im ngl most of my shit will be about keegan x you, keegan x fem!reader, and other assorted boo crew postings.
requests are currently OPEN
MOOTS ALWAYS WELCOME PLS I WANT FRIENDS
this goes without saying but im gonna say it anyway. no minors. none in my writing, none in my requests, period. no ifs ands or buts about it. no "but im almost 18," no "but im so mature", no. you will be blocked, get the fuck off my lawn, you little shits.
blog tags are:
[#cinder writes] for my works
[#cinder speaks] for posts like this, in which i talk about things to you, dear reader.
[#cinder rambles] for unserious yap postings of any and all varieties
[#cinder screams] for fic recs
FANDOMS:
CoD: 141 & Ghosts (aka Boo-Crew)
Dark Souls/Elden Ring/ Lies of P/ Soulsbornekiroring basically, pick a universe and a prompt and I will do my best.
M*A*S*H: anything. give me the mash brainworms.
marvel anything
there will be updates on this post.
i rarely post here but, ao3 and wattpad links below:
ao3 // wattpad
🚨🚨DO NOT REPOST MY WORK OR OTHERWISE COPY IT INTO C.AI/CHATGPT. ANY USE OF AI USING MY WORK WILL RESULT IN AN IMMEDIATE BLOCK ON ALL PLATFORMS.🚨🚨
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Will you write something (literally anything) on kick w the boo crew? Maybe HC’s for him?
i really hope this is what you wanted :,) there is a little smidge of NSFW so MDNI
kick headcanons
man drinks like a sailor and takes drinking games seriously enough that even merrick and keegan will raise a brow at him.
"kick." keegan mutters. kick continues literally chugging a bottle.
"kick." merrick says, a little louder.
kick finally pulls off the bottle and wipes his mouth, lips wet with rum and a lazy grin on.
"yeah?"
keegan confiscates the bottle, and the next morning when kick has a hangover that'd kill a horse?
he wakes him with an airhorn and tosses it to logan with a quick heads up.
"logan. catch."
logan, of course, strong and silent obedient type, catches the airhorn just in time for kick to come barrelling out of his room like an angry bull, head whipping around.
logan points at keegan, who's way too good at keeping a straight face in moments like these. keegan shrugs. kick narrows his eyes.
believe it or not, also, kick is the most emotionally stable one out of them all. having had a girlfriend for longer than a few months at one point in his life is apparently the only prerequisite.
they all come to him for advice, but merrick took the longest to do so.
he'd been fighting with his wife for days over not taking the trash out, and was so headstrong about having been at work all day that it took kick more than a few tries to get him to see things from his wife's perspective.
"merrick, dude," he ignores merrick's scowl at being called 'dude'. kick can't help it, really; the tongue of a man from socal is very specific and requires 'dude' from time to time.
"you just gotta tell her you're sorry, and buy her flowers and chocolate." kick says, with all the seriousness of a marriage counselor.
"i tried that already," merrick grunts, eyes shifting to the floor. "she says i'm trying to buy her forgiveness, and that i don't care enough about the chores around the house."
kick blinks. "well… don't forget next time."
"you're useless." merrick sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"you're quitting on this therapeutic thwap upside the head." kick points at him.
merrick is already half out the door. "tactical retreat."
the door slams, and kick smiles to himself.
naturally, kick is the sweetest when it comes to his partner, you.
he'll scratch your scalp lightly, rub your back and make you soup when you're sick.
any time you mention being even moderately in a bad mood his pants are already tightening. period? baby he's a soldier, that man does not care as long as his pretty love doesn't mind having their back blown out.
keegan has walked in on you two more than a few times, immediately slamming the door with muttered curses and something about "scrubbing the image of kick's pale ass out of every fold of his brain".
he likes pain, but he'll never admit it. nothing makes kick harder than when your nails are digging into his back while he's got you pinned with your legs around his waist, head thrown back in ecstasy as you claw the fuck out of him.
biting, too. he begged one night for you to bite his neck hard enough that he'd bleed. he's a soldier, he'd reasoned, eyes so soft and pleading as he made you hold eye contact. he can not only take the pain, he craves it.
his closest teammate, believe it or don't, is keegan. kick isn't part of the original 14, but, keegan kept him under his wing anyway.
was a mentor, a friend, a confidant to the young air force IT kid.
kick's first mission was no less than a fucking disaster.
he almost died. not once, not twice, but almost four times before extraction.
and who was there to pick up the pieces? keegan.
who gripped him by the shoulders, a mere 24 year old himself, and shook kick from his dazed adrenaline crash?
who told him where the good booze was stashed, under the desk in elias' office?
the answer to all was keegan.
and when kick named his son…
David Patrick.
no words were needed. not from kick. and certainly not from keegan patrick russ.
a/n: i dont know if i posted this here before. its one of my favorite pieces.
tw: blood loss, fatal injury, bleeding out after a mission gone sour, no characters, reader only, brief mention of the word "suicide".
quiet.
