed, realizing that it was useless to argue with him, and, taking one of his hands from your waist, pulled him aside, heading to your bedroom.

When you got pregnant, Simon couldn't help but become even more protective. He understood that his wife's pregnancy would draw attention from the other bosses if they talked about it publicly, and so you decided to do it only at the nearest major event, which would probably only be a Christmas reception at your father's estate in London. An event that took place annually, and which you have attended since you turned sixteen.

Being the only daughter of a London boss, you've always been under the scrutiny of others. Many men from the regions of Yorkshire, Liverpool, Birmingham and Sheffield wanted to be the ones who would get you as a wife. If not them, then their sons were the ones who couldn't take their eyes off you at any public events, forcing your bodyguards not to take a step away from you.

A graceful bird in a golden cage, that's who you were. But you were allowed more than any other woman in your position. You were allowed a choice.

Simon witnessed you rejecting offers from various men back then. Whether it was the rumors that spread through the clans, when your father directly rejected the son of one of the bosses because you said no; or your obvious disinterest in a man who dared to approach you at a public event. You understood what they wanted from you. Only your status, the name of the English Mafia Princess, the girl who was more important than, perhaps, the Queen herself.

And you knew your worth. You didn't want to give in to the first offers you got. And your father allowed you to do that.

Simon was also one of those who claimed your hand. Four. He came to London four times for a private audience with you and your father, and proposed to you. Four rings, each custom-made, with different designs and stones, were sitting in a drawer in his office, rejected by you. But Simon wasn't the one who gave up. Never.

As soon as the two of you were in the bedroom, you pulled him towards you, and he gave in, this mountain of muscle and height, and came closer, and then sat on the edge of the bed, spreading his knees and allowing you to stand in front of him, between his open legs. Your palms immediately ran into his hair, and it was the movement of your fingers on the back of his head that made him sigh heavily and finally relax his shoulders.

It was with you that Simon became like this. It was in your arms that he could relax, finally let go of the thought that he had returned from interviewing those who were probably spies and specifically blocked drug supply traffic, redirecting it to the enemy's territory, which provided them with free weed. He could forget about the strip club's issue, which was threatening to surface in the press, and that he needed to meet with the owner of the online portal in order to prevent it from entering the network.

Right now, he could leave it all outside the room, outside the house, and just be here. With you. And your future child.

“I want to keep the right to my body. And to manage it however I want.” That was the first condition you told Simon when he proposed to you for the fifth time, three years ago.

And he accepted this condition. Not once in your life has he told you what to wear and what not to, starting from the moment your wedding ceremony was over and ending with this moment when you were standing between his legs and he bent over, gently kissing the bulge on your stomach.

This also applied to pregnancy. He wasn't the one who forced you to have children right away after your wedding. On the contrary, he never once brought it up, giving your body only adoration and praise when you were in bed. It was your decision to stop taking birth control pills to finally start a family. And now, knowing that his child was inside you, he felt like a guard dog.

“How was work?”

“As usual.”

“You mean rough?”

Simon sighed when you tried to get more information out of him.

“Information ‘bout the strip club in the business district can get into the press. Need to resolve this issue tomorrow.” He explained by raising his head and meeting your gaze.

“No cheating. I will not tolerate another woman, and I will not go to bed with another man.”

This second condition of yours made him clench his fists back then at the very thought that you could end up in bed with someone other than him. Simon agreed, and that same night he broke contact with those girls who were the most frequent visitors to his lap. He never brought anyone into his house, and when you lay naked in front of him on your wedding night, he realized that no one else would ever look better in this bed than you.

He was possessive. It meant that none of the other men had the right to touch you unless it was an emergency. And that you wanted him to be faithful to you in return? It only increased his sense of pride, the realization that you already consider yourself as his jealous future wife.

“How early tomorrow?”

“Not before yer appointment’s over.”

His words made a soft smile bloom on your lips.

“I want a family. And this means that the children will not be raised with nannies, but both parents will be raising them.” That was your third and final condition.

