Latest Posts by keeiv - Page 2

cw :: semi-exhibitionism, crying, simon a freak

lieutenant simon ‘ghost’ riley who lets his birdie sneak onto base. newlywed and just can’t keep hands off each other. 

he guides you carefully into an empty room, looking over his shoulder for any snitches before locking the door and keeping you to himself. so long, too long since simon’s been able to hold you, kiss you, love you. you can see it in his eyes, his face now uncovered with his mask tossed. 

slamming lips together, you pull at his gear and rough fit while he pulls you impossibly closer, his sweet girl’s been restless at home. all alone, so when you call him in the middle of the night, desperate for any touch of him, he just couldn’t resist. he pecks quick and messy kisses on your lips as you roll grinds against his body. 

“need you–si–oh god, pleaseplease–!” he shushes you gently, taking your weak hand and kissing it lovingly to calm you down. 

“i’ll give you what you wan’, dove. don’tchu worry.” you hold onto his shoulders as he undresses you both minimalistically, drop of your jeans and a quick slide of your panties while he fishes his cock out, hot and throbbing. simon keeps a longer kiss on your pouty mouth as he slides himself in, trying to keep you as quiet as possible. 

but he finds this hard for himself, groaning deeply into your neck and digging calloused fingers up past your shirt and his other hand holding your leg up. the cold metal of his wedding band hits your sensitive skin causing you to yelp. he grits his teeth and fucks right into you, the unstable position letting his creamy tip pound right into your gummy heaven, more important your g-spot. 

“quiet, stay quiet f’me, lovie. be my good girl, shhh.” he gets you to comply and you push your mouth closed, your clit jumping at how he pants short breaths against your ear while fucking you. 

his blunt fingernails practically stabbing into your waist, his hips grinding up and cock massaging your needy-cunt, the friction making you jolt and writhe against him, dangerously close to your orgasm. the way simon grunts and groans in your ear, almost shuddering when he hears his scottish sergeant in search of him behind the door—it’s too much. too much going on and you can’t even moan your man’s name. you grip tightly on his shoulders and let big fat globs of tears stream past your face. your lips shake and your only idea of support is your huge fucking husband, the only way of any release is by sobbing silent cries. 

simon sounds almost concerned, “aww, fuck baby what’s wrong? ‘ts too much?” you nod, you love it so so much but feel like you’ll pass out if you don’t let it out, and he just smiles. kissing and licking at your salty cheeks, regaining some sort of comfort as you lean forward on him, crying quietly. his pretty baby can cry all she wants but she certainly won’t leave him without a few orgasms first!

masterlist

simon “ghost” riley is so fucking blunt with his words

you’re not even trying to be sexy. just sat on his couch in that worn old tank top, the one with the frayed strap and no bra underneath. your legs are curled under you, hair damp from the shower, picking at your nails and talking about some show you half-watched.

he’s not listening.

"y’re tits sit nice in that top f’yours," he says, eyes on the tv. voice low, almost lazy, like he’s commenting on the weather.

you blink at him. "what?"

"didn’t stutter, love," he says, finally turning to look. eyes dragging down your chest, slow and shameless. “reckon you wear shit like that on purpose.”

your face goes hot but he just huffs a laugh through his nose, leans back further. spreads his thighs a little wider like he’s settling in.

“saw a porno the other day. girl looked like you. sweet thing, bit mouthy. got fucked face-down in a stairwell.” he pauses. shrugs. “thought of ya.”

your jaw drops.

“what?” he says, tilting his head. “should be flattered. ain’t every day i get off twice to the same fuckin’ video.”

he grins when you throw a pillow at him. catches it. holds it in his lap.

"gonna keep wearin' that top, or y’gonna come sit here and gimme a better fuckin’ view?"

Handler

‘SO YOU CAN LISTEN….GOOD.’ | simon ghost riley

📊 result of my poll found here.

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni, (amt) engineer!reader, asshole!ghost but with motives, slightly stalkerish!ghost, ghost is a cocky bastard but reader is too, so much verbal sparring, enough tension to choke on, reader afab, ghost is a munch and has a unique way of saying sorry, oral f!receiving, religious undertones, fingering, enemies to something worse then enemies, dubcon bc consent verbally unstated, so much dirty talk it hurts, canon warped a bit.

A/N - this ended up being so much longer than i intended but dear god it needed that build up. ghost makes a real wild first impression. 12k.

Today was just another day. Just another day.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself as you grabbed your data pad from the terminal and made your way toward the front of the hangar — pulse thrumming, blood pressure undoubtedly a tad higher than usual. Perhaps today was just another day, but to say that it didn't hold slightly more merit than yesterday would be a fucking lie.

Today marks the date of your six month performance evaluation. Today is the day you finally find out if you nab that promotion or not.

And maybe you’re overthinking, maybe you’re nervous for no reason. Did this promotion make or break your career? Would not getting promoted singlehandedly destroy everything you've achieved and accomplished over the last however many years? No.

But it would definitely feel like a real kick in the ass given everything that you've done for this place since you got here.

The day you first got that damned data-pad, you should have known this job would be a complete shitshow. Still, you pulled up yourself up by your bootstraps and did your duties just like every other day — and that day like all the previous ones since you graduated. You’d been all over the world at this point, as an AMT you go wherever you’re needed and usually remain however long you’re needed for. But this transfer — to an unnamed, unmarked base in the middle of goddamn no where — is different then anything you’d ever done before.

The hours are different, the people are different, the pay is different. It was unexpected, but when their last head AMT simply vanished without a fucking trace — it seemed as though they scrambled, and took the next best thing they could find (or so you like to tell yourself).

It’s all a little…strange, to say the least.

And of course, there’s been talk about what happened to their last head engineer, speculations, but it seems no one actually knows for certain. It’s one of those things that everyone low rank whispers about, but no one high up with actual informative intel dares to speak on — which only made the chatter worse.

Along with your nerves.

Regardless, you didn’t have a choice, and the first day of your transfer was a baptism by fire — stepping into the aftermath of utter chaos they'd left behind.

Your job isn’t to save lives in the heat of battle, or to clear rooms, or to conduct stealth operations. No, your job is to repair aircrafts torn to hell and back and continue to keep them functional. It’s rather thankless, and often you'd find yourself overworked and under-appreciated — which, granted, goes hand-in-hand with your overall life summary — but the hangar at TF141’s main base was a sight to behold, and not in any positive sense. Neglected and battered machinery lay strewn about, with debris haphazardly scattered in every fucking corner imaginable. By the time you'd reached the actual aircraft's you were almost afraid to look at them — and for good goddamn cause.

TF141 has two main helo’s: MH-6 Little Bird and an AH-6J Little Bird. Upon first inspection of them, you’d almost thought they'd been through a war of their own — hastily patched together with little regard for proper repair. The evidence of prior negligence was glaring, and you were fucking fuming.

You'd expected some clean up, but not that much.

And to top it all off, you were given clear instruction by General Shepherd himself to keep your mouth shut and your head down, do your job and mind your own. On your way out of his office he informed you, surely out of the sheer kindness of his heart, that although he couldn't tell you what exactly happened to their prior head engineer, you could easily suffer the same fate if you weren't careful.

Which was more than enough to shake the very foundation of your so very deeply engraved attitude problem.

No matter how pissed off and irritated you’d been during your start here, you kept your emotions bottled up until you were back inside the privacy of your barracks and could freely let it explode. It's been a little maddening almost, the solace. You'd been here half a year and the only person you've had an actual conversation with outside of the other engineers is 141’s Captain, and that was only when he was looking for a debriefing on your recent repair work.

However, amidst the avoidance and the uneasy silence that you experience on a daily with the others, there seems to always be one fucking exception;

Ghost.

You'd seen photos and heard a lot about him prior to this assignment — the mysterious Lieutenant with a reputation that preceded him as if the Grim Reaper himself were present on earth.

But meeting him, being around him, well that was something fucking else entirely.

He routinely shows up at random hours, never muttering more than a few words to you before pissing off — disappearing into the shadows or taking out one of the birds. It’s always odd. He is odd. And the cryptic comments coupled with his rather bizarre reputation continue to leave you tangled between the dangerous desire to learn everything you can about the man, and the primal instinct to avoid him at all fucking costs.

Though, even if you had the choice, it wouldn't matter.

If and when Ghost decides to present himself to you, it is impossible to prevent it. His approach is as translucent as his namesake. You'd never fucking know he was coming, and if you did, it’s with purpose.

Nevertheless, you couldn't worry about him, or any of the other nonsensical bullshit today. You had other matters on your mind such as ensuring the hangar was in perfect condition for inspection later that evening. Price let you know rather early in advance that a hangar and aircraft inspection are part of your performance review — which clearly means the state of them would determine whether or not you passed.

There would be absolutely no room for error, and no one to complain to when it didn't go your way either. If this inspection failed, it would be the result of your own incompetence — and you were well aware of how that would be perceived. You didn't want to give any reason, any chance to end up like the former Engineer, after all.

So today is about one thing, and one thing alone, proving yourself worthy of that promotion.

With your data pad in hand, you began a quick sweep of the hangar, ensuring the guys hadn't made too much of a mess overnight or early this morning before you arrived. A few things were out of place, but for the most part, everything looked good.

Well, except for one thing — which was currently barrelling toward you at a dangerous fucking speed.

"Bloody fucking hell..."

Your data pad nearly fell from your grasp, your jaw dropping in disbelief as your ears rang — no, damn-near wailed — a deafening roar shattering the silence you'd just found yourself in, accompanied by the shrill whine of metal grinding against metal. You couldn't believe your eyes, your feet absentmindedly carrying you closer to the destroyed helo landing on the far side of the hangar, smoke billowing from its battered frame, obscuring the air with a veil of grey.

And as you got closer, you realized it only got worse — a door was missing, torn from its hinges, and half of the exterior was brutally ripped away. You didn't even realize you were clenching your hands into fists until you felt the glass of your data pad crack beneath your fingers.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re all but yelling as you take in the damage. "Today? Today. Of all goddamn days! Bloody ignorant bastards.”

As soon as those words were past your teeth, there’s movement from inside the cabin — heavy laden set steps — two iron slabs clanking against the metal floor, quaking the ground underneath your own feet, too. The air thinned slightly, but you didn't notice, too inebriated off your anger to think of anything other than cursing the hell out of whoever was inside.

You came to a halt in front of the now door-less opening, coming face to face with a pair of rich brown eyes peering down at you.

"Care t’repeat tha’?" A deep, low voice rumbled from under a faded, skull-faced balaclava. You swear the ground trembled as he jumped down. "...I'd like t’make sure I heard y’right."

You’d have to imagine he was grinning under that mask, and it only made your fucking blood boil.

"Ghost, why didn't you tell me-“

He cuts you off mid-sentence with a gesture of his hand.