It almost sounded easy. In and out of a warehouse nestled in the Alps.
The perfect vacation spot. And yet, here you lay, staring at the unforgiving sky.
Coat soaked in blood, pooling underneath you, coloring the surrounding snow in a deep crimson that'd make anybody nervous.
And yet, you weren't.
You knew, from the briefing, that the likelihood of making it out alive had been slim to none. That this was a glorified suicide mission. Still, you went. Knowing you probably wouldn't make it home.
One wrong move. A breath held a beat too long, you froze. Earning you a shot in the belly that you somehow knew would be the conclusion to your story.
So you ran, into the snow. No one followed you, they knew you were no longer a threat.
Staring at the unblinking sky, soft flakes falling around you. The world was beautiful like this, you thought. Quiet. You could think. Your stunning career, the family you'd be leaving behind, maybe even a partner you loved.
There's no more pain. Just the quiet snowfall around you, the world still. As if Earth herself were holding her breath for you.
After a while, your lids feel heavy. Your legs and arms so cold, both from blood loss, and from laying in the snow. You could almost forget they were even there.
You didn't know what the bullet had hit. You were unaware of your own insides desperately pooling blood to the site of the injury, almost as if it could heal itself. To no avail, of course.
Your ears ring. It's almost time.
The blood slows. You're almost tapped out.
The world is beautiful like this, you thought. So...
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um men who are bigger than you and tower over you in every way possible but he's obsessed with the overwhelming intimacy of missionary sex. his whole entire body covers yours, and he loves the way it's almost like he's shielding you from the world, that the wanton expressions you're making and the way your body reacts is all for his eyes only. he can control how deep he fucks into you, can carefully watch the faces you make to see if he's hitting all the right spots. loves the way he can hold your hand as he thrusts into you; especially loves the feeling of every cell in his body going weak from how overwhelmed with his love for you he gets. the eye contact is the best and worst part for him; best because he loves looking at you, to know you feel the same, but worst because you always make him go weak in the knees. his arms can barely keep him upright, and he has to bury his face into the hollow of your neck and shoulder and-
Rain taps softly against the windows while the television mutters quietly in the background.
Neither Simon nor his girlfriend are really watching it.
She is stretched across the sofa with her legs over Simon’s lap, half-asleep after a long day, while Simon absently runs a rough thumb along their ankle.
Domestic.
Safe.
The kind of peace he once thought belonged to other people.
And the ring box sits hidden behind some old boxes in the kitchen cabinet, the one she can’t reach.
He knows exactly where it is at all times. Sometimes, when she’s asleep, he takes it out just to look at it.
Not because he changes his mind. Because he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
She shifts slightly, eyes still closed.
“You’re brooding again.”
“Am not.”
“Hmm.”
He knows he’s caught and his grip on her ankles becomes just slightly tighter. She smiles without opening her eyes, comfortable enough to fall asleep for hours without even twitching a muscle.
That trust hits Simon harder than bullets every time.
He looks down at her carefully. At the familiar softness of her face. The way her chest goes up and down with every tranquil breath she takes when she’s with him. Goosebumps rise along her skin because she’s too stubborn to put on something warmer.
It’s been two years together now. Him learning exactly how she takes her tea: with milk and two sugars, sometimes one if she’s having sweets with it. Memorizing the sound of her footsteps and being able to say which mood she’s in. Years of late-night phone calls from bad signal areas. Her never knowing where he is, just hoping each call isn’t the last time she hears his voice. Her pretending not to notice the bruises when he comes home because she doesn’t want him to remember what he survived. Simon standing outside the building before missions just to look at the lights in the windows. He tells her not to watch him leave because what if someone sees her and hurts her while he’s gone? And, well, he can’t bear the sadness on her face that she tries to hide but fails miserably every time.
He loves her so much.
And that’s exactly why he can’t do it.
She finally opens one eye. “What’s going on in that head?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Simon’s jaw tightens faintly. She notices that too. She always notices.