At first, you couldn't imagine Simon as a family man. He was older than you, and by all mafia standards he should have already had a wife, and even children. But he didn't. You were his first wife, his first marriage experience, and you didn't know if he would fulfill that promise he made when agreeing to your condition.

But you could see the changes in him when you hinted to him that you wanted to have a baby. How he stayed with you longer in the mornings, sometimes even waiting until you woke up to go off for a couple rounds in an attempt to conceive. How he paid close attention to your behavior, trying to figure out if you were already pregnant or not. And how his eyes lit up when you showed him a positive pregnancy test.

The baby inside you hadn't been born yet, but you could already see that Simon loved it. He went to all the appointments with your personal doctor, protected you from possible attacks by the press who wanted to know about Simon Riley's wife, the owner of a car dealership, which was his only legitimate business and served as a cover for the mafia clan in Manchester.

The family you grew up in was close, and you wanted the family of your own to be the same. The one in which the mother does not serve as an incubator, but cooks breakfast and plays with the children. A father who not only gives children names, but also takes part in their upbringing and takes everyone on family vacations.

And that was exactly the family that was waiting for you with Simon, you were sure of it.

Summary: Simon finds your G-spot.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex

Word count: 2.1k

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Simon Riley wasn’t sure what the hell he was listening to.

Or more accurately… what kind of nonsense these sergeants were going on about.

"Fuckin' hell.” one of them, Ramirez, muttered over his mug. "Wife's knocked up with number two, and it's like tryin' to hump a bloody beach ball. No positions work, she's always knackered, and half the time she just wants to sleep. Sex? More like a chore I gotta check off the list."

The others chuckled, nodding like it was the gospel. "Tell me about it.” another chimed in. "Mine's the same. Gained a ton already, and the hormones? Christ, one minute she's all over me, the next she's cryin' over a stupid animal shelter Ad. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

Simon didn't move, didn't breathe a word. His gloved hands tightened around the edge of his tac vest, but not from anger. No, it was something hotter, sharper, coiling low in his gut.

They were wrong.

So bloody wrong.

He thought of you—his wife, his everything—curled up in their bedroom back home, that soft swell of your belly just starting to show under his old shirts you loved to steal. Five months along, and you were glowing, all curves and fire, your body a map he couldn't stop exploring.

He shifted, feeling an erection growing under his gear. Just the thought of you did that to him now. The way your breasts were fuller, heavier, straining against the lace he bought you the last time he was on leave.

How your hips swayed a little wider when you walked, teasing him without even trying. Sex wasn't a chore—no—it was a privilege.

Last night, you'd been on your side, his hand splayed over the bump where their little one kicked, and he'd slid into you slow, deep, your gasps mixing with his growls. "Simon..” you'd moaned, arching back against him, your skin fever-hot and slick. He'd cum faster than a fucking virgin, all because of how beautiful you were, swollen with his child.

The sergeants droned on, oblivious. Simon pushed off the wall, a ghost in the dim light, heading home.

He needed you now—needed to feel that life you'd made together, to bury himself in the woman who turned his world from shadows to something worth fighting for.

As he stepped into the your home, the door clicked shut behind him, he found you on the couch, feet up, reading one of those baby guidebooks with a smirk.

"Miss me, Lieutenant?" you teased, eyes sparkling.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he knelt before you, hands gentle on your thighs, trailing up slow as his gaze darkened. "Every fuckin' second, lovie. Especially now."

His voice was rough, laced with that hunger only you ignited. And as he leaned in, lips brushing the curve of your belly before he found his way between your thighs, he knew this was heaven, not hell.

Their loss.

His everything.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧ The safe house was nothing more than a rundown cabin tucked in the woods, one room, one bed, one sad—narrow couch, and the faint smell of old wood and moss.

The mission had gone sideways—close call with hostiles, comms cut, but thankfully the two of you had made it out with little casualty. Ghost had taken a grazing hit across his side; nothing life-threatening, but enough that he needed to clean it properly.

You were still catching your breath, peeling off your plate carrier and vest, when he finally shredded his shirt.

You weren’t expecting what you saw.

