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He never said it out loud to anyone, not even price, but he kept a private ledger in his head, the way some men kept a running tally of debts owed.
HIs father, Dead of drink and his own fists eventually turning inward. His brother, gone the way boys from that part of manchester go quietly, then all at once. His mother, worn down long before her body finally agreed to quit. A squad in the Reg he didnt let himself think about except at 3am, when thinking about it was unavoidable.
Everyone he had ever let matter had ended up in the ground and simon had built a career, then a mask, then an entire personality, around the idea that the pattern wasnt going to break for him.
So when captain price told him Hereford was sending over a new signals specialist for the close quaters rotation, Simons first feeling wasnt curiosity. It was the low, familiar hum of "this is going to be a problem"
You came of the transport in the rain with a duffel bag that looked like it weighed more than you did and you didnt stumble once on the wet tarmac, which simon noted the way he noted everything. As data.
You had a scar through one eyebrow that nobody explained and nobody asked about. You saluted Price like you meant it and you looked at Simons mask for exactly one second longer than most people did, then never mentioned it again.
That, if he was being honest with himself later, was the first thing.
Most peoples eyes did something when they saw the mask, a flinch, a flicker of perfeormed indifference that was its own kind of tell. Yours didnt do anything. You just filed it away, the same way youd file away a terrain feature or a sightline and moved on. Simon decided this meant nothing. He decided a lot of things meant nothing that year.
He made your life difficult, in the specific surgical way he knew how. He didnt yell. Yelling was for men who needed an audience. He just went quiet and precise, the kind of quiet that made junior operators sweat through their base layers. He corrected your stance during breach drills with two words. He let silences sit in debriefs a beat too long after you spoke, just to see if you'd fill them.
You never did.
You'd wait him out, jaw tight and then repeat exactly what you'd said the first time. undiluted.
By the third month he'd stopped expecting the transfer request that never came.
By the sixth, he'd caught himself, twice, checking where you were in a stack before he checked where Gaz was, and told himself it was tactical instinct. That was all.
There wasnt a scene where the ice broke. If you'd asked either of you to point to a single moment, You'd have struggled. It was more like weather than an event, a slow pressure change neither of you registered until you were ready until you were already standing in the rain. But if he was pressed , if someone put a knife to it, Simon would have said Al-Mazrah.
The hospital had been cleared three days earlier, or so the intel said. The intel, as it turned out, was written by someone who had never been within four hundred miles of Al-Mazrah and they would very much like to keep it that way.
By the time Taskforce 141 worked out that they'd walked into a live position, Price and Soap were pinned on the ground floor and you and simon were cut off two flights up, in a pedriatric ward with half the ceiling on the floor and the other half threatening to join it.
There is a particular smell to old concrete dust mixed with cordite that never fully leaves you. Simon had it in his sinuses for a week afterward. He remembers being annoyed about that, in the stupid sideways way your brain gets annoyed about small physical discomforts when it cant process the actual danger you're in.
He was behind an overturned desk, hands moving through a mag change on pure muscle memory, when he clocked the stain spreading across your shoulder. It didnt announce itself. You hadn't gasped or gone pale or done any of the things people did in the films. You'd just kept firing, controlled three round bursts, your breathing maybe half a beat off from where it should have been, which was the only tell that gave you away to someone who'd spent a decade learning to read exactly that kind of thing.
"You're hit."
"Through and through. Missed the artery." You didn't even glance over. "Worry about the stairwell"
He hauled you back by the strap of your plate carrier anyway, Because there are orders you follow and orders you don't and bleed out quietly while i focus on the door was never going to be the one he followed.
You swore at him. Properly, inventively, in a way that under different circumstances he might have found funny, and let him drag you behind the pillar without actually fighting him on it, which told him more than the swearing did.
The QuikClot went in hard, and you hissed through your teeth and grabed his forearm and that was when it happened. Not the shooting, Not the dust. The name.
"I've had worse paper cuts, Riley" you said, and then, a beat later, softer, involuntary: "simon,"
He'd been called Riley for years. Lieutenant, sometimes, when someone was being formal, or Ghost, when they wanted the mask instead of the man. Nobody used his first name anymore ; he'd made sure of that, the way you make sure of anyhthing you're trying to bury.
Hearing it now. stripped of rank, said by someone with her hand fisted white, knuckled in his sleeve, it did something he didnt have the tactucal term for. He filled the feelinf away with everything else he wasn't ready to look at directly and finished the dressing.
You fought your way out back to back. It wasn't cinematic. It was ugly and loud and mostly consisted of Simon shouting ammo counts and you correcting his angles, and somewhere in the middle of it he noticed he'd stopped watching you to critique you and started watching you becausehe trusted you without reservation, to cover the sis inches of his blind spot that had goitten better men than himself killed.
That was as far as it went for a year. Trust, unspoken, load bearing. He told himself that was the whole of it and mostly belived himself.
Vondel broke something loose that trust alone hadn't.
Forty eight hours in flooded sewer tunnels chasing a target who kept one step ahead of the two of you the entire time does something to a person's nervous system that doesn't switch off just because the op is technically over.
Simon sat alone in the safe house kitchen at two in the morning with a bottle of whiskey that tatsed like it had been distilled specifically to punish him, still wearing the balaclava rolled up over his nose, staring at wallpaper that had probably been ugly even before it started peeling.
You came in wearing sweatpants and looking like you hadn't slept in a week, because you hadn't. You didn't ask for permission. You sat, took the bottle and drank from it like it owed nyou money and set it back down.
"Cant sleep." you said.
"Close your eyes and pretend."
"Every time i close mine i can still smell the canal water." You looked at him. Really looked, the unguarded kind of look people only give you when they are too tired to keep the usual defences up. "How do you turn it off, simon?"
"I don't." he admitted, and the whiskey was doing exactly what whiskey does to the part of the brain that's supposed to stop you saying true things out loud. "I just find a smaller box to put it in."
He should have known where the converstation was headed and left the room. He'd been trained to recognise incoming threats from further away than this. Instead he sat there and let it happen, because for three years he'd been cold on purpose and he was tired, bone tired, the kind of tired that makes bad decisions look like small mercies.
What followed wasn't romantic and neiuther of you pretended it was. it was two exhausted people who'd been circling something for a year finaly admitting, wordlessly, that neither of you wanted to eb alone with the inside of yoyr own head that particular night.
Simon set the rules before his boots had even properly landed back on the floor afterward, because setting rules was the only way he knew how to survive wanting something.
This means nothing. This stays between us. This is stress relief and nothing more.
You'd looked at him, not hurt, or not visibly, though later he'd wonder how much of that was performance on your part too, and given him the same flat nod you gave him on a battlefield.
"Loud and clear, Lieutenant."
For a year you kept to it with the same discipline you brought to everything else. Supply closets, the backs of transport vehicles, hotel rooms on either side of an op with a wall between them that felt thinner than it was. He was good at compartmentalizing; it was, after all, the only skill that had kept him alive this long. He told himself the arrangement was working. He told himself a lot of things.