She sits up a little, studying him now.
“You disappear like this quite often.”
“I’m here.”
“Physically.”
That lands harder than intended. Simon looks away toward the rain-streaked windows.
He knows what she wants.
Not pressure.
Never pressure.
But sometimes he catches her eyes lingering on jewelry shop windows.
Sometimes she pauses when her friends announce engagements.
Sometimes Simon sees the flicker of hurt she tries to hide when people ask her -or worse, tease her -about getting married.
And Christ, he wants it too.
More than he’s ever wanted anything.
A name on paperwork.
A ring on her delicate finger.
Something official and undeniable.
Mine.
But the thought also keeps him awake at night. Because Simon Riley knows what happens to things attached to him.
His mother.
Tommy.
His father.
Soldiers he tried not to care about.
Anyone close enough.
Because Ghost survives and Simon Riley leaves bodies behind.
She touches his arm gently. “Talk to me.” He goes still under the contact for a moment. Then, “You ever think about leaving?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Me.”
The answer comes instantly. “No.”
“You should.”
There’s no self-pity in it.
No dramatic sadness.
Just blunt certainty.
She sits up fully now, concern etched on her face.
“Simon—”
“I mean it.”
His voice stays low and even, which somehow makes it worse.
“Why?” She asks, though she knows that look. That haunted look he’s giving without realizing that keeps his brain busy with lies he wants to believe.
“This life is all I can give to you. It’s all I can offer.”
“I wanted it.”
“You don’t understand-“
“I understand,” She cuts in, not harshly. “I understand you think if you love something quietly enough, maybe the universe won’t notice.”
That silences him completely.
Because that is exactly it.
The hidden apartment.
No photos together online.
Different routines.
Separate names on documents.
No public traces.
Simon has spent years loving her like a classified secret. As if loving her quietly could keep her alive.
As if secrecy could bargain with fate.
She reaches for his hand slowly, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t.
“You know what I think?” she murmurs. Simon says nothing. “I think you decided a long time ago that surviving means never letting yourself have anything fully.”
His throat tightens unexpectedly.
Her thumb brushes over his knuckles.
“And I think that scares you more than death does.”
There it is. That’s the truth he’s been avoiding. Death scared him less than having something gentle enough to lose.
Simon finally finds his voice again. “You deserve better than looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.”
Her eyes soften painfully. “I already chose you.”
God. That almost breaks him.
His fingers tighten around hers hard enough to hurt before he immediately loosens them again. He bows his head, pressing their joined hands against his mouth for one brief second like he’s trying to hold himself together.
When he speaks again, the words come quiet. “There’s a ring.”
She goes completely still. Simon lets out a tired breath.
“Had it eight months.” Her eyes widen as she listens. “I just…” He stares down at their hands. “Couldn’t do it.”
“Why?”
“Because men like me don’t have good endings to promise.”
cw: 18+ mdni, fauxcest, uncle!simon, age gap (23 yo reader, 40 something Simon), pet names (honey/honey bee)
And your Uncle Simon’s is the only place where everything in your head gets quiet. You don’t particularly have to think about anything.
Not about your little siblings schedules, not how your family is still asking you for money even though your broke yourself, not when they’re constantly asking you to raise your siblings like you gave birth to them, not anyone asking why you’re mad all the time— your just you.
Uncle Simons honey bee.
You don’t know shit about cars, still don’t even after the three years you’ve been having around Simon, retired from the military and fixing cars as a hobby. Gets his fair share from it. But he’s settled in your town, lucky your dad was an old friend who worked over Ghost for some time. You were forced over Simons place to “correct your attitude” when you come back home. But Simon doesn’t correct your feelings. Not once. You may be wrong sometimes but you’re always just in your feelings. He doesn’t brush you aside. Uncle Simon lets you talk, and talk, and talk under the hood of his car, right beside him as he grunts out responses. Tells you to pass him the wretch, the screwdriver or something else.
His handy girl when you pass him the right tool, ‘fuckin silly thing’ when you’re in a fit of giggles for passing him something that’s completely different from what he asked. It’s peaceful, even if it’s just a few hours, maybe the weekend if you really need an excuse for no one to call you. You, Uncle Simon, and the little black cat he’s let you keep. Little thing crawls into your lap as you lean back in the random office chair in his garage, listening to the ticketing happening on the hood while the music from your joint playlist blares.