Ghost’s torso was a map of scars and hard muscle, but that wasn’t what made your brain short-circuit. Both of his nipples were pierced—thick, silver barbells that caught the low light from the single lantern. Then a delicate but deliberate navel piercing sat right above the waistband of his pants. small, glinting balls. And when he ran his tongue over his teeth, catching his breath, you saw the tongue piercing too—metallic ball flashing for half a second.

He noticed you staring, those dark eyes didn’t miss much.

“Problem, Sergeant?” The usual clipped Manchester edge softened by exhaustion and something else.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Heat flooded your face so fast you were surprised steam didn’t rise off you. The piercings were so… unexpected on him. Hidden under all that tactical gear and that damn mask, secret and filthy.

Your gaze kept dropping—to the way the nipple bars stood out against his pale skin, to the way the navel hoop shifted when he breathed, to the way he licked his lower lip and that tongue piercing caught the light again.

Your mind went exactly where you told it not to.

What else is he hiding?

You could almost picture it—more silver glinting lower, maybe a Jacob’s ladder running the length of his cock, each rung a shock of cold metal you’d feel if he ever—

“Eyes up here.” he said, but there was a rough edge of amusement under it. He didn’t move to cover himself. Just stood there, scarred, pierced, and stupidly hot, letting you look. The air in the cabin felt twenty degrees hotter.

You swallowed. Your pulse was hammering in your throat. “I… didn’t know the military let you have those.”

“They don’t.” He shrugged one broad shoulder, the motion making the barbells shift. “Keeps things interesting when nobody’s looking.”

Your brain was supplying very vivid, very unprofessional images of exactly what “interesting” might look like beneath his belt. The thought of cold metal dragging against sensitive skin, of him letting someone see—letting you see—made your thighs press together involuntarily.

Ghost’s head tilted slightly, like he could read every filthy thought crossing your face. His voice dropped even lower as his hand hovered over his belt.

“Wanna see what else I’m hiding…?”

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.

Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.

This silence was wrong.

You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.

Too late.

Simon stared at you like he’d just watched himself pull a trigger he couldn’t take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.

“...Fuck.”

The word came out under his breath, barely audible.

You wiped quickly at your face. “It’s okay.”, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.

It wasn’t okay.

And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.

He felt sick.

The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.

Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.

“Love.”

You shook your head without turning around.

That hurt more than the tears.

Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.

Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.

Because he yelled.

Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.

“Stand there acting like you deserve that.”

You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. “Simon-”

“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. “No, don’t excuse it.”

You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.

Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.

“I came home to you,” he said, voice rough. “Warm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.” He laughed once bitterly at himself. “And first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.”

Your lips parted slightly.

Simon looked away, jaw flexing.

“Spent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.” His voice got quieter. “Then I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.”

The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.

The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.

Not angry. Not frustrated.

Devastated.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.

Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.

“You don’t have to comfort me,” you whispered.

That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.

“Christ.”

He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.

“I’m sorry love,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Ever.”

You looked down, vision blurring, “I know you’re tired.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I wasn’t trying to annoy you-”,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.

“I know.” His voice cracked slightly then steadied. “I know you weren’t.”

The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.

“You were taking care of me,” he murmured. “That’s all you were doing.”

You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.

“Look at me.”

You did. Big mistake.

The second he saw how hard you’d been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.

“You never yell at me.”, you sniffled.

That one hit directly to the ribs.

Simon actually flinched.

His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.

“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “the second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.”

You could hear how honest it was.

Simon wasn’t good at pretty apologies. He wasn’t poetic, wasn’t smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.

“I hate that you looked at me like that,” he admitted softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.”

His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, you’d looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.

Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly against your temple. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.

“I missed you,” he admitted in a low murmur. “Missed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.” His arms tightened. “Then I come home and act like that.”

Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.

“There she is,” he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thought I fucked this up properly for a second.” he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.

“You didn’t.”

“Nearly did.”

And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.

the transport home is awkward to say the least. you’re whimper, humping your seat lamely while you’ve practically soaked through your panties, cargos, and down onto the seat itself.