Las Almas didn't ask his permission before it took the compartments apart.
When Shepherd's betrayal split the Task Force and Shadow Company started hunting them through streets that had gone from merely dangerous to actively hostile.
Simon lost contact with three quarters of his team inside the first ten minutes. He got Soap on comms, wounded but alive, and guided him through back alleys with the kind of cold, procedural calm that had made him useful to Price for a decade. But the channel that should have carried Price's voice, or Gaz's, or yours, stayed dead. Forty-eight hours of dead air is a long time to sit with the assumption that someone is gone.
He didn't fall apart the way people fall apart in films, with shaking hands and raised voices. It was quieter and worse than that. He simply stopped being able to access any part of himself that wasn't focused on getting to a rendezvous point, because if he let anything else in, grief, mostly, arriving early and uninvited.
He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep moving. He killed efficiently and without much feeling, because feeling had briefly become a liability he couldn't afford, and somewhere in that stretch of silence he understood, with the flat clarity of a man finally being handed a bill he'd been avoiding for years, that he had lied to himself for three years running.
It had never meant nothing. He'd just needed it to.
When he walked into the safehouse and found you sitting on a crate with your arm in a sling, dirt-streaked, alive, something in his chest did a thing he genuinely did not have language for. He crossed the room without registering Price, without registering Gaz, and pulled the balaclava off with one hand, letting his actual face be seen by a room full of people for the first time in longer than he could remember, because it didn't occur to him to care.
"Simon?"
He pressed his forehead to yours and just breathed for a second, badly, the breath catching in a way that was uncomfortably close to something he wasn't going to name in front of Price.
"I thought Graves—" His voice wasn't steady. He let it not be steady, which was its own kind of surrender. "I thought I'd lost you."
"Takes more than Shadow Company," you said, quiet, just for him, your hands coming up over his where they cradled your face, feeling the tremor he couldn't hide. "I'm right here."
Price, to his enormous credit, found something urgent to study on the tactical map and gave you both the thirty seconds of privacy the moment required.
It wasn't a clean turn after that. Simon didn't become a different man overnight because he'd had one bad forty eight hours and one good reunion, people don't work that way, whatever the films suggest.
He still went quiet for stretches. He still flinched, once, when you reached for his face too fast during a debrief and he hadn't seen it coming. But something had shifted permanently out of alignment with where it used to sit, and he stopped trying to force it back.
He told you that you were staying in the transport during the assault on Graves' position, and when you pushed back because of course you pushed back, he'd have thought less of you if you hadn't his voice dropped into a register that had nothing of the Lieutenant left in it.
"Please," he said, and the word cost him something visible. "I can't do what tonight needs if I'm wondering whether you're bleeding out somewhere I can't reach you. Let me know you're safe. That's all I'm asking."
You studied him for a long moment long enough that he wondered if you were going to make him say more, which he wasn't sure he had in him and then you nodded.
"I'll take comms. Go get our base back."
Weeks later, after Graves had gone up in a burning tank and Hassan had gone out a window in Chicago and the debrief paperwork had finally, mercifully, ground to a halt, you and Simon ended up on the same sofa in a London office that smelled like instant coffee and carpet cleaner.
Laswell was two rooms over, still filing something. The building had that specific, hollowed out quiet that settles in after everyone's adrenaline has nowhere left to go.
Your knee bumped his. You didn't move it away, and he didn't either.
"So," you said, not looking at him, turning your coffee cup slowly in your hands. "Is the arrangement over?"
He thought about it properly this time, instead of reaching for the easiest defensible answer. He thought about the nightmares that weren't going anywhere, about a job that would keep handing them exactly the kind of situations that got people killed, about the very real chance that one day the toll he'd spent his whole life fearing would come due after all. None of that had changed. He wasn't cured of it. He didn't think he ever would be.
But he thought, too, about forty-eight hours of dead air, and what he'd have given, in that stretch, to un-know how it felt to think you were gone. Whatever price loving you carried, it was smaller than that.
He took the cup out of your hands and set it down, along with his own, and reached for your fingers instead.
"I was a coward," he said. Not dramatically. Just honestly, which was harder. "Thought if I never said it, the universe wouldn't notice and wouldn't come collect. Turns out that's not really how it works."
"And now?"
"Now I don't much care if it notices." He looked at you properly, mask and all, nothing else left to put between you. "I loved you in that hospital. I loved you in that kitchen, though God knows I did everything I could to make sure you never found out. I loved you every hour I thought you were dead in Mexico. I can't offer you a quiet life. I don't know how to be anything other than what the job made me. But I'm not going to keep pretending I don't want to try."
You were quiet for a second, and when you finally leaned in and pressed your mouth to the scarred edge of his jaw, just below where the mask ended, he felt the single point of contact more than he'd felt entire firefights.
"You're not ruined," you said against his skin. "You're just haunted. I've been managing ghosts for four years running. I'm not planning to stop now."
He pulled you against him, careful of your shoulder out of a habit that would probably never leave him, and let himself, for the length of one exhale, just be a man sitting on an ugly office sofa with someone he loved, instead of a weapon waiting for its next assignment.
It wasn't a happy ending, exactly. Neither of you was naive enough to call it that. But it was, for the first time in a very long time, a beginning he didn't feel the need to brace against.
He never said it out loud to anyone, not even price, but he kept a private ledger in his head, the way some men kept a running tally of debts owed.
HIs father, Dead of drink and his own fists eventually turning inward. His brother, gone the way boys from that part of manchester go quietly, then all at once. His mother, worn down long before her body finally agreed to quit. A squad in the Reg he didnt let himself think about except at 3am, when thinking about it was unavoidable.
Everyone he had ever let matter had ended up in the ground and simon had built a career, then a mask, then an entire personality, around the idea that the pattern wasnt going to break for him.
So when captain price told him Hereford was sending over a new signals specialist for the close quaters rotation, Simons first feeling wasnt curiosity. It was the low, familiar hum of "this is going to be a problem"
You came of the transport in the rain with a duffel bag that looked like it weighed more than you did and you didnt stumble once on the wet tarmac, which simon noted the way he noted everything. As data.
You had a scar through one eyebrow that nobody explained and nobody asked about. You saluted Price like you meant it and you looked at Simons mask for exactly one second longer than most people did, then never mentioned it again.
That, if he was being honest with himself later, was the first thing.
Most peoples eyes did something when they saw the mask, a flinch, a flicker of perfeormed indifference that was its own kind of tell. Yours didnt do anything. You just filed it away, the same way youd file away a terrain feature or a sightline and moved on. Simon decided this meant nothing. He decided a lot of things meant nothing that year.