It’s not like you haven’t noticed. Simon, the scars that reach the top of his head to his toes, the ink that covers some of them, detailed and intricate, the was sweat drips down and dampens the wife beater he has on under his overalls that drips down his broad shoulders. The oil that stains his large and calloused hands and thick muscles have sometimes, that has your heart beating you don’t even realize as he comes over. He quickly takes up your space, making you hold your breath a little while his fingers pet the top of the cats head, earning a sweet purr before walking over to the work bench, “Don’t stare f’ too long honey bee.”
You didn’t know if that was a warning or not.
You’re shoulder to shoulder under the truck, the words ring in your ears, but you’re not tempting him. At least, that’s what you think. Simon can feel the those big doe brown eyes on him, the way you quickly slide from under the hood to catch your breath you keep holding. The way you look at the parts under the car, chewing the inside of your lip while you focus. He guides you to help him, fingers brushing each other, you can’t help but be close under this fucking truck. Your pretty face smudged with oil.
“U-uncle Simon.” You whisper out.
Neither of you realize how close you are, his lips brushing yours once. Twice, grumbling something incoherent before tugging you towards him, just enough to let his lips melt onto yours. Soft, slow yout chin in his hand, tilting you just enough to taste more of you. The older man grits a ‘fuckin hell-’ cutting himself short by sliding the both of you from under the piece of shit car. His hand holding the back of your neck as you lock lips, dirtier, faster, the ‘smack’ hitting your ears over the music till your both panting for air.
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Since Bucky was born in 1917 and was a teen/young man during the Great Depression, do you think he ever gets overwhelmed at grocery stores even years after breaking from Hydra? Like he's shopping with you and sometimes just still can't quite believe just how different things are. Giant displays of fruit with oranges and apples stacked, things like mangos even during the winter, spices from across the world always available, different varieties of the same things like rainbow carrots. Sometimes I think about that.
Oh, he absolutely would.
Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not panic or anything that draws attention. It would be quiet—internal. The kind of overwhelm that sits behind his eyes and makes him go still in the middle of an aisle while fluorescent lights hum overhead.
Because James Buchanan Barnes was born in 1917.
He grew up when oranges were Christmas miracles.
You don’t realize it at first. You’re just pushing the cart, rambling about dinner ideas, when you notice he’s not beside you anymore.
He’s standing in front of a display the size of a small mountain.
Oranges. Apples. Pears. Perfect and polished under misting sprayers. A handwritten sign advertising mangoes—two for five dollars—even though it’s the dead of winter.
You double back.
“Buck?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers hover over a netted bag of clementines like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch them.
“They got these in January now,” he says quietly. His voice is steady, but there’s something under it. Something softer. “All the time.”
You follow his gaze. There are stacks upon stacks. No bruises. No ration lines. No clerk measuring out what little is left behind a counter.
He exhales slowly.
“When I was a kid,” he continues, almost to himself, “Ma would save up for weeks just to get one orange for Christmas. We’d split it. Four pieces each if we were lucky.” He huffs a small laugh. “Felt like royalty.”
You slip your hand into his.
He looks at you then, blinking like he’s just remembered you’re here.
“It’s just fruit,” you say gently.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s the thing.”
It’s just fruit.
But to him, it’s abundance. It’s excess. It’s a world so different from the one that shaped him that sometimes it feels unreal.
And it’s not just the produce.
It’s the spice aisle that really gets him.
You find him there one night staring at shelves lined with little glass jars—turmeric, cardamom, smoked paprika, saffron locked in tiny expensive vials. Things shipped from across the world and stocked like it’s nothing.
Back in the thirties, pepper was special. Cinnamon was rare. Sugar wasn’t a guarantee.
Now there are twenty brands of the same thing.
“Why do we need five kinds of salt?” he mutters once, reading labels like they’re written in another language. Himalayan pink. Sea salt flakes. Black lava salt.
You bump your shoulder against his.
“We don’t,” you admit. “But it’s fun.”
He hums at that. Fun.
He drops a jar of cumin into the cart like he’s committing a small crime.
Sometimes it overwhelms him in stranger ways.
You’ll be in the cereal aisle and he’ll go quiet, staring at an entire wall of boxes in neon colors.
In his childhood, breakfast was oatmeal if you were lucky. Bread if you weren’t. There was no cartoon tiger promising vitamins.
“There’s too much,” he says once, rubbing the back of his neck. “How does anyone pick?”