“eyes forward, men.” says price from the drivers seat. his calm demeanor gives nothing away if it weren’t for his sweating palms that have a death grip on the drivers wheel.

you whine- a fucking delicious and needy whine. “please…please captain…please can someone help me? please? pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

“oh lord,” mutters soap from beside you. his eyes are oddly focused on the pattern of the roof. “lord please give me the strength right now.” his fingers twitch with ache and his leg is anxiously bouncing up and down. he continues to mumble prayers- which is odd since soap isn’t known to be a religious man.

“please- please it’s so hot. need to take these off. please,” you beg, hands fumbling with the button and zipper of your cargos.

“stop it, kid. Kyle, soap, hold ‘er down.”

gaz and soap look at each other, face full of emotion- uncomfortableness, concern, arousal?

“S-sir…don’t think it’s a good idea for me to touch the lass right now.” Soap admits, taking a slow and deep breath as his eyes unwillingly stare you up and down.

Gaz steps up. Not because he’s eager to touch you, not because he needs an excuse to get his hands on you- but because he genuinely believes that if anyone can have the restraint, it would be him. “I’ve got it, sir.”

he bunches your hands together by the wrist, bringing it away from your pants that are left unzipped but still fully on.

you let out a broken sob that just breaks his heart but stiffens his dick. “Nonononono, just a little touch please? please? Hurts s’bad. Need to…just once, please?”

gaz gulps, and for a second his grip loosens on your wrist. “Garrick!”

gaz jerks, meeting the stare of his lieutenant who’s sweating at the base of his mask. “we’re almost there. keep it together.”

you squirm, crossing and uncrossing your legs in any attempt for a piece of friction that is just never enough.

the rest of the ride is painfully silent, each man thinking the same thing but none of them willing it out loud. It feels like ages when the transport is finally parked at the base and three heads turn to their captain for his decision.

Wholesome!Price who has always maintained he is interested in women, not girls.

Much to his dismay, something about his appearance continues to attract the younger sort. At bars, he grudgingly acknowledges flocks of college-aged girls shooting him looks and giggling, with some even bold enough to openly flirt. He’s started to use Johnny as buffer, quickly redirecting their attention towards the gregarious Scot to spare his admirers the awkward realization that their age is working against them.

There’s nothing wrong with the young birds, of course. They’re plenty cute, and they even have that fiery confidence he’s always been drawn to. But there’s something about a twiggy girl using gobs of makeup to look more fuckable that kills his libido.

He blames it on his own deflowering. In high school he’d messed around with some girls his age, but none wanted to go all the way. Being the cocky piece of shit he was, he figured he’d talk an older woman in his relieving him of his virginity so he could truly consider himself a man. He certainly wasn’t expecting the 30-something he met in a chatroom (it was a different time) to have the most insane thighs he’d seen in his life, or breasts with actual stretch marks. The weight of them in his hands felt like an epiphany. Something entirely apart from cupping a budding mound. The utter self-possession in the way she moved, like she knew exactly what she was, all that her plush body had to offer, altered his brain chemistry.

He’s been addicted ever since.

Unfortunately, the sort of women Price is drawn to rarely return his interest – either because they don’t believe it’s genuine or because they’ve got too much else going on in their life to be arsed with a man.

So when you’re hired as the new compliance officer who performs weekly inspections on base, he knows he’s done for. Cupid may as well have shot him in the heart with a fucking Uzi. You, with your wide hips and disappointed-mom attitude and hair that’s always messy in the most artless, charming way he could imagine. You wear practical sneakers and an ugly, navy polo that does absolutely nothing to the soft rolls around your midsection and an ample rack that he would happily suffocate in. When he finally gets you alone and starts putting the moves on you, your only response is irritated confusion and clear desire to get back to your task.

Price has his work cut out for him. But damned if that man doesn’t love a good pursuit.

he keeps you to himself, mostly. you've met his teammates and even gone with them to the bar a time or two. they think you're the sweetest thing, great for simon, et cetera. his best friend, johnny, has no qualms about telling you how gorgeous you are, how happy simon must be to have you in his bed, how glad he is that his best mate has found such a treasure like you. it makes you turn bright red, and simon has to scruff his best friend to save you from his...