He made your life difficult, in the specific surgical way he knew how. He didnt yell. Yelling was for men who needed an audience. He just went quiet and precise, the kind of quiet that made junior operators sweat through their base layers. He corrected your stance during breach drills with two words. He let silences sit in debriefs a beat too long after you spoke, just to see if you'd fill them.
You never did.
You'd wait him out, jaw tight and then repeat exactly what you'd said the first time. undiluted.
By the third month he'd stopped expecting the transfer request that never came.
By the sixth, he'd caught himself, twice, checking where you were in a stack before he checked where Gaz was, and told himself it was tactical instinct. That was all.
There wasnt a scene where the ice broke. If you'd asked either of you to point to a single moment, You'd have struggled. It was more like weather than an event, a slow pressure change neither of you registered until you were ready until you were already standing in the rain. But if he was pressed , if someone put a knife to it, Simon would have said Al-Mazrah.
The hospital had been cleared three days earlier, or so the intel said. The intel, as it turned out, was written by someone who had never been within four hundred miles of Al-Mazrah and they would very much like to keep it that way.
By the time Taskforce 141 worked out that they'd walked into a live position, Price and Soap were pinned on the ground floor and you and simon were cut off two flights up, in a pedriatric ward with half the ceiling on the floor and the other half threatening to join it.
There is a particular smell to old concrete dust mixed with cordite that never fully leaves you. Simon had it in his sinuses for a week afterward. He remembers being annoyed about that, in the stupid sideways way your brain gets annoyed about small physical discomforts when it cant process the actual danger you're in.
He was behind an overturned desk, hands moving through a mag change on pure muscle memory, when he clocked the stain spreading across your shoulder. It didnt announce itself. You hadn't gasped or gone pale or done any of the things people did in the films. You'd just kept firing, controlled three round bursts, your breathing maybe half a beat off from where it should have been, which was the only tell that gave you away to someone who'd spent a decade learning to read exactly that kind of thing.
"You're hit."
"Through and through. Missed the artery." You didn't even glance over. "Worry about the stairwell"
He hauled you back by the strap of your plate carrier anyway, Because there are orders you follow and orders you don't and bleed out quietly while i focus on the door was never going to be the one he followed.
You swore at him. Properly, inventively, in a way that under different circumstances he might have found funny, and let him drag you behind the pillar without actually fighting him on it, which told him more than the swearing did.
The QuikClot went in hard, and you hissed through your teeth and grabed his forearm and that was when it happened. Not the shooting, Not the dust. The name.
"I've had worse paper cuts, Riley" you said, and then, a beat later, softer, involuntary: "simon,"
He'd been called Riley for years. Lieutenant, sometimes, when someone was being formal, or Ghost, when they wanted the mask instead of the man. Nobody used his first name anymore; he'd made sure of that, the way you make sure of anything you're trying to bury.
Hearing it now. stripped of rank, said by someone with her hand fisted white, knuckled in his sleeve, it did something he didnt have the tactical term for. He filled the feeling away with everything else he wasn't ready to look at directly and finished the dressing.
You fought your way out back to back. It wasn't cinematic. It was ugly and loud and mostly consisted of Simon shouting ammo counts and you correcting his angles, and somewhere in the middle of it he noticed he'd stopped watching you to critique you and started watching you becausehe trusted you without reservation, to cover the six inches of his blind spot that had gotten better men than himself killed.
That was as far as it went for a year. Trust, unspoken, load bearing. He told himself that was the whole of it and mostly belived himself.
Vondel broke something loose that trust alone hadn't.
Forty eight hours in flooded sewer tunnels chasing a target who kept one step ahead of the two of you the entire time does something to a person's nervous system that doesn't switch off just because the op is technically over.
Simon sat alone in the safe house kitchen at two in the morning with a bottle of whiskey that tatsed like it had been distilled specifically to punish him, still wearing the balaclava rolled up over his nose, staring at wallpaper that had probably been ugly even before it started peeling.
You came in wearing sweatpants and looking like you hadn't slept in a week, because you hadn't. You didn't ask for permission. You sat, took the bottle and drank from it like it owed nyou money and set it back down.
"Cant sleep." you said.
"Close your eyes and pretend."
"Every time i close mine i can still smell the canal water." You looked at him. Really looked, the unguarded kind of look people only give you when they are too tired to keep the usual defences up. "How do you turn it off, simon?"
"I don't." he admitted, and the whiskey was doing exactly what whiskey does to the part of the brain that's supposed to stop you saying true things out loud. "I just find a smaller box to put it in."
He should have known where the converstation was headed and left the room. He'd been trained to recognise incoming threats from further away than this. Instead he sat there and let it happen, because for three years he'd been cold on purpose and he was tired, bone tired, the kind of tired that makes bad decisions look like small mercies.
What followed wasn't romantic and neither of you pretended it was. it was two exhausted people who'd been circling something for a year finally admitting, wordlessly, that neither of you wanted to be alone with the inside of your own head that particular night.
Simon set the rules before his boots had even properly landed back on the floor afterward, because setting rules was the only way he knew how to survive wanting something.
This means nothing. This stays between us. This is stress relief and nothing more.
You'd looked at him, not hurt, or not visibly, though later he'd wonder how much of that was performance on your part too, and given him the same flat nod you gave him on a battlefield.
"Loud and clear, Lieutenant."
For a year you kept to it with the same discipline you brought to everything else. Supply closets, the backs of transport vehicles, hotel rooms on either side of an op with a wall between them that felt thinner than it was. He was good at compartmentalizing; it was, after all, the only skill that had kept him alive this long. He told himself the arrangement was working. He told himself a lot of things.
Las Almas didn't ask his permission before it took the compartments apart.
When Shepherd's betrayal split the Task Force and Shadow Company started hunting them through streets that had gone from merely dangerous to actively hostile.
Simon lost contact with three quarters of his team inside the first ten minutes. He got Soap on comms, wounded but alive, and guided him through back alleys with the kind of cold, procedural calm that had made him useful to Price for a decade. But the channel that should have carried Price's voice, or Gaz's, or yours, stayed dead. Forty-eight hours of dead air is a long time to sit with the assumption that someone is gone.
He didn't fall apart the way people fall apart in films, with shaking hands and raised voices. It was quieter and worse than that. He simply stopped being able to access any part of himself that wasn't focused on getting to a rendezvous point, because if he let anything else in, grief, mostly, arriving early and uninvited.
He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep moving. He killed efficiently and without much feeling, because feeling had briefly become a liability he couldn't afford, and somewhere in that stretch of silence he understood, with the flat clarity of a man finally being handed a bill he'd been avoiding for years, that he had lied to himself for three years running.
It had never meant nothing. He'd just needed it to.
When he walked into the safehouse and found you sitting on a crate with your arm in a sling, dirt-streaked, alive, something in his chest did a thing he genuinely did not have language for. He crossed the room without registering Price, without registering Gaz, and pulled the balaclava off with one hand, letting his actual face be seen by a room full of people for the first time in longer than he could remember, because it didn't occur to him to care.