You grin. “You just grab the one with the marshmallows and accept your fate.”
He snorts, but you see it—the way his eyes dart across options like abundance is a puzzle he hasn’t learned to solve.
And sometimes it hits deeper.
Hydra fed him to keep him functional. Protein measured for performance. Calories calculated. No choice. No pleasure. Food was fuel. That’s it.
So standing in a modern grocery store, where he can choose anything—where he can buy strawberries in December, fresh bread still warm, chocolate from Belgium just because he feels like it—it does something to him.
He doesn’t always have the words for it.
But you notice.
You notice the way he lingers by the bakery, staring at racks of pastries.
You notice how he touches everything gently, like it might disappear.
You notice the way he checks prices—not because he can’t afford it now, but because some part of him still expects scarcity.
One evening, he loads the cart with apples. Too many apples.
Instead, you lean into him and press a kiss to his shoulder.
“We can make pie,” you say. “Or applesauce. Or just eat them until we’re sick of ‘em.”
He smiles at that—slow, warm, still a little disbelieving.
There’s a moment one winter that sticks with you.
You’re at the store late. Snow outside. Holiday music overhead. The citrus display is massive—bright against the gray of the season.
He picks up a single orange.
Turns it over in his hand.
“You know,” he says softly, “I used to think this was what being rich looked like.”
You swallow.
“What does it look like now?”
He looks at you.
Then at the cart filled with food you chose together. Fresh vegetables. Bread. Coffee. Spices. A ridiculous box of marshmallow cereal you insisted on.
“It looks like this,” he says.
You don’t fully understand until he adds, quieter:
“Walking in somewhere and knowing I can have what I need. What I want. And nobody’s gonna take it away.”
That’s the part that still overwhelms him.
Not just the abundance.
The safety.
The permanence.
He still has days where the noise and the choices and the lights stack up too high. Where he grips the cart a little too tight and you can see he’s somewhere between 1932 and now.
On those days, you steer him gently.
You keep the list short.
You press close enough that he can feel you.
And sometimes, when he freezes in front of another mountain of fruit, you simply take an orange, peel it carefully, and press a slice into his hand.
Blurb: two people who spend too much time starring down the barrel of a gun finding some sort of co-dependency with each other
word count: uh 1.3 ish
includes: toxic soft situationship, denial is a river in egypt
notes: thank you hozier…
masterlist / ao3
⋆˚☆˖°⋆。° ✮˖ ࣪⋆.˚
The thing about loneliness is that it does not always look like being alone.
Sometimes it looks like this;
A dim barracks room long after lights out. A door that unlocks at the right time for the right person. Boots kicked off to the side of the bed because the person they belong to has no intentions of staying longer than necessary. The faint smell of gun oil and cold air.
And Keegan.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed like he doesn’t belong there. Like the bed might reject him if he leans too far into it, if he allows himself to sink into the comfort of something soft for too long. His elbows rest on his knees, broad shoulders bowed forward slightly, dark hair still damp from the night's rain. Drops of water cling to the strands near his temples. One of them slips down slowly, disappearing into the shadow of his collar.
Neither of you say anything. You rarely do. The first time this happened, there had been words. Too many of them, actually. Stiff explanations, muted denials, some half-hearted attempt at pretending it was accidental, that this wasn’t exactly what it looked like.
You remember how awkward it had felt then. How careful both of you were with every sentence. How your bodies slowly moulded into one anothers.
Now, it’s just routine. He shows up, you let him stay as long as he wants. Neither of you pretend it's anything else. It started months ago, somewhere between deployments and the strange quiet of ‘normal’ life that follows them. The kind of quiet that really isn’t normal at all, no matter how you dress it.
One of those nights where everyone drinks too much or not enough and the silence is heavier than the gunfire ever was. When laughter sounds forced and the silence between conversation is too wide, too empty.
You had brushed past him in the corridor. Just a shoulder, brushing his arm, for barely a second. But his hand had caught your wrist like it meant something, like he needed it. Like that tiny moment of contact was the only solid thing he’s felt for weeks. Now you’re here. He’s here. And neither of you know how to stop.
You move first. Not toward him. You drape your jacket over the chair at your desk. Untie your hair. Anything that feels casual enough to hide the way your chest tightens under his stare.
Keegan watches everything. He always does. It’s the shoulder in him, the hunter. The part of him that catalogues every movement like it will matter later. Like your smallest movements are pieces of intelligence he needs to file away to survive this mission.