"I need permission t’take out my own helo now? Huh.” A shake of his head. “Y’should know I was told to test your repairs. Bosses orders, sweet’eart. Take it up with him if you’ve gotta’ problem.”

"You-" your lips part, but words elude you. Due to his admission or the nickname he used, you aren’t entirely sure. "What?"

Ghost blinks, sight sweeping the empty hangar for a fraction of a second before fixing back on you.

"Y’heard me." He steps closer, smoke billowing behind him. "Or d'you need me t'repeat it again?" A pause, twitch of his lips. "I can speak slower, if you’d like.”

What a dick.

You pull your own lips thin, trying to trap the profanity desperately wanting to fly his way. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He just hums.

"Way I see it, y’got two options.” He starts, and you long to tell him to shove his options somewhere the sun don’t shine. “Get pissed off with me, which is futile, since I ain’t the one y’actually got a problem with. Or, y’can get back to work and fix er’ up before Price comes down in an hour. Your choice 'ere."

An hour. A fucking hour? Is he clinically insane? This is easily about three days of work. And that’s if the bloody stars align.

"You’re unbelievable.” Scowl laden, you frown at him, words dripping venom as you shake your pounding head. "How nice of you to give me the option of choosing. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude, truly."

A beat of silence, unreadable eyes flicking over you.

“S’that sarcasm, engineer?” And then, he takes another step closer.

It never gets easier — the way he fills the space, how much bigger he is when he’s this close, broad shoulders cutting the world around you down to just him. He could crush you if he wanted. You’ve never forgotten that.

Your lips part, but before you can get a word out he’s already speaking.

"Y'know," he peers down at you with a slight tilt of his head. "A simple ‘thank you' wouldn't be the end of tha’ world."

You deadpan, biting back the scoff threatening to escape. Thank him? He wants you to thank him — for blowing a helo out of the sky an hour before the biggest inspection of your life? No. He’s not insane. He’s out of his goddamn mind.

“Thank you for what, exactly?” You force the words out, fighting to keep the sarcasm at bay, to sound even remotely genuine.

It doesn’t help that he’s right there, close enough to reach out and touch. You’ve been through enough in your time with the military to handle pressure, but there’s something about him — the bulk of him, the way he commands the space around him, the fact you can never read his facial expressions — that makes it hard to breathe.

Not to mention the tac gear he’s always dressed in. Layered thick like it’s meant for a frozen wasteland instead of the stifling summer heat you’re currently experiencing.

“F’givin’ you a passin’ grade,” he says, like that means a damn thing to you.

This game is getting old.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about now?” Heat flares beneath your skin, frustration mounting. “If that was a test, then it was a goddamn shitty one. You didn’t fly it. You destroyed it.”

He steps in again, exhaling like you’re the one wasting his time.

“M’giving you an opportunity. Take it or leave it.” You’re ready to bite back, to tell him exactly where he can put his opportunity, but then— “How’re you s’posed to prove y’worth somethin’, when no one thinks you’ve got it in ya?”

For the third time today, he shuts you up. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. This is, without a doubt, the strangest, most infuriating first interaction you’ve ever had with anyone in your entire life.

“Wow.” That’s all you manage. You knew being one of the only female engineers here would put you at a disadvantage, but this? Blowing up the helo just to test if you can fix it? It’s beyond comprehension. “That’s great, Ghost. Thanks.”

He doesn’t blink—just steps closer again, crowding you until you have to tilt your chin up to keep his gaze.

“Lieutenant.” Flat. Unyielding. But there’s something about the way it drips off his tongue that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. It’s not a request. It’s a correction. “Say it.”

Oh.

Heat licks up your neck, pooling at the base of your skull, and you’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else entirely. You swallow hard, forcing down the lump wedged in your throat because technically he is still your superior, regardless if he holds power over your job or not.

“Thank you,” you start again, your ego turning purple. “Lieutenant.”

You don’t look, but you feel his head tilt. You’d bet your life he’s smiling.

"So you can listen." Warm air skims your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s coming from him or from the heat of the burning aircraft - but it stings. "...good."

And then, when he realizes you’ve most likely bitten your tongue in half at this point, he takes a step back. You watch him now, eyes like a laser as he turns and heads for the door without another word. And almost immediately after he vanishes out into the hall you take the opportunity to suck in air like you’re starved of it, not realizing how fucking tense you were until he was out of sight.

Leaving you with a burning helo, an hour of time to fix it, and a whole lot of fuckin’ irritation.

“You bastard.” You mutter under your breath, staring at the wreckage before you.

If there was another option, you sure as hell didn’t know it. But no matter how impossible this seemed, failure wasn’t on the table — not after the years you’d put into this, the money, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. You didn’t crawl your way up through this goddamn system just to crash and burn now.

You needed a miracle.

And for the next two hours in the hangar, chaos was the only thing you knew.

You’ve never worked this fast in your life. The moment you got down to business you started barking orders, pulling maintenance techs and engineers off other projects, shoving tools into hands and sending them where they’re needed. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to second-guess — the aircraft has to be back in the air, and it has to be now.

And within minutes smoke steeped the hangar, sparks bursting like firecrackers from stripped wires. Everyone’s locked in — shouts, curses, the groan of machinery being pushed and pulled back together reverberating. It’s frantic, relentless, like a pack of starving wolves tearing at a fresh carcass, and you’re right there in the thick of it, teeth bared, fighting to hold the whole damn thing together.

But the euphemism falls short, because this wasn’t just a carcass torn open, in need of some stitching. It was worse — much worse.

The helo wasn’t just damaged; it was obliterated. Every inch of it had been shredded to ribbons, from the engine to the exterior frame, internal wiring snapped and twisted beyond recognition. Whatever the fuck that maniac had done, he hadn’t just tested its limits — he’d taken a sledgehammer to it and kept swinging.

You’ve seen aircraft’s in bad shape before, but nothing like this. It was a wreck, a heap of smoldering metal and sparking circuits, and somehow, you’re supposed to pull it back from the dead. But there’s no time to dwell on the impossibility of it — not when you’re hauling replacement parts back and forth, hands slick with oil and sweat, not when you’re welding and soldering with the kind of precision that would make your professors weep, not when the only thing keeping you moving is sheer goddamn will.

And then, after what feels like hours, you hear it—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, the kind that don’t belong to someone who helps—but someone who watches.

“My, my.” You recognize the voice instantly—Captain Price. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

You practically fling yourself to your feet, dragging a sleeve across your forehead, smearing grime over skin already slick with sweat. You almost groan in exasperation, but you swallow it down, clenching your jaw, praying to whatever god might be listening for the strength to not say something about Ghost that’ll get you court-martialed.

“Sir,” you greet him with a respectful nod. “I was informed, rather late mind you, that there was a scheduled test flight.”

A beat.

“Test flight,” Price repeats, brow lifting with something you can’t quite name. “Right. Test flight.”

A sharp bark of laughter leaves him, short and humourless, shaking his head as his eyes rake over the half-patched wreckage sprawled before him.

“And this,” he turns back to you. “This is the damage from that test flight?”

You hesitate—just for a fraction of a second—before nodding, breath held tight in your chest. It’s useless, really. You both know there’s no universe where a few minutes in the air could inflict this level of destruction. Price might’ve ordered Ghost to take the bird up, to test your work a little more personally—but there’s no way in hell he told him to annihilate the goddamn thing.

You’d bet your entire career the bastard did not have permission to go this far.

“Fucken’ typical,” Price mutters, pulling off his cap as he begins pacing around the bird, taking in the carnage from every angle. “Damn near destroyed the thing.”

That’ll be your fault, you think grimly. You’re the one who gave him the fucking order, after all.

But you keep your mouth shut, trailing behind him as he circles the wreckage, eyes sweeping over the mess of half-patched repairs. When he stops short, turning on his heel so fast you almost stumble back, you know what’s coming before he even speaks.

“How long’s this gonna’ take to fix?”

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. Swallow, but your throat stays dry. It’s not hesitation—it’s knowing the answer is one he won’t like. You don’t even like it. Because with the kind of damage Ghost inflicted, there’s no way in hell you’ll have it ready for any type of inspection today.

“For proper repairs and testing?” You exhale, shaking your head. “Days. At least two, sir.”

You brace yourself for impact—for the reprimand, the frustration, the inevitable do better speech. But it doesn’t come. He only sighs, nodding once before readjusting his cap.

“Two days, then.” He’s already walking away, halfway to the hangar doors when he glances back over his shoulder. “Performance review postponed.”

Those last three words make your stomach churn, and then Price is gone.

“Goddamn it. Asshole.”

The curse leaves you sharper than intended, loud enough to carry across the hangar. You don’t care. How could you? The moment you’ve bled for—postponed—because one insufferable bastard decided to make a spectacle of himself. You want to scream, to hurl every goddamn tool in reach straight at his smug, masked face.

Instead, you inhale deeply, exhaling through gritted teeth before turning to the crew.

“Call it a night, guys. I appreciate the help.”

A few nod, murmuring about leaving their assignments to meet early and help with the rest of the repairs, but their voices barely register. You’re exhausted, and you need a fucking shower — so you just mutter some type of agreement and head for the door. You walk the path back to housing, hardly even noticing that it’s nightfall now. Price must have come later than planned, though you really have no idea the hour because in all honesty you weren’t keep track of time. Either way, your boots hit the threshold of the barracks before you even realize you’d made it inside, your full focus on forcing your mind to keep busy.

You head straight for the showers, not bothering to grab fresh clothes. If you stop now, you might start thinking again — about the disaster of a day, about him, about the sheer fucking audacity — and that’s the last thing you need.

You tear off your disgusting uniform in seconds. The water is scalding, but you don’t flinch. If anything, you lean into it, letting the heat work its way into your bones, washing away the sweat, the grease, the tension coiled tight in your shoulders. You brace a hand against the tiled wall, exhaling sharply.

Fucking Ghost.

Your mind takes over now that you lack distraction, and the name alone is enough to set your teeth on edge. He didn’t just make your job harder—he deliberately threw you into the fire, watched you scramble, tested you like you were some new recruit fresh out of training. And the worst part? He got exactly what he wanted.

You hate that you rose to the challenge. That you had to. You just can’t figure out why. Why he did it — where his motives are.

Steam curls around you as you drop your head, water hammering against your spine, drowning out everything else. Your breaths come heavy, dragging in and out of your chest like you’ve just run a goddamn marathon, so busy in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shift in the air, the faint tremor in the ground beneath you.

You don’t hear the footsteps until they’re too close to ignore, breaking through your sorrows, coming to a halt just beyond the dividing wall. For a long, heavy moment, there’s nothing. Just the steady rush of water, the sound of your own breathing.

Then—

“Y’done sulkin’ yet?”

Fucking hell.

You snap to attention, the sound of that voice like a gut punch. Verbal inflection so intense that only after a few conversations (if you can even call them that) you know you’d recognize it in your sleep, and it takes all of your willpower not to react with more than just the involuntary stiffening in your muscles.