"Simon?"
He pressed his forehead to yours and just breathed for a second, badly, the breath catching in a way that was uncomfortably close to something he wasn't going to name in front of Price.
"I thought Graves—" His voice wasn't steady. He let it not be steady, which was its own kind of surrender. "I thought I'd lost you."
"Takes more than Shadow Company," you said, quiet, just for him, your hands coming up over his where they cradled your face, feeling the tremor he couldn't hide. "I'm right here."
Price, to his enormous credit, found something urgent to study on the tactical map and gave you both the thirty seconds of privacy the moment required.
It wasn't a clean turn after that. Simon didn't become a different man overnight because he'd had one bad forty eight hours and one good reunion, people don't work that way, whatever the films suggest.
He still went quiet for stretches. He still flinched, once, when you reached for his face too fast during a debrief and he hadn't seen it coming. But something had shifted permanently out of alignment with where it used to sit, and he stopped trying to force it back.
He told you that you were staying in the transport during the assault on Graves' position, and when you pushed back because of course you pushed back, he'd have thought less of you if you hadn't his voice dropped into a register that had nothing of the Lieutenant left in it.
"Please," he said, and the word cost him something visible. "I can't do what tonight needs if I'm wondering whether you're bleeding out somewhere I can't reach you. Let me know you're safe. That's all I'm asking."
You studied him for a long moment long enough that he wondered if you were going to make him say more, which he wasn't sure he had in him and then you nodded.
"I'll take comms. Go get our base back."
Weeks later, after Graves had gone up in a burning tank and Hassan had gone out a window in Chicago and the debrief paperwork had finally, mercifully, ground to a halt, you and Simon ended up on the same sofa in a London office that smelled like instant coffee and carpet cleaner.
Laswell was two rooms over, still filing something. The building had that specific, hollowed out quiet that settles in after everyone's adrenaline has nowhere left to go.
Your knee bumped his. You didn't move it away, and he didn't either.
"So," you said, not looking at him, turning your coffee cup slowly in your hands. "Is the arrangement over?"
He thought about it properly this time, instead of reaching for the easiest defensible answer. He thought about the nightmares that weren't going anywhere, about a job that would keep handing them exactly the kind of situations that got people killed, about the very real chance that one day the toll he'd spent his whole life fearing would come due after all. None of that had changed. He wasn't cured of it. He didn't think he ever would be.
But he thought, too, about forty-eight hours of dead air, and what he'd have given, in that stretch, to un-know how it felt to think you were gone. Whatever price loving you carried, it was smaller than that.
He took the cup out of your hands and set it down, along with his own, and reached for your fingers instead.
"I was a coward," he said. Not dramatically. Just honestly, which was harder. "Thought if I never said it, the universe wouldn't notice and wouldn't come collect. Turns out that's not really how it works."
"And now?"
"Now I don't much care if it notices." He looked at you properly, mask and all, nothing else left to put between you. "I loved you in that hospital. I loved you in that kitchen, though God knows I did everything I could to make sure you never found out. I loved you every hour I thought you were dead in Mexico. I can't offer you a quiet life. I don't know how to be anything other than what the job made me. But I'm not going to keep pretending I don't want to try."
You were quiet for a second, and when you finally leaned in and pressed your mouth to the scarred edge of his jaw, just below where the mask ended, he felt the single point of contact more than he'd felt entire firefights.
"You're not ruined," you said against his skin. "You're just haunted. I've been managing ghosts for four years running. I'm not planning to stop now."
He pulled you against him, careful of your shoulder out of a habit that would probably never leave him, and let himself, for the length of one exhale, just be a man sitting on an ugly office sofa with someone he loved, instead of a weapon waiting for its next assignment.
It wasn't a happy ending, exactly. Neither of you was naive enough to call it that. But it was, for the first time in a very long time, a beginning he didn't feel the need to brace against.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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.
his pace isn't nice, its straight mean as he pounds his thick, meaty cock into your drooling warmth, desperate to put a baby in your womb. he's not gentle about it either, mind racing and going dumb at the thought, hastily working to make it happen.
your tummy bulges with the way he sheathes his entire bulbous cock in your tight hole, spongy walls constricting around him, feeling every ridge and vein as you hug him tight. his angry, red tip punches against your cervix, ready to spurt his thick load into your sweet cunt.
he knows you'll let him, you'll let him do whatever he wants as he fucks you stupid, jackhammering deeper and deeper with relentless pace. the backs of your thighs reddening and your plush rear bouncing against his hips. his full balls slap against your clit, making you cry out into the bedding, saliva leaking from your lips.
above you, he moans incessantly, pussy-drunk and whipped as he mindlessly humps you, large, rough hands grabbing at your hips, so tight it might bruise.
he mumbles words you can't quite hear, feeling drooling saliva drip from his lips down onto your bare shoulder, running down your back. his jaw is slack, head tilted back and pupils blown.
it doesn't take long for him to fill you full of his seeds, spurting thick ropes of his white, creamy cum to fill your sweet pussy, coating your walls and leaving you full and satisfied. he pulls out to watch it drip out of you, calloused hands pulling your cheeks apart as he watches your slit leak with his release and drip onto the bed. he takes two thick fingers, smearing it across your folds before fucking it back inside you, hoping it takes.
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader
T/W: hurt/comfort, angst
word count: 2.1k
A/N: feels like an eternity (it was) so here's an early Christmas present to all of you.
The night had started quietly, the kind of stillness that settled naturally between them. You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, scrolling through your phone while Simon sat nearby, sharpening a blade. The metallic sound of the whetstone filled the rom, steady and methodical.
“You know..” You started, breaking the silence, “for someone who spends so much time sharpening knives, you’d think you’d be better at cutting fruit.”
Simon didn’t even look up “Not my job”
“You literally sliced though an apple like it was a brick the other day,” you continued, smirking. “it was painful to watch.”
“wasn’t meant to look pretty. its functional,” he replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling faintly beneath his balaclava. “Bit like me, really”
“Uh-huh. Functional” you echoed “Except when you try to cook. Then its just tragic.”
He snorted, finally glancing over at you. “You want tragic? How about that time you tried to explain to me how GPS works?”
Your mouth fell open, mock-offended. “I was simplifying it for you! i know what triangulation is!” (lmfao no you didn't)
“Sure you do,” Simon muttered, voice low and gravelly.
You grabbed a pillow of the couch, sitting up straighter. “Say that again Lieutenant”
He leaned back, clearly unbothered. “i said—”
The pillow hit him square in the face before he could finish, and for a moment, the room was silent except for the soft thump as the pillow hit the ground.
Simon slowly straightened, his head tilting just slightly as he regarded you “Oh. You’re dead now love”
“Oh, no,” You said, already sliding off the couch, her grin widening. “You don’t scare me, Lieutenant.”
Simon stood slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. He reached for one of the couch cushions, hefting it in one hand. “I’m giving you a head start, love. Better take it.”