His gaze has dropped. Not leering or greedy, just fixed. Starved. You’ve seen that look before. Usually after missions where things went wrong and the briefing room smells like sweat and guilt.
You missed this deployment and the comedown brief was confidential. But it must have been rough. You see it in the way he sits. In the tension wound into the muscles of his shoulders. The way his hands hang loosely between his knees, a tremor in his trigger finger.
You toss your shirt into the chair, and claim onto the bed beside him. Your thigh brushes his, and this is when he finally exhales. It’s quiet but you hear it anyway.
Keegan leans back slightly, palms bracing behind him on the mattress. His shoulder presses into yours like gravity pulling him to you. Neither of you look at each other.
The room hums with the distant buzz of the base generator. Outside, someone laughs down the hall. The air feels thin.
Your hand shifts on the blanket between you. His follows. Just barely touching and that's the worst part. Not the kisses or the nights where he stays just before sunrise. It’s this. The tiny, desperate contact like both of you are afraid it might disappear if you acknowledge it. His thumb drags slowly across your knuckles.
“You should sleep.” He mutters, voice rough from disuse.
“You’re the one sitting on my bed.”
He shrugs like, touche.
Doesn’t move or take his hand away and your fingers curl around his before you can stop yourself. A second later, his grip tightens.
You’ve seen Keegan in combat. Calm, controlled, brutal in a way that looks effortless. This version of him is worse. This quiet, restless thing that only shows up when the two of you are alone.
His other arm lifts slowly, knuckles brushing the inside of your forearm. It sends tingles all the way down your spine. He’s testing it, the contact. Like a man testing whether ice will hold his weight. Your head tilts slightly towards him and that's all it takes. His hand slides up your arm, fingers closing around the back of your neck. And the world narrows to the heat of his hand and the pressure of his fingers.
He turns to face you. His eyes are darker up close. Tired, hungry in a way that has nothing to do with sex. And you know this because you’ve seen him kiss other people. Drunken things after victories, forgettable. What happens between you two isn’t like that. It's quieter, meaner. Like both of you are trying to take something from the other without admitting you need it.
“You keep letting me in.” He murmurs.
You shrug slightly. “You keep coming back.”
His mouth twitches, “Yeah.” Like the explanation is obvious.
Maybe it is. Keegan’s thumb drags slowly along your throat. Your pulse jumps under his touch, and he notices. His gaze flicks down, angry about it because he hates how the way your body reacts to him or maybe the way his reacts to yours.
Your hand lifts, fingers brushing the scar along his jaw. It’s a stupid thing to do, touching Keegan first. But he doesn’t pull away. Lets his eyes close for a few seconds. And when they open again, there’s something raw behind them.
He kisses you. Not soft, never with Keegan. He kisses like he’s trying to silence something. One hand tightening in your hair while the other drags you over him. Your knee bumps his thigh as the two of you shift, tangled awkwardly but neither trying to fix it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt. Heat and desperate press of bodies that don’t know what to do with themselves otherwise. When he pulls back, it’s abrupt and you can feel the blood rushing to your lips. Foreheads resting against each others, both of you breathing harder than you should be.
Keegan’s hand stays in your hair. Doesn’t let go. “You should stop letting me in.”
The thing about Keegan is that he says things like that while still holding you like he has no intention of stopping.
Your fingers trace the line of his wrist. “You could stop too.”
His jaw tightens and there it is, that familiar stubborn look flickering across his face. “I could.” He admits.
Neither of you believe him. Another silence settles. He shifts slightly, pulling you closer until your head ends up tucked into the spot between his shoulder and collarbone. He smells of rain and weapons oil. His heartbeat is slow and steady. You realise after a minute that his grip on you hasn’t loosened. If anything, it's tighter, like you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Two people who spend too much time staring down the barrel of a gun and realising the only that feels real anymore is another heartbeat under their hands.
Keegan shifts slightly, “You awake?” his chin brushing the top of your head.
“Mmm.”
A pause. His fingers trace slow absent patterns along your arm. “Good,”
You tilt your head back slightly, eyes catching the sharpness of his jaw. “Why?”
He doesn’t answer. Eyes on the dark ceiling. His hand finds yours again, lacing with it. Come morning, you’ll be indifferent co-workers again. Two soldiers passing each other in the hallway.
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but there’s verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words]
based off of this request!
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
Doesn’t understand why you’re perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your boot’s sole.