You blink the water out of your eyes, trying to center yourself.

“Do you make a hobby out of sneaking in on people while they shower?” You ask, forcing your voice to stay light, to not betray the rush of heat in your chest. You should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known this wasn’t the end of the goddamn shitshow. “Or am I just that special?”

"Didn’t know I had t’make an appointment for a communal shower.”

God, that does something to you, and you hate that it does. He’s taking your attitude and he’s feeding it right back to you — and the taste of your own medicine has never been so bitter.

Then, you hear his boots against the floor again, his voice accompanying. “Seems there’s alot I don’ know about ya.”

And again. It’s that tone. The way it drags, measured, like he’s thinking out loud. Like he’s taking you apart in his mind piece by piece. Trying to figure you out.

And you—stupidly, impulsively—throw it back at him.

“I’d say we’re even, then.”

It slips out before you can stop it, and you know it’s a mistake the second the words settle. Because he stops moving. The air tightens. A beat stretches long between you. You take the opportunity to reach for your towel, turn off the water, anything to not feel so vulnerable — but it doesn’t help. Not when you’re suddenly so acutely aware of how close he is. How little space separates you.

How very little there is between you at all.

You swallow, forcing steel into your voice. “I don’t even know your name.”

Then, the softest sound — amusement, maybe.

“Not sure y’need to.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, pulling the towel tight around your torso. Of course.

“Not sure I want to.” You mutter, more to yourself than anything.

But he catches it anyway.

You hear the shift of his stance, another hum of amusement. “Coulda’ fooled me.”

And that does it.

You know you’re walking straight into the trap he’s setting, but you don’t care anymore. Your patience is gone, worn to the bone, and you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t get to glare him right in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

“Cut the shit, Ghost.” The stall door slams open as you shove it wide, padding forward until your bare feet nearly touch his boots. “Why the hell are you even here?”

You don’t expect to hit a brick wall, but that’s exactly what it feels like. He’s missing a layer of tac gear now, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargos, shoulder propped against the support beam like he’s been here all night. His gaze flicks over your face, your neck, the way water drips from your skin.

You fight not to pull your towel tighter.

“Cap’s orders.” He states, voice easy, right as rain. “Told me t’make amends.”

He has to be kidding.

“Make amends.” You repeat the words flatly, tasting them, turning them over in your mind like they might somehow make more sense on the second pass. “He told you to make amends.”

They don’t.

And when he nods — you huff a laugh, humourless.

“Right. And you thought the best way to do that was to sneak into the showers and stand there like a fucking serial killer?”

“Didn’t sneak,” he says simply. “Walked in same as you.”

You blink. You have this sick feeling he’s enjoying this. Enjoying every reaction you’re giving.

“Yet your intent is not the same as mine.”

He looks at the door, then back to you. “Ain’t it?”

You inhale sharply through your nose, hands tightening around the towel at your chest. You know better than to engage with this — than to let him push and prod and get under your skin. But it’s too late. He’s already there, and you’re too goddamn tired to claw him back out.

“Look,” you sigh, shifting your weight, fighting not to admire the bulk of his chest at your eye level. “Whatever Price told you to do, consider it done. Apology accepted. Now get the fuck out so I can forget this conversation ever happened.”

A long beat. You don’t know what kind of response you expect, but the way he just stands there considering you is somehow worse than all the possible outcomes you’d imagined.

Then, finally—finally—he moves. But not to leave.

Instead, he pushes off the beam, straightening to full height and moves closer. Not much, just enough to make you feel it — the shift in the air — the heat radiating off him.

“Y’sure about that?” His voice is quieter now, head tilting down toward yours. “Seem a little too wound for someone who’s ready t’forget about it.”

A huff. “And you seem a little too invested for someone who’s just here on orders.”

It's stupid. It's really goddamn stupid how he's able to do this, to turn your words into a rope he can use to drag you around the way he wants. You know that. But still, you’re useless in stopping the way your stomach keens as he leans closer.

"Y’gonna deny you’re still pissed at me?” He whispers.

You shake your head. “Never said I wasn’t still pissed.”

"Mhm." He nods along with it. "But pissed don't fully describe it, does it?”

"It’s an improvement from murderous,” you retort, as pointedly as you can muster. “Count your blessings.”

Another hum, eyes dragging slow over your face, like he’s searching for something. Or maybe just savouring it — the way you bristle under his scrutiny — the way your fingers twitch where they clutch at your towel.

“M’grateful for y’kindness. Truly.” It takes you a second to register it—the cadence, the words, the mockery. He’s parroting you. Throwing your own attitude from earlier back in your face. “But y’know, yeah? I only did what I did ‘cause I knew y’could handle it.”

You go still, pulse hammering in your throat.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ghost.” Your voice wavers, choked by realization that everything he does has motive. “And definitely don’t flatter me. Not now.”

A slow exhale, warm against your chilled skin, hooded eyes flicking to your ear like he’s considering something.

“S’not flattery. Just truth.”

And then— closer. Close enough that the breath between you is thin, almost nonexistent.

“M’not a good man, sweet’eart. M’a filthy, vile thing. But you—” a pause. He breathes in, your hair shifting with the exhale. “Mm. Y’good. Clean. I knew y’could take it. Needed Price t’know it too.”

Well, fuck.

Your head is spinning now, but even through the vertigo you realize your second mistake. You know it’s a mistake the moment it happens — rather, the moment before it happens — but when your head shifts, just enough that your ear brushes against fabric of his mask; you realize it’s the type of mistake you can’t come back from.

And so, you breathe him in. It’s reckless. It’s ruinous. It’s completely unavoidable.

“My gut is telling me you’re patronizing me.” You whisper; something softer, something you shouldn’t allow. A pause. Your lashes flutter. “But god, I can’t figure you out.”

And again, you don’t know what reaction you expect from him. Maybe you don’t expect one at all. It’s been an exceptionally odd 24 hours, so you’re certain nothing can surprise you at this point. But what you definitely don’t count on is the continued brush of his mask against your cheek, or the way your toes long to curl against the damp floor—

"Y’not suppose to." His voice is so deep you feel it in your bones. “S’don’t try too hard.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but you do know you should step back. You need to step back.

But you don’t.

You stay right there, still as the air between you, every nerve suffocated by the viscosity stretching between his words and yours. The scent of him—gunmetal, something dark and earthen—settles in your lungs like smoke; curling, clinging, refusing to leave.

And so, you breathe him in for the second time. A dangerous temptation. “You came here to make amends, didn’t you?”

The words leave you quieter than you mean them to, tinged in something close to breathlessness — something you wish to god you didn’t hear. Something you hope to god he didn’t hear.

Because atleast now, you can say you know how he is — how he listens, how he picks the quirks out of you and files them away for later — how he knows what to do with the things he finds in people, how to use them like leverage.

And you should be immune to it.

You’ve spent your entire career training for moments like these. All the military training you went through, tactical and aerospace alike. You’ve been thrown into war zones, fixed and pulled aircraft’s out of burning fields, run repairs under enemy fire with nothing but your hands and your own goddamn heartbeat when the situation called for it.

You know what fear looks like. You know what death smells like. You know what it means to be hunted.

And yet—this? You never saw this coming.

Never saw him coming.

“Y’want an apology?” He mutters, and you can hear the smirk in it. “Y’want m’to say I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a good start.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, the smirk in his voice lingering, curling at the edges of the silence between you.

Then, he hums. “How ’bout I do y’one better?”

You barely have time to process the shift before you feel it—his hand—rough, calloused palm grazing slow along the towel covering your hip.

“Let m’spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lower with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Get y’feelin’ just how much I mean it.”

For a moment, you forget everything.

All the reasons, all the lines. The ones he's crossing — or maybe the ones you're erasing with every second you let his massive paw of a hand touch you. God — you aren't supposed to want this. You don’t know even know him. Don’t know his name, what his face looks like. You don’t know anything about him except that he’s dangerous, and that he’s made you fucking ache.

You exhale — when the moment passes and you remember where you are — a long, almost shaky breath, and it doesn't escape you the way he notices. Watches you through those thick lashes, like he's enjoying the reaction he's been working so hard for.

You wish you could hate him for it.

“Make me feel it then,” you whisper, all pathetic and trembling and borderline wanton as his fingers find the end of your towel, and brush against goosebumped flesh. “Lieutenant.”

And for a moment, you think you’ve made your third mistake of the evening. His title slips out like a curse — and something in your chest roars with how much you mean it.

He's so goddamn cocky. So sure of himself and you hate that you're the one he's so sure of. But when you call him by his rank — when you push that sarcastic mouth of yours just a little bit further, you can feel his reaction instantaneously by the way he stalls — eyes glinting in the low light.

"She wants t’bring rank into this now, yeah?” And when you don’t reply fast enough, he replies for you. “Get in the stall, engineer.”

There's a thousand reasons this is a bad idea. A million reasons you should be saying no right now. But when he looks at you like that, with those eyes like fire locked on yours and practically daring you to refuse him — he has to know he’s not going to get it.

His hand comes up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Now.”

And that, is your fourth mistake of the night.

You turn, padding back into the stall you’d showered in only moments before — tiles still beading with diamond droplets, gleaming up at you as you step inside. You turn as he follows you in, crowding you against the wall, broad shoulders taking up all the width in the already cramped space as he shuts the door behind him.

And then, he’s on you.

It's so abrupt and so visceral that it takes your breath away entirely. Your hands go up automatically to catch his chest, steadying yourself when he slots his knee between your legs, pinning you against the wall. Your towel is barely clinging around you, and it’s a shocker it still is — but you forget about it when he starts dipping his head down.

"Feels good, don’t it? Bein’ told what t'do?” He murmurs, fabric covered lips grazing the shell of your ear. "M'bettin’ y’don’t experience this much anymore. Tha’s why you’re melting for it.”

And god, the fact that he’s right. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

Somewhere between your rank and your title and your pride, you’ve forgotten the last time you had someone looking at you like this. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to bite and scratch and insist that you're nothing like he's saying — but then a hand slips up around your throat, and the other down between the space separating your bodies, thick fingers catching the end of your towel — and your eyes flutter.

“M’not hearing any apologies.” You manage to mutter, just before those same thick digits find your inner thigh, working up higher.

You're deflecting. The both of you know it. The same pride that drove you to where you are is the same pride that drove him where he is. You think he’s going to call you on it, but then you realize he won’t. Not when the hand at your throat tightens just barely, not when his voice drips into your ear.

"Y’gonna feel em’ soon.”

And then, you do.

You feel the grazing of calloused flesh against sensitive, damn-near celibate flesh. There’s another sound. A low, wanton, filthy moan, and you’re about 94% sure it came from you as beastly fingers slide along your slick slit, exposing the extent of your need to his ego in its entirety — once, twice, curling toward your sopping entrance before you feel the thunder of his hum.

Mocking. "Christ. S’like m’workin’ a faucet, yeah?"