You squealed and darted toward the kitchen, your laughter echoing through the apartment. “You’re too slow, old man!”
“Old man?” he repeated, his voice trailing after her like a threat.
You turned to stick your tongue out, but Simon was faster than you expected, closing the distance between you in just a few strides. you yelped and grabbed a dishtowel off the counter, flicking it at him before taking off again.
“You’re really making this a thing?” he called after you, his voice edged with amusement.
“Oh, it’s already a thing!” you shot back, ducking into the living room.
Your heart raced as you darted around the couch, narrowly dodging his outstretched arm. You were laughing so hard you could barely think straight, and when Simon lunged again, you shrieked and tried to pivot - but his arm caught you around the waist, pulling you back.
“You’re done for now,” he murmured in your ear, his voice low and teasing as he hauled you onto the couch.
“Not a chance!” you gasped, twisting under him.
“Keep struggling. Makes this more fun,” Simon teased, pinning your hands above your head.
You squirm beneath him, laughing breathlessly, your wrists pinned tightly above your head by his hands. “You think this is enough to hold me down?” you tease, your voice light, testing him like you always do.
Simon smirks, leaning his weight forward just enough to keep you trapped. “It’s more than enough,” he says, his voice low, a touch of challenge in his tone.
You wriggle harder, laughing again, though the first seed of unease stirs faintly in your chest. His grip doesn’t loosen, not even slightly. “I’m not giving up, you know,” you say, still playful, though you tug harder now, testing the strength of his hold.
“Don’t have to,” he murmurs, calm and certain. “You’ve already lost.”
It’s supposed to be a game, like it always is. But this time, his weight feels different—heavier, immovable. You shift your hips, trying to create some space, but he doesn’t budge. His strength is startling, his body unyielding in a way that sends a faint shiver through you. You twist your wrists again, more deliberately this time. Nothing.
Your smile fades. “Alright,” you say, your voice firm but still light, not wanting to ruin the moment. “You win. Let me up.”
Simon tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Not until you tap out properly.”
“I am tapping out,” you insist, tugging harder, your breath hitching slightly. “Simon, let me up.”
But he doesn’t move. His hands remain locked around your wrists, his weight pressing down on your chest. The faint unease grows sharper, colder. You twist again, harder, panic bubbling up now. “Simon,” you say, your voice louder, strained. “I’m serious. Get off.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. The playful glint in his eyes remains, but it feels detached, distant, as though he’s not hearing you. You buck your hips sharply, trying to shift him, but it’s like trying to move a wall. His body doesn’t yield.
“Simon!” you gasp, your voice breaking. The fear that had been creeping at the edges of your mind crashes into you full force. Your chest tightens as you realize you can’t draw in a full breath. “Get off me—I can’t breathe!”
His smirk falters, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “What’s that?” he asks, like he doesn’t quite believe you.
Your lungs burn, your chest heaving uselessly as you press both hands against his chest, shoving with all your strength. “I can’t breathe!” you choke, tears springing to your eyes as panic claws at your throat. “Please, Simon—get off!”
But his weight is relentless, his strength overwhelming. You thrash beneath him, twisting your wrists, clawing at his hands, kicking out with your legs—anything to get free. Your vision starts to blur, your body screaming for oxygen as your heart pounds against your ribs. It’s hopeless. He’s too strong, too big, and you can’t move him. The world around you narrows, and for a terrifying moment, you think he won’t stop.
Then suddenly, the weight disappears. but your lungs still don’t work right. Air scrapes through your throat, harsh and unsteady, as you sit up too fast, clutching at the edge of the couch to steady yourself. The room tilts, your vision swimming with faint, dark spots at the edges.
Simon rolls off you so quickly it’s as if he’s been burned. He scrambles back, his breathing sharp and uneven.
For a moment, all you can do is breathe—ragged, desperate gulps of air that burn as they fill your lungs. Your hands tremble uncontrollably as you press them against your knees, grounding yourself, willing the panic to ebb. But it doesn’t.
Your mind races, frantic and scattered, replaying the last few seconds in painful, vivid detail. The crushing weight. The way your voice broke when you begged him to stop. The helplessness—God, the helplessness—of knowing you couldn’t move him, couldn’t make him hear you.
You never thought Simon could hurt you. It was an idea so absurd it hadn’t even crossed your mind before tonight. Simon was your protector, your anchor. He was the man who held you when nightmares clawed at your sleep, who stood between you and the world when it felt too heavy to bear. He was safety. Always safety.
But tonight, he hadn’t been. Tonight, his strength had terrified you. And for the first time, you’d felt just how small you were compared to him—how utterly powerless.
“Love.” His voice cuts through the haze, raw and thick with something you don’t immediately recognize. Guilt. “Shit. I—are you—” He can’t even finish the sentence, his words breaking as he reaches a hand toward you. But you pull away sharply, flinching before you can stop yourself.
“I’m fine,” you croak, though the words barely sound like your own. They’re hollow, rasping, a poor imitation of reassurance. You stumble to your feet, your legs trembling beneath you, the ground tilting again as your knees threaten to give way.
“Wait—please, wait,” Simon says quickly, his voice frantic now, laced with panic. He moves to follow you, his hand reaching for yours, but you recoil again.
“Just—don’t,” you manage, your voice cracking. “Give me a minute.”
You don’t look at him as you leave, but you hear the sharp intake of his breath, the low curse he mutters under his breath as you shut the bathroom door behind you.
Inside the bathroom, the small space feels stifling, the air thick and heavy despite the fact that you’re finally able to breathe again. You press your back against the door, your chest still heaving, as the reflection in the mirror catches your eye.
You hardly recognize yourself. Your eyebrows furrowed, your eyes wide, still glassy with unshed tears. Red-rimmed and raw, like they’ve seen something they shouldn’t have. Your trembling fingers reach for the sink, gripping the edge so tightly as though the solidity of the porcelain can anchor you.
He didn’t mean it. You repeat the thought over and over in your head, trying to make it stick. He didn’t mean it. It wasn’t his fault. Simon would never hurt you—never.
But the memory doesn’t care. It keeps replaying, a merciless loop: the way he’d held you down, his weight crushing the air from your lungs, his smirk lingering while you struggled. He hadn’t seen it—hadn’t seen you. The way you’d fought. The way you’d begged.
The helplessness rises again, thick and choking, like a wave crashing over you. For those few terrifying moments, you hadn’t been his wife. You hadn’t been you. You’d been nothing. Just small, trapped, and utterly powerless.
It wasn’t his fault. You cling to the thought like a lifeline. He didn’t realize. He didn’t know. But that doesn’t make it easier to forget how it felt.
When you finally gather the courage to leave the bathroom, your legs are steadier, but your chest still aches with every breath. You step into the living room slowly, your movements deliberate, and see Simon sitting on the couch.