... you're not really sure what that was.

but you like johnny well enough. simon loves him, so you love him too. and so what if you think about the way he purred all that to you while tipsy right next to your boyfriend? so what you're reminded of it whenever simon rolls on top of you? it's harmless.

well, simon isn't stupid. he knows you well enough to know that you've got something on your mind, and it's distracting the both of you every night. he also knows that you're awkward, unaware of how to broach a sensitive or taboo topic. so he has to do the heavy lifting.

"'s johnny, isn't it?" he rumbles in your ear one night. your legs are draped over his arms, your body like putty in his hands, but the words slip out of simon and then it's like you turn to stone. he tuts, lips curling into a smile and his eyes going half-lidded.

"oh baby, it is, huh?"

while you worried incessantly over the topic, thinking you'd be preparing for a breakup, simon couldn't help but chuckle knowingly. it's like he expected this, like you were being inevitably herded to the gate.

and, quite literally, you are herded. next time johnny comes over, you're dragged into simon's lap while he's in the kitchen getting a drink. he mouth at your neck, rubs your hips, and tells you not to worry about liking johnny. everyone likes johnny, even him. and i'm sure you know he likes you too, huh?

cw: +18 mdni, dom/sub dynamics, lite puppy play (?) girl idk.

Your dog is, still, inherently not the best with men. Still growls, still bares his teeth and is protective of you or even your sister you brought along one time. At least he’s sitting or laying down while doing it. You’ve showed up and on time to every training session, giving your dogs the best confident commands you can and Domino…. listens. That doesn’t mean he’s following every command immediately but he is listening!

Simon realizes that you’re a good listener too. You look and listen almost immediately when he directs you, he can almost see your pupils dilating when he talks to do.

“Are y’listenin?” He asks one day while food training. It’s almost instinct for you to immediately stand straight, give him a little smile, “Yes sir! I mean- Ghost-“

“No that’s okay,” he glanced down at you one good time, trying to read what exactly is going on in that head of yours before turning on his feet towards his dog, “Come-“

You stumble right into his back, thankfully, he catches you, still you as your pressed into his massive frame. You gasp, “I-“

“—I was talking to the dogs.” He clarifies, looking back at you with a cocked eyebrow.

You feel the heat rise beneath your skin in an instant, taking a step back as your heart pounds with every moment you feel his mahogany brown eyes looking at you, you look elsewhere, laughing it off, rubbing the curls at the back of your nape, “Right! Obviously!”

And then the next session, you’re too tired from work , to the point you can feel it in your body but you came. You’re not a quitter, a ‘good owner,’ Ghost has told you once, and you’ve been holding onto it like your life depended on it. If you miss one session, you’ll miss the next and the next. But maybe you should’ve missed this one, you’ve felt light headed this whole time. Your commands barely reaching Domino, and he keeps whining, slower to your commands than usual, circling your feet.

“think you need to go take a seat love.” Simons says much softer than usual, you could feel yourself buzzing, or was that your head, pointing towards the park bench across the way.

You shake your head, “No I’m fine-“

“—Sit.”

You really don’t know what came over you, for you to get on your knees like that in the middle of the fucking park instead of walking to where he pointed. Simon doesn’t even flinch at it, concern written on his face, he lifts the spare water bottle he stashed in his to your lips. Holding the back of your neck.

Another command that makes chills run down your spine, “Drink.”

“Goood girl.” He coos, carressing your cheek with his thumb. You almost melt completely at that, lashes fluttering as the cool water goes down your throat.

Ghost closes the lid to the bottle, lifting your chin with a finger to look at him. “Y’gonna drive you and Domino home, eat somethin ‘nd ‘nd then text me, okay? Then take a nap. Anything else can be solved after tha, understood?

You nod, spaced out in his hold but understanding. “Yes sir.”

He hums, thumb going down your cheek once more, “Good girl.”

You don’t know how you got home, but you could only wonder, lying in bed after texting Ghost, ‘What the hell just happened?’

a/n: 4/10 bro, what is this?