His lips are on your neck now, mouthing slow and deliberate along your jaw even while covered by fabric — and the whimper that slips out is pathetic, even to your own ears.

"Wha’s that?” He all but growls. "C'mon, use y'words f’me. Or d’you only know how t’spit insults?“

You do know how to use your words, actually — and they're usually good ones. You've got a sharp tongue, a mouth just as foul as your temper. So you don't know what to do when every curse, every name, every string of insults you keep in stock gets caught in your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but try not to gasp when his fingers slide up to your clit and swirl.

"Fucking hell." Your jaw goes slack under the hand that holds it. "You—really are vile—“

This whole goddamn thing is vile. The way he can ruin you like this — make you quiver like this — in moments without so much as a name or face to attach the memory of it to.

If he's vile, you know you're not much better.

"Yeah. Tha’s right. I know you’re feelin’ it." He murmurs, fingers circling your clit firmer, faster. "Look how y’squirmin’ for it.”

You have half a mind to spit in his face for that. You have half a mind to tell him to go to hell. You have a million other things you should be doing right now other than clawing at his chest just to stay upright as he brings you to the brink of ruin.

"T-there you go again—mmf—“ your words are so breathless it’s pathetic. “Flattering yourself.”

It’s a futile attempt at a rebuttal, a stupid one because you already know the response he’s going to have to it. Pathetic. You are squirming, and you want to hate him for it, so you do. Your nails bite into his chest, dragging, raking slow and hard as if you could tear through the fabric covering it. You know you wouldn’t. Couldn't. But it's still good enough for him to grunt, hand around your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp in response.

"S’not flattery. Just truth.” He parrots himself again from earlier, and you think you’re on the verge of losing your mind because you know him well enough now have to predicted it. “Y’fuckin need this, don’ you?”

It's not a question. He doesn't need you to answer, because you both know how it ends anyway. But god damn him and his words. Because his filthy mouth is the second most dangerous thing to ever happen to you — right behind his fingers. You need to reply. Need to answer. He's going to force a reaction from you one way or another.

But he doesn’t give you the luxury of even trying.

His fingers still with a suddenness that makes you cry out in frustration — silver platter feeding him exactly what he was fucking looking for.

"Mhm. S’what I thought." He murmurs, hand sliding from around your throat to the back of your head. “M’guessing it’s been years. Least’ a couple.”

And it’s then, that you get it.

You get why this man is feared. You get why he’s so fucking dangerous. He’s worse than the name you know him by — because you’re certain even ghosts aren’t this knowing. This brutal. This consuming.

And through the haze in your head, you try to think back to the day you first met him. There had to have been dark signs — omens in your skies — a warning.

Yet, you can’t think of one.

“F-fuck you.” You spit it at him, because it’s apparently all your mouth is good for. “Stroke your ego any harder and it might just fucking cum before I do.”

He laughs, and then you feel it. The grip tightening in your hair, the palm slapping at your inner thigh to work your legs wider.

“Judging by tha’ mouth, y’never been fucked right either.” He mutters, fingers slipping up the slick coating your thighs. “S’alright. M’here to apologize, yeah? I’ll pay m’penance.”

Bullshit.

He’s not going to apologize by any means — if the last however many minutes aren’t proof enough of that. This is punishment in its worst form, and even that’s not enough. If you want him to make it up to you, you’re going to have to take it.

"Get on your fucking knees, then.” You’re so unbelievably wired that you hardly even realize what you’d said. You hardly even realize when you continue. “And use that mouth for something other than self elation.”

If you thought this was dangerous before - you’re not sure what the fuck this is now.

If someone had asked you an hour ago if you'd ever considered you have a death wish of this caliber, you’d have laughed. If someone had asked you if you were capable of saying half the things you’re saying right now, you’d have laughed even harder. But the fact that they’re leaving your lips - your lips that are now trembling with the realization that you just ordered one of the most dangerous men in the world to kneel — is enough to make you dizzy.

But then, he does it.

He sinks to those knees, cargos sponging the cold showered tiles as he does.

And you don’t think— not really — not for a moment.

Because if you did, you might have wondered if your pride and your dignity are even worth the way he’s looking at you right now — like he wants to eat you alive. You might have wondered if you were dreaming, if this was even physically fucking possible — the nameless, faceless man who has scared people shitless with just his reputation, kneeling between your fucking feet.

“Fuck.” It slips out in an exhale, and you don’t even hear it.

He does, though.

And in response, he holds your eyes while pulling at the edge of his balaclava. Just enough to uncover his jaw and lips — thick, pillow-full lips cocked into the type of grin you’d have expected, but steals the remainder of your breath regardless.

“M’gonna’ spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow.” He rasps, pulling one of your thighs over his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

Oh, how you wish he meant that.

Because he isn’t. He isn’t the least bit apologetic when he pushes your back against the tiled walls with a heavy palm against your pelvis — he isn’t the least bit remorseful when he’s dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, nipping and lapping — and he’s certainly not the least bit sorry as he brings that filthy fucking mouth of his to your slit, and starts to devour you like he’s starved.

And this, you know is sin.

You know this, because you’ve never felt a mouth on you until now that made you think of god. You’ve never felt fingers dig into flesh with enough force to bruise the way his do — never felt anything that could make you forget who you are and where you are and everything in between.

It has to be sin, because no one could do this without an explicit knowledge of what sin tastes like.

There’s no other explanation for the way he can make you keen, arch and moan like this. No other excuse for the way you quiver as he curls his tongue and strokes you until you’re seeing white, just to suck on your clit with a ferocity that makes your stomach tighten and your hands shoot up to cover your own mouth.

“Feel it.” He husks against you, and the sound and sensation make your hips buck forward in response. “Relax an’ feel it.”

It’s not a request — it’s a demand. And you don’t think to defy him when he pulls your hands away, pushes you back, and buries his whole face against your pussy again like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You’re so dizzy you can’t even keep your eyes open. You can only hear your breath coming out in stilted moans and little cries of his namesake — the namesake that you realize the irony of rather briefly, but forget when your brain flatlines all over again.

Because he groans against your clit like you’re the best goddamn meal he’s ever had, and suddenly, you get how easy it is to fall. Fall into the rhythm — your hips moving in sync with the strokes of his tongue, your thighs closing around his skull. You want to scream. You almost want to cry. Your voice breaks with every sound you make, and you know your heart is only a few beats away from beating out of your chest by the way he grips your hips, pulling your cunt to his head before bringing a finger to your sopping entrance.

"Gonna’ stretch y’out a bit.” He rasps, and you aren’t sure if he’s saying it to warn you or to remind himself. “Breathe.”

You try, but then, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s happening — that thick finger pushes inside you, curling against your walls until you’re gasping and covering your mouth all over again.

And god, you aren’t going to be able to look at his skull mask the same way again. Not when you watch it’s shape shifting just slightly as he works his jaw, suckling against your clit with a hunger you can only describe as feral, eyes half-lidded as they lock with your own. You’re certain nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. It's a goddamn match to a bomb as he starts to work another finger into you, curling them in time with his tongue in a way you don’t think you’d have been able to come up with if you’d had a lifetime to consider it. You can feel that tension building — a tight coil of heat and pressure building low in your core.

Then, you feel his fingers inside you doing something odd. Something—

Oh, fuck.

You feel it before you can comprehend it — before you know he’s tracing the first letter, the shape of it hitting in just the right place that it makes your hips buck in response.

S.

Oh. Oh god.

You can feel him hum against you, like he’s savouring it — the way you’re clenching around his fingers as you realize what he’s doing. It takes everything in you not to scream, eyes squeezed shut and hand over your mouth — head back against the wall as you imagine the look in his eyes, how goddamn wicked it must be while he spells out the rest of his apology inside you.

O. Then, R. Then another. Then, Y.

“G-ghost—“ you know he must be able to tell you're almost gone, because when he hits the last R and your breath catches, his name a whoreish moan you try to smother against the back of your hand — he growls in satisfaction. It’s too much. You can't breathe because your climax is right fucking there, and you can’t stop it for a second longer. “G-ghost—m’gonna—ohgod—“

With a suddenness that makes stars burst across the backs of your eyes, he brings his free hand up, stuffing two fingers into your mouth to smother the sound and feel of his name as you cry it. He strokes you through it, pumping you with his fingers as your vision blurs into some indiscernible haze — a kaleidoscope of light and pleasure and everything you know you should never allow yourself to have.

And then, when you finally catch the breath it took to even say his name, he pulls away. Fingers slipping from your mouth and your pussy like a goddamn magician.

A ghost.

Then, he stands up, and you watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand like you’re all the goddamn nourishment he needs before he’s helping you get stable on your feet.

“M’sure y’feel it now.” He murmurs, lips so close to yours you can taste yourself on his breath. "M’a man of m’word, sweet’eart. Always make good on m’promises.”

You’re sure he can see it, the realization in your eyes when you come back down to earth long enough to remember what just happened. Remember that you weren't supposed to let it happen in the first place. That you were supposed to have better control over yourself — and you can guess he knows, by the way he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Guess I made m’point, yeah?"

He tugs his balaclava back in place, and you exhale.

“Yeah, you made your point.” He hums at that, and you tug your towel tighter. “But this—this can’t happen again.”

It takes him a beat to respond, and when he does, it’s simple.

"Of course.”

You don’t know why, but that response makes your chest tighten in a way it has no business doing. It would have been so much easier if he’d given you a smart ass smirk, or a biting response. It would be so much easier if he told you that you didn’t have a choice in the matter, but he doesn’t.

And so, you step closer to him, tilting your head back to keep his eyes.

“I mean it, Ghost.” You whisper. “I’ll take a pound of your flesh before I allow you to fuck with my paystub ever again.”

You thought, at this point, you’d have figured out some type of gauge on his reactions. But still, he proves you haven’t. You don't expect the hand coming up, cupping your jaw to hold you in place as his eyes drop to your lips. You don't expect him to lean in, and bring his own to your ear — and you definitely don’t expect the words that fill it.

“There’s a few things I wanna’ fuck. Y’paystub ain’t one.” He pauses, and you’re certain it’s because he’s enjoying the drumbeat that is now your heart rate. You’d just found your breath and he singlehandedly stole it again. “I’ll be watchin’ f’your enemies. T’let em’ know they contend with me.”

You think you get it then. The reason everyone looks at him the way they do. The reason they're so terrified of him in one second, and willing to take a bullet for him during the next. It's not even because he's trained to be a killing machine. Not because he can see what you're thinking before you even realize you are. Not because he'd walk through fire just to be close to hell.

It's because he's a man of his word, and even you understand the gravity of that kind of loyalty.