His elbows rest on his knees, his head bowed low, his broad shoulders hunched. His hands are curled into fists, pressed tightly against his thighs, his knuckles white from the pressure. The moment you step closer, he lifts his head, and the look on his face hits you harder than anything else tonight.
It’s guilt. Bone-deep, agonizing guilt. His eyes are wide, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle twitches, and there’s a hollowness in his expression that twists something in your chest.
“Love,” he says, his voice rough, breaking around your name. “I didn’t—” He cuts himself off, his head dropping again as he drags a hand over his face. “Fuck. I didn’t realize. I wasn’t—I didn’t know.”
His words spill out in broken fragments, a sharp contrast to the Simon you know. There’s no confidence in his voice now, no calm certainty. Only raw, desperate regret.
I didn’t mean to,” he says, his voice cracking. “I thought—I thought you were still—” He stops again, exhaling shakily, his fists tightening. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve stopped.”
You sit down beside him, leaving a small space between you, your hands resting on your knees as you try to find the right words. He looks at you, and the pain in his eyes makes your chest ache.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he says again, softer now. His voice trembles, but his gaze never leaves yours. “You know that, right? Love, I’d never—”
“I know,” you say quickly, your voice gentle but unsteady. “I know you didn’t mean to. But…” You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. “You scared me.”
He flinches, the words striking him like a blow. “I scared you,” he repeats, his tone low and hollow, as though he can’t believe what he’s saying. “God, Love, I didn’t—” He cuts himself off again, his hands trembling slightly now.
Simon drops his head into his hands, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his guilt. “I didn’t notice,” he mutters, his voice thick. “I should’ve. You were laughing—I thought you were still—I thought—” His voice breaks, and he exhales sharply, shaking his head.
Reaching out hesitantly, you place a hand on his arm. “You didn’t mean to hurt me,” you say softly, your voice cracking with the effort. “But it happened anyway. That’s what scared me, Simon.”
He turns to you, his eyes dark and full of anguish. “I’ll never let that happen again,” he says, his voice trembling but firm. “Never.”
You nod slowly, the beginnings of a tentative smile tugging at your lips. “Good,” you say, leaning against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. “Because I like you too much to let you break me, Simon Riley.”
He lets out a weak, humourless chuckle, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. His grip is strong, but this time it feels safe. Protective. And though neither of you speak, his silent promise is clear: he’ll never let it happen again.
A/N: honestly this shouldn't have taken as long as it did to write lol i was in such a slump. please leave a comment if you enjoyed i wanna be more active in this community and that would help me do that. either way if your reading this then you made it to the end of the story lol. thank you.
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader
T/W: hurt/comfort, angst
word count: 2.1k
A/N: feels like an eternity (it was) so here's an early Christmas present to all of you.
The night had started quietly, the kind of stillness that settled naturally between them. You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, scrolling through your phone while Simon sat nearby, sharpening a blade. The metallic sound of the whetstone filled the rom, steady and methodical.
“You know..” You started, breaking the silence, “for someone who spends so much time sharpening knives, you’d think you’d be better at cutting fruit.”
Simon didn’t even look up “Not my job”
“You literally sliced though an apple like it was a brick the other day,” you continued, smirking. “it was painful to watch.”
“wasn’t meant to look pretty. its functional,” he replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling faintly beneath his balaclava. “Bit like me, really”
“Uh-huh. Functional” you echoed “Except when you try to cook. Then its just tragic.”
He snorted, finally glancing over at you. “You want tragic? How about that time you tried to explain to me how GPS works?”
Your mouth fell open, mock-offended. “I was simplifying it for you! i know what triangulation is!” (lmfao no you didn't)
“Sure you do,” Simon muttered, voice low and gravelly.
You grabbed a pillow of the couch, sitting up straighter. “Say that again Lieutenant”
He leaned back, clearly unbothered. “i said—”
The pillow hit him square in the face before he could finish, and for a moment, the room was silent except for the soft thump as the pillow hit the ground.
Simon slowly straightened, his head tilting just slightly as he regarded you “Oh. You’re dead now love”
“Oh, no,” You said, already sliding off the couch, her grin widening. “You don’t scare me, Lieutenant.”
Simon stood slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. He reached for one of the couch cushions, hefting it in one hand. “I’m giving you a head start, love. Better take it.”
You squealed and darted toward the kitchen, your laughter echoing through the apartment. “You’re too slow, old man!”
“Old man?” he repeated, his voice trailing after her like a threat.
You turned to stick your tongue out, but Simon was faster than you expected, closing the distance between you in just a few strides. you yelped and grabbed a dishtowel off the counter, flicking it at him before taking off again.
“You’re really making this a thing?” he called after you, his voice edged with amusement.
“Oh, it’s already a thing!” you shot back, ducking into the living room.
Your heart raced as you darted around the couch, narrowly dodging his outstretched arm. You were laughing so hard you could barely think straight, and when Simon lunged again, you shrieked and tried to pivot - but his arm caught you around the waist, pulling you back.
“You’re done for now,” he murmured in your ear, his voice low and teasing as he hauled you onto the couch.
“Not a chance!” you gasped, twisting under him.
“Keep struggling. Makes this more fun,” Simon teased, pinning your hands above your head.
You squirm beneath him, laughing breathlessly, your wrists pinned tightly above your head by his hands. “You think this is enough to hold me down?” you tease, your voice light, testing him like you always do.
Simon smirks, leaning his weight forward just enough to keep you trapped. “It’s more than enough,” he says, his voice low, a touch of challenge in his tone.
You wriggle harder, laughing again, though the first seed of unease stirs faintly in your chest. His grip doesn’t loosen, not even slightly. “I’m not giving up, you know,” you say, still playful, though you tug harder now, testing the strength of his hold.
“Don’t have to,” he murmurs, calm and certain. “You’ve already lost.”
It’s supposed to be a game, like it always is. But this time, his weight feels different—heavier, immovable. You shift your hips, trying to create some space, but he doesn’t budge. His strength is startling, his body unyielding in a way that sends a faint shiver through you. You twist your wrists again, more deliberately this time. Nothing.
Your smile fades. “Alright,” you say, your voice firm but still light, not wanting to ruin the moment. “You win. Let me up.”
Simon tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Not until you tap out properly.”
“I am tapping out,” you insist, tugging harder, your breath hitching slightly. “Simon, let me up.”
But he doesn’t move. His hands remain locked around your wrists, his weight pressing down on your chest. The faint unease grows sharper, colder. You twist again, harder, panic bubbling up now. “Simon,” you say, your voice louder, strained. “I’m serious. Get off.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. The playful glint in his eyes remains, but it feels detached, distant, as though he’s not hearing you. You buck your hips sharply, trying to shift him, but it’s like trying to move a wall. His body doesn’t yield.
“Simon!” you gasp, your voice breaking. The fear that had been creeping at the edges of your mind crashes into you full force. Your chest tightens as you realize you can’t draw in a full breath. “Get off me—I can’t breathe!”