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Well, not actually stupid, obviously but.. He's not blind. He sees how whimsical you are. How nothing seems to be a big deal to you. How carefree you are even when dealing with stressful situations - granted you aren't on the field, you're part of the tech team.

Which makes it all the more worse that Ghost has a crush on you.

It's stupid. He's stupid. He's a grown man. He can't possibly have a crush on someone at this age.

But that's exactly what this is. A crush.

"Would you rather be a cat," You frown, squinting at the ceiling. You're holding one of his vests to the light, trying to see where the stitching went wrong. "Or a dog?"

He huffs, not even looking up from his reports.

"A dog. Least then I'll be useful."

He glances at you. You're laying on the couch in his office. As if you belong there. Sprawled out like a cat and.. Sewing his clothes.

You smile at him.

So he goes to his most trusted lieutenant, asking for help.

That’s how ghost ends up holding your back against his chest while your boyfriend John is settled in between your legs.

“Look, see that Captain?” Ghosts fingers barely brush your clit, pulling the hood back. “You’re gonna need to show this part some extra love. Kiss it, suck it, lick it, hell, even spit on it.”

Price stares at your pussy with infatuation, drooling at the sight of you being so shy in his best man’s arms. He can feel your legs trembling as they drape over his shoulders.

You immediately let out a soft gasp as prices lips tenderly suck your aching clit.

Now price is a quick learner, and it doesn’t take him long to find just what makes you tick- you make it so easy with your adorable reactions after all.

You’re squirming, panting, whining- “shh shhh shhh,” muses ghost from behind, muscular arms holding you back. “Don’t make it harder for the man.”

He sets you straight with a decent slap to your right tit. You yelp, earning a low chuckle from the man. “Sorry, doll. Force of habit.”

Ghosts eyes trail down your body to where his captain is vigorously working his mouth like a starved man. “Doing well, sir. She’s ‘boutta cum.”

Prices tongue does a lovely flick over your clit before engulfing it whole again in his warm mouth. You can’t help yourself as you desperately roll your hips over his chin and beard, increasing the friction.

Ghost holds you tighter against him, hands resting on the underside of your chest as he whispers something only you can hear. “Cmon, baby. Cum for the captain why don’t ya? And after, we can get to the main event.”

That's the kink

"they can barely/can't control themself from ravishing their partner? How is that portrayed as ROMANTIC??"

That's the kink

"why is the plot so fixated on how tiny the main character is compared to the love interest?"

Grisps your shoulders so firmly

How could they not? John price is a man to be respected if not feared. Even higher ranks than him know he's only still a captain because he prefers to get his hands dirty himself. No one wants to mess with a man like that.

Then there's....you. the new secretary.

"John. Your paperwork." You tell him every morning, dropping the files on the table in the mess hall without much thought. The first time you did it, people genuinely flinched.

No one calls captain price john.

You have no care or respect for his rank, treating price as a casual coworker and not the weapon he is. Always a "john. I want my vacation time approved by this weekend." Or "your breath smells like coffee, john. You want some gum?"

People are convinced price is planning to kill you. No other option when you keep blatantly disrespecting him.

Of course the team notices it too. Worse though when they notice you still call ghost "lieutenant" and kyle and soap "sergeant"

"Doesn't it bother you, sir? The blatant disrespect?" Kyle asks one night at the bar, after price had mentioned you again.

"bother me? Why the hell would it bother me?" Price snorts, takes a bite of the crisps from ghosts plate "My wife can call me whatever she wants."

...

......

Simon doesn’t drink much. Everyone knows that.

Which is exactly why it’s a bit surreal seeing him like this.

He’s slouched back in the chair across from you, mask pushed up just enough to drink earlier and now sitting crooked on his face. His hair’s a mess, the short blond strands sticking up like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times.

You swirl what’s left in your glass, watching him.

Simon’s staring at you.

Not in the usual guarded way, either. No tension in his shoulders, no scanning the room like he’s expecting someone to kick the door in. Just… looking.

“You alright there, L.T.?” you ask.

He hums.

Not a word. Just a low little sound in the back of his throat as he keeps staring.