You exhale with a nod, and then he’s gone.

thinkin about a reader who is a people-pleaser. who is so eager to please in bed. who needs to be needed. like you just can't quite get your head into your own pleasure unless you know he's enjoying himself. maybe part of it is that you want to feel wanted and to be what he wants.

you breathe into his ear, asking if he likes this, if this is what he wants; you need to know he's enjoying himself.

it's a good idea or it's a bad idea. depending.

nsfw ↓

GHOST senses the implicit question underneath immediately. you don't need to ask again. he's so equipped for a praise kink. you've shown him your weak point and goes for it, even if you yourself aren't totally aware of it. sinks his claws in and no lol you are never getting away. 

"course i like this," he murmurs, voice all gravel. "nowhere i'd rather be than inside you. you like this too?"

"yeah."

"like it when i talk to you? when i tell you how sexy you are like this? how tight you are?"

you clamp down on him in an involuntary response. he groans, then chuckles.

there is no sweeter place than right here between your thighs. he keeps talking, praise slipping out of his mouth while he watches you bunch and writhe, you squeezing him with your legs and your pussy, fitting him like you've got everything to offer him-- he dissolves into low, heated curses when you clamp down around him again and cum at his praise. you're done for. he'll never stop now.

GAZ is craftier about it. he'd never take advantage of you, darling, of course not. ignore how his voice dips, smooths, laces itself with authority, silk hiding steel. ignore the funny way his words seem suddenly smug. it flutters in your gut the way sees the power you're giving him and takes it with both hands--wields it like he's rescuing you from yourself. 

"of course i like this. now don't think so hard, sweet thing. let me handle it for you." 

he would never abuse his power over you, of course not, not even when he's edged you for so long tears prick at the corner of your eyes and you're begging him, and his eyes darken. voice soft, veiled, his murmuring hiding something you can't detect under the need he's stoking in you. 

he doesn't release you until you've told him what you want. this isn't just about him, he chides; he wants to know what you want. he wants to please you. but somehow, the lust in his eyes when you're begging him for release--to do what only he can do for you--somehow that's the only thing on your mind when you finally cum.

SOAP is pure id. you want to know what he likes? if he likes this? he'll tell you, yeah, he likes it, and the way you double down on riding him makes him want to cum then and there. it's not just the way you feel. it's the look on your face, the tension on your body, like you have something to prove. you're fighting your goddamn demons just bouncing on his dick. 

it makes him worse. he doesn't manipulate you. it's not like that. but you asked, aye? you wanted to know, didn't you? wanted to know what he likes, what makes him feel good, and soap wants to try everything. more than that, he wants to see you try everything. he wants to see the look in your eyes when he overstimulates you, when he puts you on your knees and pushes his boot against your cunt, making you ride it as you suck him off. he wants to blindfold you, cuff you, get you prone and under him in every possible sense and push you to your limit. all he has to do is reassure you that he's abso-fuckin-lutely enjoying this, hen. enjoying that fucked-out look in your eyes, that look of surprise on your face when you find something new that gets you off, that look he becomes most fond of--the "fuck, this just woke something in me" look. he fucking loves pulling orgasms from you that you never expected to have. and you're doing such a good job, aren't you? you're working so hard. 

he lavishes the praise on you. it takes no time at all for you to start responding to his praise even when it's clear he's turned on by just how depraved you're willing to be for his enjoyment. 

"you'd do anything for me, wouldn't ya?"

it makes him so goddamn hard when all you can do is affirm, half-babbling, wanting more praise. all he has to do is reassure you that he likes this. and he does. he really does.

...

more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

simon who sleeps wrong without a good fuck. cw. somnophilia, dubcon.

he’s incorrigible when he comes home.

silk nightgown replaced by charred, pruning palms. breath hot on the shell of your ear. you croon with disapproval before he places his thumb on your tongue to snuff it out.

been working you slowly against his knee, given the cool slick that kisses your inner leg. bleary eyes register the clock first. an hour that wasn’t made by god reads on numbers that feel strangely foreign. the world is molasses. it boils where you’re forced to ride his thigh.

remembering is just as leisured. sleeping without him and waking cuffed in his embrace. the 2 month stretch with out him. the distinct smell of gunmetal you associate with his return burning below your nose.

“si…”

he grunts and slips his fingers in your cunt. you turn your head to the pillow, but he grabs your chin before you can muster a groan.

“don’t turn tha’ away from me. been without your voice for months. not wastin’ it in a pillow.”

you moan where his digits collect on your teeth. the stretch of three fingers beckons another. louder. he’s grinding against your ass.

despite it all, his heart murmurs without vigor. calm pulse while he raises yours. just as quiet when he’s crouched behind a sniper. taking aim.

taking what he wants.

you give it up quick with your orgasm. brings you to the shore of your own consciousness, enough you register his cock pushing into the sleeve of your cunt with little warning, and the burn that follows.

it lasts until you’re legs are stiff and spread against the sheets, hole filled with his spend and ribs collapsing with uneven breaths. he folds on top of you, snoring like a bear.

loves that your cunt can put him to sleep. likes to wake up to it, too.

nsfw, mdni.

simon becomes an absolute dog when he sees you in his shirt.

cw: possessive simon, sex on carpet (ouch), unprotected p in v, creampie, size kink (?).

simon is a good roommate. he’s organized, clean, pays rent on time, and minds his own space. the only thing is—roommate is hot. stupidly hot. you know he doesn’t have a girlfriend and he’s never once brought back a girl let alone mentioned one. you figured your little crush on him would pass like all the other (it does not). you start dropping hints that you find him attractive. like wearing your tightest tops, brushing your ass against him while reaching for a cup, even leaving one of your lacy thongs to mix in with his laundry. he never bites the bait. you start to think that maybe he just doesn’t find you attractive or even worse he finds you creepy. so you tuck your schoolgirl crush away into the cavity of your chest.

you close the washer with your hip, cradling your laundry basket back to your room. you hear the familiar turn of your front door lock letting you know simon is home from his morning gym session.

you pad into the living room to ask simon if he needed any clothes washed. simons back is turned from you when he begins to slip off his trainers, dropping his gym at the foot of the door.

“need any clothes washed? i’m starting a load up right now.” you ask eyeing the movement of back muscle underneath his compression shirt.

he finally turns to you and starts to respond “nah don’t think-“ before he snaps his mouth shut when he sees what you’re wearing. “that mine?” his voice gruff, it’s his army issued shirt that is long enough to cover your shorts. a deep green color that frays at the hem and has his last name in bold at the back of it. you notice he’s staring at the worn fabric waiting for an answer.

you look down, “oh yeah. sorry was doing laundry found this in hamper. my clothes are in the wash. hope that’s okay?” you sound apologetic like you just did something unforgivable. jesus christ what were you thinking wearing his shirt without asking. you shift trying to ease your embarrassment.

he’s on you in three short strides. making a noise between a growl and snarl. you don’t know how or when you both ended up on the living room floor. frankly, it’s the last thing on your fucking mind now that you’re on your knees cheek pressing into the shag carpet. you can feel the heat of his stare between your legs. you get a glimpse of your shorts and panties strewn across the floor leaving you in his shirt. you wait with bated breath for him to touch you. you wiggle your hips in a silent plead to get him to do something, anything…everything.

he gives the flesh of your ass a heavy smack that has you clenching around nothing. “be good now.” is all you hear before the sting leaves an angry red mark that you know is gonna leave you wincing for the next week. simon smooths a hand over the back of your (his) shirt making a noise in the back of his throat.

you hear shuffling behind you before you feel the head of him catch on to your opening making your mouth gape like a fish out of water. he groans at the contact, kneading the fat of your hips, before he presses in painfully slow with a hiss. you whimper into the carpet, fists balling, feeling hot all over. your cunt pulses trying to make room for him inside your womb.

“i know. i know, pretty girl. almost there.” simon bites back a hiss when you clench at his words. you think you might die like this. laid out on ugly apartment carpet trying to take simon’s cock. you could cry with relief when you feel simon’s balls meet your clit letting you know he’s all the way in. simon lets out a guttural sound bordering on animalistic at the sight of you speared open on his cock, last name across your back, absolutely crying for it.

he fists the bottom of the shirt to keep you still and eases his hips back just to sink back in slowly. the pressure in your navel hurts so good it’s starting to make you dizzy. simon sets a pace that has you trying to cant your hips back to meet his thrusts. he lays a heavy palm in the middle of your back, just under the boldened ‘RILEY’, keeping you pinned giving you no choice but to take what he gives you.

“prettiest fuckin girl i ever seen. gonna give this cunt the proper treatment she deserves, yeah?” he bends his left leg, somehow sliding in deeper. there’s no doubt that you can feel him in your lungs. “s’deep simon.” you slur, reaching a hand back to weakly press against his stomach. he chuckles at the act taking both wrists into one of his hands pressing them at the small of your back, forcing you into a deeper arch. you sob at the change in angle. your nipples being rubbed raw by the friction of his thrusts.

“needed this real bad, huh? don’t worry baby. i’ll make sure you don’t go without it again. wearing those tiny tops think i didn’t notice.” his voice rough and deep behind you. “uh huh.” you reply without a second thought, you don’t even care that you’ve been drooling into the carpet or that you’ve been caught. simon gives a deep chuckle at how pliant you’ve become just from some good dick.

he knows your close by the increasing volume of your sounds. he never lets up his pace determined to give you his all. “where?” he asks in a quick breathe. you take a few seconds to register his words. “huh?” you manage to squeak out. “where do you want me, pretty thing?” he says in an almost pained voice. the gears turn in your head before you speak up “inside. want it inside. m’clean. pill.” resorting to short clipped words. you beg, as if you have to, simon thinks.

your orgasm comes hard and fast leaving you sobbing out garbled version of please and simon. simon is not far behind burying himself as deep as your bodies will allow and comes inside with a pinched “oh fuck.” he pulls out with a pop and watches his spend leak down your slit leaving a small puddle on the floor that he knows he’ll have to scrub out later.

simon pats your backside affectionately. “don’t think we’ll be doing any laundry today” he says with a grin that makes you giggle. “yeah, don’t think so.”

I love absolutely DISGUSTING Simon Riley. CW : Pillow humping, pantie sniffing, cum eating, exhibitionism, spitting, sweat kink, photos during sex.

The amount of times you've come home only to find Simon fisting his cock while sniffing the panties you put in the laundry basket last night, or walking into your bedroom to find Simon humping your pillow.

He's disgusting. He's finger fucked you while driving to the nice Italian restaurant he was taking you to for date night, only to pull his hand from your panties after you came and suck on his fingers.

Or, the time you thought it could be a fun and new experience to go wine tasting with him. But in between every wine sample, Simon would shove his fingers into you and then put them in his mouth. Claiming he needed a 'palette cleanser'.

And spitting on you? Or in your mouth? Simon loves it. He loves holding your jaw in his hand to watch his saliva mix with yours and slide down the back of your throat. Spitting on your pussy definitely comes in at a close second, though.

Simon also loved when you came home from a jog, or the gym. All sweaty and craving a shower. Only to get pulled onto the couch so Simon could shove his nose anywhere he could.