Not that he cares; it’s only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever he’s busy tracking a target down his scope.
Better not miss, Lt.
Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.
Don’t tell me you’re getting rusty, Lt?
A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when you’re both on base– when the verbal pettiness turns physical.
You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.
“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.
But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.
In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.
“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.
“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”
You’re not even wearing any earbuds.
He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.
It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them. You had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.
But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.
Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.
Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.
You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.
He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.
Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.
It’s infuriating.
But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences.
No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.
No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.
Why?
Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.
It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.
It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.
Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.
Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.
The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.
Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.
He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.
Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.
Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.
He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.
When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,
—getting you in his bed.
Your lieutenant's acting strange.
Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.
It's suspicious as fuck.
You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)
So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.
Exhibit A.
Standing up for you.
The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?
These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.
"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"
The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.
You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.
"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.
"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"
Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.
"Let's see how good you are then."
The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.
Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.
Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?
Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.
(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)
Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.
Exhibit B.
Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?
"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."
An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.
"My bloodline? Not happening."
He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.
There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.
"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"
"Got plenty," he says. The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.
"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.
A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.
It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.
If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.
"You volunteerin'?"
Your brain short-circuits.
What?
Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.
Shit hits the fan fast before you can gather your thoughts.
Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.
"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"
You don't need to be told twice.
There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.
And then, Exhibit C.
This is how it culminates.
Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.
You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.
“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.
“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.
The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing!
It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.
Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.
A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.
You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.
Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.
Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.
You did it.
Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.
It occurs to you then the position you're in.
Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.
He's so warm.
An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.
Big mistake.
Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.
You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.
A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.
There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.
Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.
"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.
"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."
You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.
Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.
How did you end up here?
Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?
Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?
You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.
It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?
(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)
Knock knock.
The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.
Ghost stands there, towering over you.
"Alright, Sergeant?"
His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."
The silence that falls between you is unsettling.
“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.
“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.
You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”
He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”
Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”
“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”
Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.
“Yes or no, Sergeant?”
His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.
“…N-no, I—”
“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”
He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.
Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.
He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.
But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.
You chase him when he pulls back.
“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.
"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"
He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.
"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."
You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"
Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.
"Arms around me, love," he grunts between kisses.
Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.
"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."
You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.
Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!
"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."
He groans into your skin. It's turns you on impossibly more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.
Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.
The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.
Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?
It’s unbearable how turned on you are.
Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.
Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.
Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.
Ghost kisses down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.
When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.
"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."
You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"
He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.
If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
He pulls you close and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.
Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.
"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.
But then he stills.
Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.
"W-why'd you stop—,"
"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.
"Huh?"
"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."
Your breath catches in your throat. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“
You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.
"Answer the question, Sergeant."
Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still pinning your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.
"Mmhh—"
The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.
"Please, Lt.—"
"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."
And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?
You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.
Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.
"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."
The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.
"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.
It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.
The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.
Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.
“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.
He's smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.
“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.
“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”
He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.
"Jerk— hngh!"
Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he laps you up relentlessly, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it fell.
You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.
(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?
It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)
His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.
It's all too much for you to take.
When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.
"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.
He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.
With the crash comes some of your rationality.
"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.
"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."
You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"
He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.
"Don't you?"
Don't you?
Your breath catches in your throat.
And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?
His name? His face?
Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?
Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.
You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.
"You with me, pet?"
Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.
"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."
You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.
“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"
The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.
"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."
Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.
"—off," you manage to say between breaths.
Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.
His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.
"Scared?" He teases.
You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.
"I've had bigger," you lie.
He tilts his head. "S'that right?"
Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.
Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.
He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.
"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"
You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."
"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.
"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.
"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."
Fucking. Asshole!
Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."
You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.
Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.
"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.
His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.
“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”
"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.
"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.
"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.
It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.
Simon doesn't stop teasing you.
"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.
"Cock's got your tongue?"
"F-fu-ungh—"
Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.
He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.
"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."
"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.
It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.
He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.
You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.
His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.
"Come f'me, pet."
And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.
Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.
When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.
Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes ballsdeep in your pussy.
“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.
But there’s no real venom in your voice.
Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.
“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”
You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.
Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.
"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"
You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.
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cw: murder suicide hurt/no comfort. abandon hope all ye who enter here and blame the lovely enablers who wanted angst 🖤
Rugby!Simon sees the voicemail at the end of the day while on his way home to his hotel room.
"Hello Mr. Riley, this is Dr. Bryant from…"
Simon drops everything, the only evidence that he was ever there being his gym kit abandoned on the sidewalk. Within the hour he's sat on a plane back home.