“Simon.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re staring.”

“Am not.”

“You are.”

He tilts his head slightly, considering that like it’s a complicated tactical question.

“Maybe a bit,” he admits, voice rougher than usual.

The alcohol’s gotten to him just enough to loosen his tongue. His accent’s thicker now too—northern vowels heavier, consonants a bit lazy.

You lean your elbow on the table.

“What’s so interesting then?”

Simon shrugs slowly, gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again.

“You,” he says simply.

You snort.

“Right. Sure.”

“Serious.”

The way he says it makes you pause.

There’s no teasing in his tone. No usual sarcasm. Just blunt honesty.

He drags a hand down his face, fingers catching on the edge of his mask before letting it fall back against his chin.

“You ever think,” he starts, voice slow, “about how you’ve got everyone wrapped round your little finger?”

“That’s definitely not true.”

“Is.”

He gestures vaguely at you with his glass.

“Price listens to you. Soap does whatever you ask. Gaz too.”

“That’s called teamwork, Simon.”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t sound convinced.

A quiet beat passes.

Then he leans forward a little, elbows on the table.

“Reckon you’d be good at bossin’ people around,” he says.

You blink.

“I already do.”

“Nah,” he mutters. “Different kind.”

Your eyes narrow.

“What kind?”

Simon squints like he’s trying to decide if he should say something.

The whisky clearly makes that decision for him.

“The kind where you tell someone to stay put,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Or get on their knees.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“Simon.”

“What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Little bit.”

He doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest.

If anything, he seems thoughtful.

“Think I’d like it,” he adds.

“Like what?”

“Being told what to do.”

You stare at him.

He’s completely serious.

Simon Riley—six-foot-something, terrifying in the field, the man half the task force is scared of—is sitting at the kitchen table casually confessing he’d enjoy being bossed around.

“Right,” you say slowly. “We’re definitely blaming the alcohol for this conversation.”

Simon chuckles under his breath.

Low. Warm.

“Probably.”

But he doesn’t take it back.

Instead he leans back in his chair again, tipping his head toward the ceiling like he’s thinking hard about something.

“You’d be good at it though,” he continues after a moment.

“I’m not entertaining this.”

“Just sayin’.”

He looks back at you, eyes half-lidded but focused.

“Got that voice, y’know.”

“What voice?”

“The one you use when you’re givin’ orders.”

Your face feels warmer now.

“That’s my normal voice.”

“Mm,” Simon says, unconvinced.

Another quiet moment passes.

Then he mutters, almost to himself—

“Wouldn’t mind you tellin’ me to stay still.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You’re literally my superior officer.”

“Technically.”

“Simon.”

He tilts his head again, studying your reaction like this is fascinating.

“Just talkin’.”

“You’re talking about being dominated.”

“By you.”

“Simon.”

“What?”

He doesn’t even look apologetic.

Instead he grins faintly, the expression small but genuine.

“You’re actin’ like I said something weird.”

“You did.”

He hums again.

“Alright then.”

He rests his cheek in his hand.

“Hypothetically.”

“No.”

“Hypothetically,” he continues anyway, ignoring you completely, “if someone—say you—told me to lie back and behave…”

You push your chair back slightly.

“Simon Riley.”

He keeps going.

“…maybe sit on my face a bit—”

“SIMON.”

He blinks at you.

“What?”

“You cannot just say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we work together!”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re drunk!”

“Also yeah.”

He considers you for a second longer before adding casually—

“Still mean it though.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“Please go to bed.”

Simon lets out a quiet laugh.

“Bossy.”

“That wasn’t an invitation.”

“Shame.”

He pushes himself up from the table, swaying just slightly before steadying.

As he walks past you toward the hallway, he pauses.

Then he leans down just a bit closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur.

“Y’know,” he says softly, “if you ever did want to boss me around…”

You groan.

“Simon.”

He grins again, eyes bright despite the alcohol.

“…reckon I’d behave real nice for you.”

Then he strolls off toward the bedrooms like he didn’t just detonate the most unhinged conversation of your life.

And judging by the smug little glance he throws over his shoulder—