"Simon! I'm gross, I need a shower!" you whined in protest as Simon began nosing at your crotch.

"'s how I like it, lovie. Pheromones or some shit" he growled against your clothed cunt. Your cheeks reddening in embarrassment and arousal when Simon purposefully loudened his sniffing.

You gave up long ago from trying to stop Simon taking photos of you during sex. The first time he did it, you yelped and protested.

"Don't worry love. The lads from work wanna see you. They won't spread it round. I trust these men with m'life" Simon growled as he snapped another photo of your cunt taking his cock.

But now you couldn't deny that you enjoyed it. The attention. The lingering looks when Simon had his team over for dinner. The messages Simon shows you of the boys begging for more photos of you. You suspected they were just as disgusting as he was.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

simon is one of the girls (sort of)

boyfriend!simon was always invited to girls’ night—not out of obligation, but because everyone genuinely wanted him there. he fit into the group effortlessly, his quiet, protective presence becoming a staple at every gathering. whether it was lounging around in pajamas with face masks on or heading out for a wild night at the club, boyfriend!simon was part of the plan.

if it was girls’ night, boyfriend!simon was there. need someone to open a bottle of wine? he had it uncorked in seconds. carrying heavy bags for a night in? already done. if the group was heading to the club, simon was always the first to volunteer to drive everyone home safely at the end of the night.

boyfriend!simon never overstepped, but he wasn’t a silent bystander, either. when conversations got lively, he’d chime in with the perfect sarcastic remark or sly observation, earning a mix of giggles and mock glares. and when a topic turned to relationship drama, he always gave it to you and your friends straight.

“dump the bloke,” he’d say bluntly, not even looking up from his drink. “if i hear his name one more time, i’m blocking his number myself.”

your friends always groaned, but soon enough, they started messaging him directly for advice.

out on the town, boyfriend!simon was the designated protector. no one had to ask—he was always at the edge of the group, watching for anything suspicious. he made sure no one lingered too close, and if someone tried to chat up one of your friends unwantedly, simon’s presence alone was enough to send them packing. if they didn’t get the hint, simon would step forward, voice low and deadly calm: “you’ve got somewhere else to be, mate.” that always did the trick.

despite his intimidating size, boyfriend!simon never felt out of place during your quiet nights in. he sat comfortably among blankets and pillows, scrolling on his phone as face masks dried and reality tv droned in the background. your friends teased him mercilessly about it, but he didn’t mind.

“you’re basically one of us now, si,” one of them joked once.

he gave a small shrug, not looking up. “just don’t expect me to paint my bloody nails, yeah?”

with boyfriend!simon around, you and your friends could relax fully, knowing he’d take care of everything—from heavy bags to creeps at the bar. he wasn’t just there for you—he was there for everyone you cared about, making sure nothing went wrong on his watch.

one night, after everyone had left and it was just the two of you, you leaned into him, curious. “why are you so sweet to my friends?”

boyfriend!simon didn’t miss a beat, brushing a strand of hair from your face as he answered softly, “because they mean a lot to you—and you mean everything to me.”

an. i desperately need a man like him.

nsfw. price who takes pride in how well he takes care of his missus. it’s your world and he’s just living in it baby!

there’s not a day that goes by where you aren’t fucked and fed properly. will go to great lengths to make your life as easy as possible, which includes being selfless. which is why when he goes on long work trips he’ll ask one of the boys to take good care of you until he gets back. preferably simon; johnny is much too eager, and gaz is too much of a sweetheart to rough you up just how you like. he can’t bare the thought of having his girl waking up to an empty bed. which why he’ll leave simon with the keys to your home and a heavy pat on the back.

“I’ll be back in a few days. keep her entertained for me, will ya? if she starts getting fussy just means she’s due for a proper fucking. she’s a restless little thing. take good care of her now, yeah? I’ll be expecting updates.”

sugar daddy simon but he doesn’t know how this arrangement actually works so sometimes, in the middle of the night, you get a wire transfer.

you would always send simon a message regarding the recent activity on your account; what once started as, “hi mr. riley, it seems like you have made an incorrect deposit into my account,” turned into, “????” because of how frequent it got.

sometimes, simon has legitimate reasons — “i want to see you tomorrow,” or “i’m taking you to the bahamas this weekend.”

but often, his reason is just — “i’m thinking about you.”

this one makes your heart churn the most, and you insist on returning the money back to him because thinking about you isn’t worth five-thousand pounds directly transferred into your account. but simon insists; says you’re too good for him so you deserve more than he could offer.

(“but i’m a jealous man,” he grunted in your ear when he had you bent over his island. “so yer mine, aren’t y’kid? all mine?”

you moaned out your yes’s, nodding and crying out that no one does it better than him. that no one could ever compare; no one could come close.)

he is… an odd man. you love him, in spite of.

you still remember the first time this whole wiring money happened, and after his comfort and placations, you had at least offered to meet up with him to make his deposit worth more than his thoughts about you, but simon had just…

> Oh. I’m out of the country.

yeah. he’s your strange dork. your beloved daddy.

(you’d kill for him.)

Tears Dry on Their Own

or: Simon Riley picks you up after a break up and decides he’ll keep you.

cw: 5.6k words (jeez), mdni 18+, plot with smut, postbreakup!reader, avoidant!reader, harddom!simon/meanie!simon, possessive!simon, dub con, no use of y/n, situationship, p in v, creampie, cowgirl, spanking, dumbification, daddy kink, manhandling, age gap (mid 20s reader, early-mid 30s Simon), reader aesthetic.

a/n: obvious influenced by Amy Winehouse’s song, did a drabble about it but expanded it further. love u, bye.

One thing you knew for certain is that no one stays forever. No one does. Be it friends, co workers, family, relationships— everyone leaves. Whether from death knocking or not.

So why did you have to wait idly by for anyone when you could go off yourself? Spectate the grounds when you were ready and the smoke cleared?

And that’s how you lived. Coming and going, disappearing from the face of the earth and then reappearing like nothing happened. Like some stray. Was is good habit? Of course not. But you’d been tired of disappointment.

Tonight was no different from any other though— that ugly, disgusting, irritable feeling of heartbreak. Disappointment pimp slapping you once again.

Was it even a breakup if it didn’t even start? It was stupid for you to be hung up on a married man. Every single thing about it was stupid but it’s not like you knew he was married. You’d only known for three hours. Mark was his name and he was— he was kind— atleast to you that is. Sometimes.

Okay, out of 100 he was kind 76% of the time. But he bought you clothes, shoes, jewelry, paid for trips, he’d pay your rent— you were a kept woman. Nothing wrong with that.

He’d call? You’d come. Somewhere in the middle, you’d thought Mark would fall in love with you though. That you weren’t just a pretty face, or a good fuck— you could do the emotional, the romance of it all. Not run. All Mark did he’d laugh at you.

“You’re not being reasonable, baby,” he chuckled snidely as he went around the large hotel room, picking up the littered clothing he’d left on the floor.

Reasonable? What was reasonable? Asking for a relationship was unreasonable? That doesn’t even sound right. Your face scrunches up.

Mark feigns a pout, cupping your face after adjusting his tie, “Don’t give me that face baby. You’re too pretty for it.”

“Then I’m just nothing to you Mark?” Your voice didn’t even sound like your own, tight and sharp. But it felt so much smaller.

He scuffs then sighs, gently kissing your lips, “You know you’re not nothing to me baby. You’re- you’re pretty, sweetheart. So gorgeous. You’ve— helped me… so much doll. Been so good to me this entire time. Don’t ruin this for me, please?”

Ah.

Don’t ruin it [+].

Just keep smiling, keep looking pretty, keep wearing that pretty dress and that pretty necklace he got you. Laugh at his jokes, get your own rocks off. But the thought of it just being a pretty and sitting object kept festering in the back of your mind. You wanted more, more, more. You deserved more. You should be able to ask for the whole damned world if you wanted to and receive it on a silver platter with the finest wine and a vanilla ice cream drizzled with chocolate with the cherry on fucking top.

You wouldn’t get that from Mark— you hit a dead end.

It was when you went to go get your friend a gift, you’d entered the revolving door mindlessly, then you heard the family crowd in on the other side. Two kids giggling, a pretty blonde wife smiling and then, fresh and neatly styled brunette hair, hazel brown eyes, dressy attire and a grey trench coat— Mark. The same loving smile he gave you on his face as he planted a kiss at her temple.

He didn’t even notice you.

Your feet stumbled, entering the building, dizzy. Heart trailing out of you and along with the bastard and his fucking generic tv looking family. You followed, back through the revolving door to try to get a glimpse of him.

One more time, one more fucking time— a bad habit. A bad decision. You’d let the man walk away with whatever you gave him today.

It was your fault for letting it get this far to begin with, getting so attached to such a guy who gave you almost everything you’d wanted. Everything but love.

You let out a ragged breath, your lip trembling as you stare at his back. Him trailing away on such joyace footing right along with the setting sun along with his family. Taking the day with him. While you’re stuck to face the music.

Be a big girl, [+]. You’re a big girl. That’s what you’ve always been.

You turn on your heels, no gift in hand, in the opposite direction. The dark blue overtaking the sky, click, click, click of your heels hitting the pavement with every step. Vision getting blurry the further you walk. You don’t even know where you’re going, just letting the tears fall, the pit in your stomach turn into a labyrinth. You could handle it. Just a big, silly, knee scraping fuck up.

Shit, you needed a drink.

It started with a one night stand, doesn’t it always? He’d been away for so long, too long, and just needed to get his mind back into civilization. No other way to do than to get his dick a little wet? And you were available. He’d seen you once before, on some social media. Your posts would attract anyone who saw them. An alluring little thing in that grimy filter, so pretty, had all your curls tossed to one side, smiling with your pretty brown eyes, lifting your shirt just a bit so you could see the black thong you were wearing— a little teaser.

It was an absolute miracle he found you sitting across him in that empty bar, you lifted your head from the counter, long lashes clumped together, mascara slightly smugged, adding to temptation. Ghost bet you’d look even prettier crying on his dick and not over whatever had you in tears that was so minuscule :(.

You were in a tight, cropped, long sleeve turtle neck, dark low rise jeans that oh-so-perfectly hugged your curves and a 90s layered haircut that went down your back. You pulled out your compact mirror, the tears dried up by themselves, you lightly patted your face with fingers. Your eyes wandered around you, then finally to Ghost. You studied him in curiosity, eyes flicking from his brown eyes to his skull faced balaclava. What the fuck was he wearing? You looked around the empty bar only to gain a smirk from him that was unbeknownst to you. He beckoned you over with two fingers.

You were admittedly a little tipsy, talking to someone, even to a masked muscular man would be better than mumbling into the bar tender who very visibly didn’t want to be working their shift. So you dragged yourself over. Ghost watched your hips swish with every motion, even with a couple shots in you, and your eyes a glossy, you were walking as if you hadn’t been through the ringer. Poised.