His smirk falters, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “What’s that?” he asks, like he doesn’t quite believe you.
Your lungs burn, your chest heaving uselessly as you press both hands against his chest, shoving with all your strength. “I can’t breathe!” you choke, tears springing to your eyes as panic claws at your throat. “Please, Simon—get off!”
But his weight is relentless, his strength overwhelming. You thrash beneath him, twisting your wrists, clawing at his hands, kicking out with your legs—anything to get free. Your vision starts to blur, your body screaming for oxygen as your heart pounds against your ribs. It’s hopeless. He’s too strong, too big, and you can’t move him. The world around you narrows, and for a terrifying moment, you think he won’t stop.
Then suddenly, the weight disappears. but your lungs still don’t work right. Air scrapes through your throat, harsh and unsteady, as you sit up too fast, clutching at the edge of the couch to steady yourself. The room tilts, your vision swimming with faint, dark spots at the edges.
Simon rolls off you so quickly it’s as if he’s been burned. He scrambles back, his breathing sharp and uneven.
For a moment, all you can do is breathe—ragged, desperate gulps of air that burn as they fill your lungs. Your hands tremble uncontrollably as you press them against your knees, grounding yourself, willing the panic to ebb. But it doesn’t.
Your mind races, frantic and scattered, replaying the last few seconds in painful, vivid detail. The crushing weight. The way your voice broke when you begged him to stop. The helplessness—God, the helplessness—of knowing you couldn’t move him, couldn’t make him hear you.
You never thought Simon could hurt you. It was an idea so absurd it hadn’t even crossed your mind before tonight. Simon was your protector, your anchor. He was the man who held you when nightmares clawed at your sleep, who stood between you and the world when it felt too heavy to bear. He was safety. Always safety.
But tonight, he hadn’t been. Tonight, his strength had terrified you. And for the first time, you’d felt just how small you were compared to him—how utterly powerless.
“Love.” His voice cuts through the haze, raw and thick with something you don’t immediately recognize. Guilt. “Shit. I—are you—” He can’t even finish the sentence, his words breaking as he reaches a hand toward you. But you pull away sharply, flinching before you can stop yourself.
“I’m fine,” you croak, though the words barely sound like your own. They’re hollow, rasping, a poor imitation of reassurance. You stumble to your feet, your legs trembling beneath you, the ground tilting again as your knees threaten to give way.
“Wait—please, wait,” Simon says quickly, his voice frantic now, laced with panic. He moves to follow you, his hand reaching for yours, but you recoil again.
“Just—don’t,” you manage, your voice cracking. “Give me a minute.”
You don’t look at him as you leave, but you hear the sharp intake of his breath, the low curse he mutters under his breath as you shut the bathroom door behind you.
Inside the bathroom, the small space feels stifling, the air thick and heavy despite the fact that you’re finally able to breathe again. You press your back against the door, your chest still heaving, as the reflection in the mirror catches your eye.
You hardly recognize yourself. Your eyebrows furrowed, your eyes wide, still glassy with unshed tears. Red-rimmed and raw, like they’ve seen something they shouldn’t have. Your trembling fingers reach for the sink, gripping the edge so tightly as though the solidity of the porcelain can anchor you.
He didn’t mean it. You repeat the thought over and over in your head, trying to make it stick. He didn’t mean it. It wasn’t his fault. Simon would never hurt you—never.
But the memory doesn’t care. It keeps replaying, a merciless loop: the way he’d held you down, his weight crushing the air from your lungs, his smirk lingering while you struggled. He hadn’t seen it—hadn’t seen you. The way you’d fought. The way you’d begged.
The helplessness rises again, thick and choking, like a wave crashing over you. For those few terrifying moments, you hadn’t been his wife. You hadn’t been you. You’d been nothing. Just small, trapped, and utterly powerless.
It wasn’t his fault. You cling to the thought like a lifeline. He didn’t realize. He didn’t know. But that doesn’t make it easier to forget how it felt.
When you finally gather the courage to leave the bathroom, your legs are steadier, but your chest still aches with every breath. You step into the living room slowly, your movements deliberate, and see Simon sitting on the couch.
His elbows rest on his knees, his head bowed low, his broad shoulders hunched. His hands are curled into fists, pressed tightly against his thighs, his knuckles white from the pressure. The moment you step closer, he lifts his head, and the look on his face hits you harder than anything else tonight.
It’s guilt. Bone-deep, agonizing guilt. His eyes are wide, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle twitches, and there’s a hollowness in his expression that twists something in your chest.
“Love,” he says, his voice rough, breaking around your name. “I didn’t—” He cuts himself off, his head dropping again as he drags a hand over his face. “Fuck. I didn’t realize. I wasn’t—I didn’t know.”
His words spill out in broken fragments, a sharp contrast to the Simon you know. There’s no confidence in his voice now, no calm certainty. Only raw, desperate regret.
I didn’t mean to,” he says, his voice cracking. “I thought—I thought you were still—” He stops again, exhaling shakily, his fists tightening. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve stopped.”
You sit down beside him, leaving a small space between you, your hands resting on your knees as you try to find the right words. He looks at you, and the pain in his eyes makes your chest ache.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he says again, softer now. His voice trembles, but his gaze never leaves yours. “You know that, right? Love, I’d never—”
“I know,” you say quickly, your voice gentle but unsteady. “I know you didn’t mean to. But…” You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. “You scared me.”
He flinches, the words striking him like a blow. “I scared you,” he repeats, his tone low and hollow, as though he can’t believe what he’s saying. “God, Love, I didn’t—” He cuts himself off again, his hands trembling slightly now.
Simon drops his head into his hands, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his guilt. “I didn’t notice,” he mutters, his voice thick. “I should’ve. You were laughing—I thought you were still—I thought—” His voice breaks, and he exhales sharply, shaking his head.
Reaching out hesitantly, you place a hand on his arm. “You didn’t mean to hurt me,” you say softly, your voice cracking with the effort. “But it happened anyway. That’s what scared me, Simon.”
He turns to you, his eyes dark and full of anguish. “I’ll never let that happen again,” he says, his voice trembling but firm. “Never.”
You nod slowly, the beginnings of a tentative smile tugging at your lips. “Good,” you say, leaning against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. “Because I like you too much to let you break me, Simon Riley.”
He lets out a weak, humourless chuckle, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. His grip is strong, but this time it feels safe. Protective. And though neither of you speak, his silent promise is clear: he’ll never let it happen again.
A/N: honestly this shouldn't have taken as long as it did to write lol i was in such a slump. please leave a comment if you enjoyed i wanna be more active in this community and that would help me do that. either way if your reading this then you made it to the end of the story lol. thank you.