"As you're listed as next of kin, there are resources we can provide to start planning next steps. The team and I are keeping you in our thoughts during this difficult time, and we send our deepest sympathies."
Four stupid uni students.
Four sloshed, stupid uni students on a graduation bender, a shitty car that was older than they are, and now you're gone.
You're gone and he wasn't there.
The press finds out, somehow. The news of your death hits the front page of every sports media outlet.
Wife of Rugby Star Simon Riley Killed in Drink Driving Accident
They don't even call you by name. They're lucky they don't.
He doesn't remember the funeral. He remembers the last morning he woke up beside you and the last words you said to him. He remembers the smell of your hair and the warmth of you next to him.
One photographer managed to sneak in. The camera flash detonated like a gunshot in the corner of his eye. He comes to only when half of his team are pulling him off of the bloodied mess and shattered plastic splattered on the concrete. Simon nearly kills him. He doesn't remember how he gets home.
The house is dark, cold, silent. It's been untouched since you left it. Your death is a nuclear winter. The sun is gone, shrouded behind the veil of annihilation. Nothing will ever grow here again. All that's left is a slow, lonely extinction. Simon never leaves it. Two ghosts haunt this home now.
The boys that killed you got bail. They sit in their flat while only a photo of you in a picture frame sits with him. He traces the lines of your face smiling back at him as he sits in your dark house.
He sits in the dark with a phone that died days ago that's bloated with dozens upon dozens of unread messages and missed calls.
All this love he has for you with nowhere to put it. A silver-eyed leviathan reaching up and dragging him back down down down to that starved, endless black void.
He holds the picture frame in his hands and says the first words he's spoken since he left the hospital:
"I'll make it right, love."
In the aftermath, a frisson of fear runs through the city. The state of the crime scene left behind immediately inspires the worst thoughts in the residents of the general public. Panic over a possible serial killer roaming the streets starts to spread.
Police hold press conferences in attempts to bring the excitement down. "Investigation is still underway, but as of right now we have reason to believe that this was not a random targeting. If anyone has any information that can assist us please contact…"
True crime content creators go rabid. "None of the doors were touched, whoever did this managed to scale the building and crawl through a window. Onsite investigation found that the same knife was used in all of the killings. Each of the victims were found in separate rooms from each other, none of them ever saw it coming until it was too late. Whoever did this wanted these guys to know they were about to die. These weren't murders; these were executions."
It's Soap who ends up finding him.
After failed attempt after failed attempt to get a hold of him, Johnny shows up at your place. He never thought it was a good idea to leave Simon alone during this, but there was only so much he could do in the face of the ghost that Simon turned into.
The first warning sign was the unlocked front door.
"Simon?" Johnny calls into the dark. "Just checking up on ya. You haven't been responding to any messages. The cap' and boys are wondering about you."
The second warning sign was the smell of iron as he walked further into your home.
"Simon?" his voice is quieter. Your home feels like a tomb.
It's only when he creeps further in that he sees the back of Simon sitting in the armchair in the living room. "Hey, mate--"
As he steps around to the front of him, the first thing that registers is the blood. Old blood, dried to Simon's hands and staining his shirt into a rusted brown. Fresher blood, dark, congealed around a hole in his head, frozen trails from his nose. Open, unseeing, bloodshot eyes. The picture of you held in one hand, a gun dropped from the other.
"Oh. Jesus."
The investigation quickly comes to a close when the blood on Simon comes back as a positive match for the bodies in the flat and the knife used in the killings was found in his pocket. Blurry security camera footage shows brief glimpses of a man the size and shape of Simon bleeding through the shadows of the night of the murders. He was in and out in under 15 minutes.
Simon's death blindsides the rugby world.
The first reports on it don't mention his cause of death, but it's not long until an inevitable tabloid gets some watchdog insider tip. After that, it's only a matter of time before the court of public opinion makes the connection between the identities of the murders and his subsequent suicide.
A conflicting sense of mourning sweeps like wildfire through fans' feeds. People aren't sure how they're allowed to react. Simon was a beloved player worldwide and his passion for the sport brought comfort to fans who also shared that passion. He also assassinated the men who killed his wife before killing himself. There's a bloody, Simon Riley shaped fracture in the world and no one knows what to with it.
There's one sentiment that is universally agreed upon that is first spoken by commentator after the fact: "It's a series of senseless tragedy over senseless tragedy, and none of it should've happened in the first place."