Ghost listened to your dumb sob story like the many women your age. Some guy fucking you over, but you liked him still. Wanted to be with him and for him to choose you. But he wasn’t going to choose you. Same script different character. Ghost would be kind to you though, at least for the moment—

“Should I help ease your mind then?” His voice raucous, almost obnoxiously deep, sent your brain swooning.

You wave him off, sniffling, “I don’t think I’ll forget this one. I think it was more of a wake up call.”

“Didn’t say I could make your forget,” and his hand reaches yours, pulling you just enough so you’re facing him but still sat in the bar stool. He rubbed your hand gently, “Asked you should I help ease your mind.”

Your heart goes haywire, you lick your lips, eyes flicking from his all black attire to his brown eyes that swam in your own.

“Trynna kill me?”

“Don’t think murderers admit that to their victims, do they?”

The ends of your lips curved up, giggling smacking your forehead and leaning on the bar, insanely gorgeous, “right of course.”

He got you there.

You looked between the brute and the rest of the dingy bar, lights flickering above you— you’d play your hand with the devil tonight.

“Then please do.”

Was it strange for you to follow a man with a mask out of a bar and to his place? Of course. Not an ounce of urgency or concern, he teased you about it with his thick fingers were two knuckles deep inside you as soon as he got you in his house about a 30 minute drive from the bar. “Brainless little thing aren’t ya?”

He tsked, his fingers curling, grazing your g-spot and getting a yelp from you. “Thinkin with your cunt, we’ll have to fix tha’.”

It was when he felt you drenching around his aching red tip with precum, Simon almost lost his mind. Maybe you were the one trying to kill him. Had to get more in you. Arched your back further, slowly stretching your sloppy cunt inch by fucking inch.

“Oh- oh my go- Ghost!” your breath hitched, toes curling, you lift your head just enough to look back at him with those big doe eyes, Christ, you were going to kill him. “Y-you said just the tip.”

He’s just barely acknowledging you, too consumed (literally) by how tight you were choking him length, he grunted, “Heh, Not when she’s begging for me to be inside ‘er. You crazy? Fuckin greedy little cunny you’ve got, as if the tip would be enough.”

And you were whining so beautifully as you clenched around him, clinging at the sheets because the bastard was so thick, so biiiig (just like you moaned), and he pulled you right back down on his length because you could take it. Had to.

He couldn’t even fit all of him inside you.

That’s when he knew he had to keep you on a leash. Not a tight one, loose enough to let you wander, let you think you could continue on like you’ve always been. Hopping around from man to man, unknowingly letting yourself be some bitch. No, no, no that wouldn’t fucking work, not anymore. Not for Ghost. Perfect kitty, soon enough he’d tighten it, just when the time was right, enough that he wouldn’t loose track of you, keep you in check.

Make you his.

You’d assumed Ghost was in the bathroom when you scrambled out his bed and out of his house. The man was a monster, in the best way imaginable, but one night is one night. You’d keep your end of the deal. A taxi was on the way because he truly did live in the middle of no where, no uber or lyft— it was £70 taxi well spent.

“You’re gone?” Ghost asks, wiping his hands with the towel that was in his back pocket. You didn’t know what time it was but the man already had a little smudge on his and face, unshaven stubble, sweat already bleeding through his shirt— he looked too handsome to be true. You’d already felt butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.

“Uh- yeah. I- ehem- it’s been fun.” You nod, curtly.

He hummed, “Sure.”

There’s an awkward silence only filled with the rock music coming from inside the garage. You check your phone, 10:45 am, new message; taxi service: I’ve arrived.

You look up from your phone but there’s absolutely no taxi.

Ghost sees the look of confusion on your face, he’s already moving to one of the cars parked in front of the garage, “Does it look like that taxis coming out here? We’re in the middle of the woods.”

“Oh…” you scatch the back of your neck, and sigh, “well I’ll just walk to meet him then.”

Ghost looked at you, raising an eyebrow, a silly little thing, “So you can miss the taxi and be stranded there for the next forty minutes? Don’t be dumb, baby. Just get in the car!” He barks out his orders, getting in his black truck and slamming it shut.

It’s a simple three minutes, down the long path of his drive way, through the paved brush in the woods to his mailbox. Exactly where the yellow taxi cab sat parked. The truck stilled, Ghost unmoving while you gathered your purse, double checking to make sure everything was there. Your glance at him once more, scars crawling up his neck to the mask, blonde hair, pretty long lashes, brown eyes—

Ghosts voice filled the silent car, just as you opened the passenger door. “You come back when you want.”

It was a simple sentence. A direction.

He was taunting you, had to be. You’d thought about his words for the entire car ride back to your flat. Then day or so, and if you didn’t get a sign from god, you’d move on with your life as if that never happened.

But while rummaging through your purse, on the inside pocket while looking for your wallet, there was a crumbled up piece of paper. Ghosts address and number on the back.

You found yourself back there a week later, after contemplating up and down the small walls of your apartment. you drove yourself this time, cursing to yourself that this was stupid and he wouldn’t want to see you again. But you knocked anyway…

Silence.

You knocked again, rocking on your heels and taking a step back to take a look at the fairly large house. Probably a five or six bedroom, it was old, but fixed up properly. A garage connecting to it, two different trucks outside of it.

Simon opened the door, shirtless, stomach with a little pudge over his untoned abs, tattoos on full display and biceps flexing— he should’ve been on the cover of Mens Health Magazine. A damn model. The blonde nodded towards something in the front garden.

“The keys under the flowerpot over there.”

Without another word, he stepped to the side, letting you into the house. A German shepherd came walking down the hall, immediately coming to sniff you out like you were a bad guy. You immediately went to pet him, your hands finding his collar, a bin shaped tag in the middle of his neck that read, ‘Slugger.’

“I’ve got some things to take care of. You do what you want.”

And with that, Ghost was down the hall. Leaving you in the foyer with his dog. And you’re in disbelief because wasn’t this supposed to be— well— a hookup? A quick, ‘hey, I’m signaling you to bone me.’ You grumble, “that ass,” slipping off your shoes and stepping further into the house.

“As if I’d sit around ‘nd wait, ‘m not some pet.”

Let’s not calling waiting then, you wasted time. Ghost's house was a shell of what once was. The leather couch’s and the tv were new. The end tables, coffee table and mirror that hung on the walls were testaments of time though. Old antiques that had to be from the 70s or 60s, a record player placed in the hallway towards the kitchen, still used, rock records spanning the last five decades sat in crates on the floor. Under the tv was a plethora of movies, vhs to dvd, old classics to new action movies.

There were no pictures though. No photo albums to show that a family once lived here in this old house, none on the walls either. Just old paintings of sceneries, a few wilting plants in the corners of the room. But you could tell, the old bannister that led upstairs, the way the house just barely creaked with you and Slugger’s movements, the pencil marks of growing heights on the wall. A family was here once, but it was long gone.

Being here was like intaking the last lifeless breaths of something, utterly still- stuck.

The couch sunk once you plopped down on it. You sighed, Slugger happily panting with his tongue out at you. Graciously waiting for head pats. You chuckled giving him a little ruffle at his cheeks, “Guess we’re both waitin for the same thing, huh?”

“Still busy?” Your voice was naturally sultry, alluring, popping your head into the room where you heard the keyboard being tapped. This room, Ghosts office, completely different from what surrounded it. New, fresh, sleek, renovated.

Ghost hadn’t intended to be stuck at his desk for the last hour, paper work irritated the blonde to no end. He’d rather hand it off to Price. But you’d shown up on your own accord. Didn’t fight when he told you he had something to do, sceptical but still wanting to see whatever he had out for you— patient, just like he wanted. Good kitty.

“No,” a little white lie, he patted his leg, “come on.”

You shift on your feet, footsteps on the smooth hardwood gliding you behind his desk and onto his leg. “I didn’t take you for a business man Ghost.”

“A nickname like mine and you thought business?” His eyebrow raises, amused.

“Related to it! It’s related, no?”

“The military. Lieutenant.” You giggle, shoving his shoulder, “Then I was half right! Not bad, if I do say so myself.” You go on talking, treading lightly on the tightrope, your heart rate picking up while his thumb brushing over your plump lips, lost at the sight of you, gorgeous.

You chuckle, eyes finding his, “You’re not even listenin to a word—“

“—You talk too much.” He murmurs, planting his lips on his. It’s quick. Too quick for your own liking, your grip his hair and put his lips back on yours. They part just enough for his tongue to slip through. It’s wet, it’s sloppy, it’s desperate. Ghost throws your shirt and bra on the cluttered desk, skirt hiked up above your hips, underwear hanging off your foot. It’s already feeling humid, his large hands groping the two large globes of your ass, gripping harshly as you slid his large pink tip between your folds.

“ ‘S not gonna fit-“ you babble, moaning at the simple feel of his dick on you. One of his hands move up your back, “It’ll fit, just like it did last time, don’t think about it so much.”

“B-but-“ Ghosts hand reaches the back of your neck, gripping, “-[+], I’m not askin you. I’m telling you. Put. It. In.” You snuck down on his cock, painfully slow. Eyes squeezing shut with a shaky breath as you tried to take Simon. You remembered the limit, dreamt about it in your sleep and woke up with soiled panties. But you wanted to try fitting more, more—

“Oi, don’t get fuckin greedy. You know what to take,” Simon grunted, giving your clit a nice flick.

“ mMmm’ I’m sorry, sorry.” You mewled. You felt your brain was already shot, eyes turning into your skull as you bounced up and down. Ghosts head coming down perfect to bite and suck on your hardened nipples. You were hiccuping and crying, feeling that vein while his dick scraped your soaking walls.

You hadn’t even realized how dumb you looked, head resting on his shoulder, your arms hooked up under his while Simon took hold of your hips, guiding you up and down, back and forth, on his cock, drool continuously forming that you had to suck back up and slurring out daddy, daddy, daddy.

There’s a snap in your face, a deep chuckle you feel that comes from the bottom of his stomach, “God, is that brain even on? Too fucked out to hear me?”

You keen, “feels- ooough! Feelsh so g-good daddy.”

“I knooow. Poor baby,” Simon fake coos, pulling you away so he could really get a look at that adorably stupid look on your face. Simon couldn’t wait to see more of it. “Can’t even think properly, huh? Don’t worry, Daddy’ll do the thinking for now on. You’d like that, hm? Need someone to guide your little head.”

You moan and bite your lip, looking at him with those pretty brown eyes while rutting your hips so desperately— “Need you, need you so- hicc— soooo-“ Your own gasp cuts you off, eyes widening and shutting and you fell into the crash of a orgasm.

So sweet, so good, a orgasm that got you so high, it would land you right back down into Ghost's arms.

The relationship was— well the situationship— it wasn’t a bad arrangement.

You found stability within Ghost. Shocker? To you, yes.