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A/N: baby's first (technical) char x reader i wrote this sleepy and sleep deprived. idk what im doing lovies but i'm fuckin vibing
Kyle is probably the best partner you've dated, despite his whorishly high body count. He will let you ramble and rant about anything. Like how a book you started reading is about something he has no interest in. He just likes hearing you talk. He'll play into the conversation, asking questions just to hear you answer them. Whenever something happens he pauses whatever he's doing with a smile and an “uh oh what happened now?"
You come stomping in after pausing your stupid romcom movie and he puts down his book, taking out his earbuds. "Are the characters pining for each other to an annoying degree?" He asks, a lopsided smile on his lips. Because of COURSE the characters are pining to an annoying degree, and the writing is so clearly on the wall it's pissing you off!
HE WOULD TREAT YOU LIKE THE MONARCH YOU ARE BABE! He would constantly tell you his happiness comes from seeing you happy and this man would make you MELT. Coming home from a rough day at work? He's warming your favourite pair of lounge clothes and he'll order takeaway. Overwhelmed and having a sensory moment? He's on it, dimming the lights and playing soft music as he listens to what you need. Worried about weight? Baby he's kissing your body and telling you that you're the most breathtaking person he's ever met (and it's true!). if you're horny, he’s dragging you to the closest room and fucking you til you can't remember your name.
But men like Gaz, those who are silent and always observing, are the ones you really need to watch out for. And God help anyone who disrespects you when he's in earshot. He can't do anything with civvies besides possessive glares and aggressive gestures in warning, but if it's one of HIS soldiers? An SAS soldier who thinks his lovely little thing is up for grabs? Suddenly that soldier goes on leave and you don't see them for a while. He doesn't share with ANYONE, not even 141; he's physically threatened Soap during hand to hand drills because he made a passing comment about him taking you away for himself. it ended up with Soap in the infirmary and Price chewing Gaz out for taking it too far.
You belong to him bunny, and he will personally slit someone's throat if they so much as lay a hand on you. And that's a promise he will follow through on.
☾ summary ➼ mornings with Leon make the rest of your day better.
☾ content/warnings ➼ fluff, smut (MDNI), afab!reader, p in v (wrap it before you tap it bbys), head (f!receiving), praise, usage of the term "baby"
☾ a/n ➼ I want soft mornings with him and I just really want his mouth all over me. Also I kept this as an ambiguous Leon but I did visualize RE4R and DI Leon.
☾ wc ➼ ~1k
Morning sex with Leon is one of the best things in the world to you.
In every moment he spends with you, inside and outside of the bedroom, he never fails to make you feel loved.
Cherished.
Treasured.
Whether it was from quick temple kisses or gentle pinches on your ass as he walks by, he was there to remind you just how precious you were to him.
But there was just something so wonderfully different about a sleep-addled Leon. He was slower, more deliberate.
With his hair is all tousled, cheeks tinged pink with bleary blue eyes that hold so much warmth despite the cool toned color. He gives you lazy grins as he nuzzles into your cheek or your nose, whatever is closest to him at the moment. His lips meet yours with the gentlest care, moving against yours like you both had all the time in the world. Breathy sighs from you are swallowed up as his hands map your body.
Then he’s trailing open mouthed kisses down your jawline and the column of your neck, just as lazy as his grins were. There are a few nips, but nothing more than a simple love bite. He’s humming happily, inhaling your unique scent and relishing in the saltiness of your warm skin – a reminder that you were here and you were alive.
Soon those kisses make their way down your sternum and right in the valley of your breasts, not before clumsily tugging off your chosen sleepwear, of course. The shared sound of your sleepy giggles and his breathy chuckles had filled the room as you both struggled to undress in the warm glow of the morning sun filtering through the blinds.
His lips don’t hesitate to tickle down your soft stomach now, blowing a little raspberry into it before leaving another bite as you squirm under him with yet another laugh.
Then he gets to your hips, and your legs fall apart as if he held the keycard to your body. Those soft lips of his place a kiss just right above your most sensitive spot as he inhales what he’s done to you. You were a mess as soon as his mouth had connected with your own just moments ago.
You whine at him, telling him to stop teasing you. He just smiles up at you, his laziness now replaced with his signature cockiness.
“Patience, baby. Need you to know how much I love every inch of you.”
He can’t even take his own advice.
You’d laugh if you weren’t so busy moaning from his face buried deep into your cunt. The flat of his tongue slides up your slit, collecting the arousal that he had worked so hard to build up – not like it took long though. As his nose bumps your clit, your hands go flying into his soft hair, fingers tangling as you’re bucking your hips into his face in the hopes for more friction.
Leon aims to please, so he does just that. His lips, that godforsaken magical mouth of his, closes around your swollen clit and sucks gently as two of his fingers slide into your warm depths. The mewls that he can get out of you are as addictive as your taste.
“Fuck, baby. Can’t get enough of you.” He mumbles against your folds that drip not only with your slick but his saliva as well, and the vibrations of his voice are enough to make your eyes roll in the back of your head. As his thick fingers start to pump in and out of you, he groans at how responsive you are to him. His free hand splays on your stomach and pushes you down into the mattress, holding you as he devours your sweet taste.
That patience though, god Leon really needed to work on that double standard.
Because now, he has you on your stomach with a pillow right under your hips as he lazily ruts into your tight pussy while whispering sweet nothings into your ear.
“Look at how well you take me, baby. So fucking perfect.”
Both of his thighs wall your legs together, his heavy body on top of yours as his hands hold yours on each side of your head. His calloused fingers intertwined with yours, holding you down as his hips slap into your ass rhythmically.
The sounds of your muffled moans in the soft sheets and his soft grunts in your ear grow louder, and it’s no mystery why. Both of you were so close. Those lips yet again trail kisses along your shoulders, and this time his bites aren’t soft.
“Cum with me baby, wanna feel you around me.”
He rests his sweaty forehead against your back, perspiration from both of you mixing together. His grunts have turned into whines as he fights to hold back – he was selfless like that. He wanted to make sure you were satisfied first before he’d let himself enjoy anything.
And of course he knew how to make you cum from this position. All it took was one rough thrust and a hard suck on the spot between your sensitive neck and shoulder and you were seeing stars. Your muffled cries and the tight spasming of your walls push him off the ledge. His erratic thrusts slow down with each spurt of hot cum he shoots into your depths, and after a few deep breaths later, he’s collapsed on top of you.
You can only take a few seconds of that before you’re squirming under him and laughing at him to get his heavy body off of you because you couldn’t breathe. He peppers playful kisses along your neck and back as he chuckles hoarsely.
“Why? If I do then you’re just going to get up and leave me.” He mutters with a grin.
Despite his banter, he slips out of your warmth before rolling off and onto his side. He wasn’t kidding about not letting you go though, because suddenly his arms are wrapped around your waist and tugging you into him so that your back hits flush against his sweaty chest. You heartbeats mirror each other, one on top of the other.
More kisses, more laughs, more lazy snuggles.
Morning sex with Leon meant the world to you, and you don’t think anything could ever top it.
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