There were no set rules to him, you could come and go as you pleased— the key under the green flowerpot in the front yard were yours— and if Ghost was there, he’d fuck you just as you needed. Rough and deep, pulling at the blonde strands of his hair whilst he ate your swollen pussy after wearing you thin, crying and thrashing. And when you woke up Ghost was either gone, in the living room watching some 80s flick rerun or in the garage.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah, see you later.”

“Mm.”

He didn’t press, he didn’t pull. He was constant. Ghosts house become your little safe haven. Anytime you felt like running off, being alone yet not alone, you were back there, blast music whenever you wanted, dance around without your neighbors banging on the wall and you’d have a cute little dog to pet everytime you gad the chance, Even when he’d gone on a mission, he’d leave you a note, ‘replace what you eat’ or ‘take care of the house’ because he’d known you’d be there. That was the very least you could do, right?

Take Slugger on a walk or two, fill the fridge before ransacking it, leave a couple clothes in the bedroom because you always forgot something at your place. Buy the fashion magazines you’d been dying to read and set them right under the stack Ghost had left there.

It felt so nice to be in Ghosts big arms, you didn’t have to have that hard shell you worked so hard to create, let his calloused hands explore you. Gently from your stomach to your chin, caressing ever so softly, you couldn’t help but lean into it. Lashes fluttering, sitting idly in one of his shirts that went mid thigh or maybe in the little black and blue tank top and underwear set he bought you.The one with lace at the hem that showed off your plump ass and hard nipples— you waited patiently for whenever he came home. Be it 7 pm or 1 am.

Let him ruffle your hair before you could swat him away, let him get a long and good look at you after his long day. Bring your ankle to his lips on the other end of the couch you two were both slouched on, movie playing in the background, before playfully biting.

Simon would ask, “What’d you do all day, hm?”

“Work, bullshit, more work.” You’d scuff, playing your nails but you weren’t focused on them. Not at all, more focused on Ghosts reaction, none of course, “let’s hear the bullshit then.”

You couldn’t help but want to be there. Because Simon wanted to hear you, his sweet girl, go on and on till you got tired, all curled up in his lap. Dozed off and nuzzling into the man’s every touch. Simon adored that about you.

You hadn’t even realized how kept you were until he handed that card, telling you, “you should get your own dresser instead of hogging mine. And get Slugger that collar you wanted for him.” As if you’d forgotten.

Did you run because you could see a storm brewing a mile away? Felt yourself reverting to the girl you once were with Mark. Being left to your own devices then meant to be the stress reliever. Kept. That’s what Ghost had to see you as right? Nothing more than pretty object. Right?

No, this was your greed festering again. Something you should’ve shoved downs flight of stairs just when you got that little nibble of proper attention you wanted. Ever wanting, ever needing— More, more, more. Fuck the world, you wanted the galaxy— the universe. You’d dreamed of it one night, living peacefully in this house, warmth filling it, laid out in his truck, watching the stars pressed into the blondes side. But Ghost couldn’t give you the universe. You were stupidly sure of that— convinced every molecule to refute the idea of it. No man could. You’d accepted that.

You’d rather be alone than to be let down.

And maybe it’s on Simon for not tightening the leash when he had the chance. He shouldn’t have let you perch in his lap and rub into him without telling you that there was no backing out of— well— this. Another problem. He should’ve told you that you’d be his, no more of the back and forth. Settle you properly. You hadn't even known you’d slithered around a snake tamers neck.

You were so blatantly ignoring him. Ignoring his calls, his texts. And it’s not like he was harassing you, he’d call or text once a week. See if you’d bite, but he’d get nothing. But you were still going place to place (he had your location on), showing off all sexy and high tailed with your friends. Eating, clubbing, working, showing your pretty face to the camera. Like nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

It irritated Simon. To the point, the men working under him were even more terrified and exhausted of him after training. Soap had to remind him to ease up on them, “They’re wee babies aren’t they?”

No, they were annoying little brats, who should understand without being told. Just like you.

Simon realized his fault. He just needed to train you right. Strays are all the same. You could keep them around for so long, let them bite and scratch even as you pet them, they leave, maybe get roughed up a bit then— they’d be right back when they needed or wanted. Looking for comfort, to find out if anything had changed— safety. You’d known where you were supposed to be eventually.

He heard the front door open, gently shutting it closed and the zipper of your boots coming off.

“Where’ve you been?” Simon thundered. He was sat on the couches closer to the window, man spreading, brown eyes piercing you.

You glance off, voice just above a whisper, “Around.”

Around? Right. Just paying the person you gave your attention to, no mind. Not an answer that would fly, not in Simons book.

“I just came to get a jacket.”

But you don’t move, the tension is too thick. Almost suffocating. You didn’t know why you were back honestly. You wanted to see him, just for a bit. Even if it was to grab one of his old shirts. Say hi to Slugger. The jacket was an excuse.

“What’d’you want [+]?”

What do you want? You blinked. Once. Twice. To go home. A new thought because you so badly wanted to be here no matter what you did, your mind would trail back to being here, face pressed in Simons thigh, almost purring the way he rubbed the back of your nape, Slugger on his doggy bed sleeping, Simon telling you to hush because you were talking over the horror movie you were scared of— that’s what you wanted.

But is that what you deserved? Is that what Simon wanted? Simon was looking right through you, eyes deep and searching for any waver yet understanding. Oh, it wasn’t just a simple question. It was, ‘What do you want so I can make you stay?’ Fickle were the worries that crossed your mind to Simon. He saw the way you kept shifting foot to foot, eyes in a panic, playing with your nails and the rings on your finger—you were scared. He was driving you into a corner on purpose.

Run. Just like you always do. It’s better this way.

“I-I want my jacket.” You stammered out, swallowing the spit in your mouth, “I need to get it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Your reply was like a rejection, a smack in empty forrest. You move finally, up the stairs, and you hear it. It’s like a rare bell that chimes when you finally come to a realization— Simons chuckle. It’s short but deep, drenched in sarcasm.

Faster.

Ghost was on you before you could get down the hallway, throwing you over his shoulder— tightening.

It was wrangling a feral cat. This entire beginning to now, letting you come and go when you wanted, feeding you, cuddling you, gifting you— it was house training a stray. And now that you’d bit his hand, and I mean really bit it, he’d force you into a house cat—

Help your stupid little brain remember where you belonged.

Right up under Simons large build, your hands pinned together at your stomach in one of his hands, shoving your face down into the mattress of his bed with the other, dropping every fucking inch of his girth into your tight pussy. Squirming too much, mewling, “ ‘s too much- agh- daddy too much!”

And there’s a large hand that comes down on your ass, fixing your lower back to arch so you weren’t in fetal position, “Shut up ‘nd take it, take it, fucking take it.”

You’d never in your life felt so full, so stretched, so out of your mind. Your lucky Simon was giving you the opportunity to take those shaky breaths, try to get used to the size, but it didn’t make a difference. Your snug cunt was gripping him like a vice, he wanted to memorize every single bit of it.

He breaths through his nose, shuddering before snapping his hips into yours, “Fuckin hell, baby, all this f’me. Always been for me.” His thrusts are slow and mean, dragging himself out so his tip is right at the entrance of your hole then plowing back into you.

“Fuuuu- so full- so much,” you gasp, tears forming in your eyes.

“Holdin out on me, mmph- you were holdin out on me alllll this time. Like I wouldn’t- fuck- be able to fit in your pretty pussy ‘nd then leavin me high and dry,” he grunts, delirious on your gummy walls, thrusts becoming more rapid, his heavy balls hitting your clit with every movement, He snickers, “You lost your brain princess, this is where you should be. Turnin that dumb little brain off and takin my cock.”

Simon presses your hands down on your stomach, exactly here his dick was pressing your cervix, you flinch, sobbing out his name as you cream all over his dick. “Therrrre she goes, gorgeous fuckin slut you are. You've been aching for it haven't you?”

The blonde flips you onto your back, sliding back into your sensitive heat without a second thought. You claw at Ghosts back, eyes rolling into your head like a flimsy doll. Cockdrunk baby, he jaw clenches, that quick wave of jealousy washing over him, but he lets it out out in the way he fucks you. Getting three of his fat fingers and rubbing loud and sopping mess you’ve left around your clit. Getting you through three orgasms just by playing with that bundle of nerves.

He nibbled everywhere, sure to leave hickies around your neck and chest, then bites. literally. “To think, you’d go off without a word to me, like you don’t care. Who told you to run off like that? Huh? Daddy didn’t, did I?” The blonde presses all your weight down on you, swiveling his hips.

“N-no” you hiccup, his hand goes to your throat, giving it a nice squeeze, “No what? Don’t you have any manners doll?”

“No sir,” you yelp, that strawberry pink cockhead hitting your g-spot. The plap, plap, plap, of Ghost bottoming at your then giving your g-spot a knuckle sandwich with his dick.

“Told you, you over think too fuckin much,” Ghosts voice strangled, “Get out of your head, enough of the running.”

“I don’t,” you shake your head but Simon squeezes your cheeks together, throwing your legs over his shoulders, “don’t fuckin lie, [+], don’t feed me bullshit.”

And you feel smaller than you ever had, whimpering, the most vulnerable you've ever been, forcing everything out and handing over the key to Pandora’s box- “You- you can’t let go, okay? You have to- hicc- you have to be with me!”

As if you had to ask.

He just needed to hear it from your plump lips, even if it took you being overstimulated, tears on his shoulder and your mixed cum spilling out of your swollen pussy. He’d tame you over and over and over, just for you to stay with him. Keep you close.

“Open,” Ghosts mezmorized, your mouth falls open and a wad of his spit falls in. He closes your mouth with his thumb, “Swallow” and you did, throat bobbing in his hands. He pressed your forehead together, molding your lips, biting your lips so much you can feel the blood.

You're purring, eyes glazed over and slurring, “Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Daddy?”

“Princess,” he leers but you moan louder at that, arms wrapping around his tattooed broad shoulders.

Call and fucking response, the ends of Ghosts lips curve up. Such a sweetheart, checking to see if he was there, and he would always be right there.

“Sweet baby, learning to be greedy?” He hummed and you’re slowly nodding that clueless little head of yours, your walls clenching a few times, “-hmph want you, want it.”

“Gooood girl, my good girl. Gonna fill your little cunt, yeah? Just how you want, just how you need, right Kitty? Gonna take all of it?”

It doesn’t take much for you to fall off the edge of Simons words, back arching off the bed and Simons holding you tight, still slamming into you while leaving a tender kiss to your forehead. Till you feel those big fat globs of milky cum hitting your cervix.

Simon looks at the state of you, glowing, breathtaking even in your exhausted state, he could’ve moaned at the sight of you, pushing your curls out of your face and licking up the tears that once fell.

Gorgeous kitty, Simon would take care of you now.

a/n: this took forever. I love blackcat!reader the most. Lmk what you think pls

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