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luminousbeings-crudematter · 25 days

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— BAD DOG. [1]

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: taglist is open! please let me know if you want to be added or removed. 》 WARNINGS: p-in-v smut | pining | mask kink 》 CHAPTER: 3.1k | 1/? [masterlist] | AO3

"We should spend some time together before you leave."

Simon Riley tenses up, there and then. He's suspecting a trap, maybe even a joke, but there is no laughter that follows. No elaboration, no change of mind—just the sound of their footsteps pounding the ground and silent anticipation that eats him whole. These wishful stray-thoughts of his are parasites; whispering maybe into the dark, dusty corners of his mind and painting a colorful picture on the back of his skull.

The sky above gradually shifts from vibrant oranges and pinks to deep purples and blues, and he gradually slows his jog into a walk, step by step, before coming to a halt on the dirt road he's been sharing with her every evening since they returned to base.

"Y'don't want that," he says eventually, out of breath. "Y'don't know me."

There have been many moments they've shared in the past weeks where he had been pushing the line of their professional relationship into something more, but he didn't expect this. Not now, never.

"Look, I—" Jane turns around to face him, stopping just a few sloppy steps ahead. "I think you're dedicated, have a dark sense of humor, and you read a lot. You're a no-bullshit type of man. Someone I enjoy being silent with."

She says it so plainly, without a hint of doubt or awkwardness. The hint of mischief in her eyes is still unmistakable as she looks at him with a face of honesty, so he rubs the salt out of his eyes, shakes his head. Simon's chest rises and sinks with every fast breath, filling his lungs with dread and a whole lot of fuck-no. Absolutely not. No.

She has no idea what she is asking of him.

"Besides, the whole purpose of spending time together is to get to know—"

"No." — "No?"

"No," he repeats in a slower, irritated tone. "Don't ask me again."

For a long moment, Jane can't find it in herself to react beyond a blink. She just watches him standing there, in the middle of the track, panting behind this stupid mask of his. She expects an explanation to spill out of his mouth—I don't have the time, I don't mix my private life with work, yadayada—but Simon Riley stays quiet, still. He doesn't say another word.

He says nothing because there's little room for explanation, no reason to lie. He knows where this is coming from, so he studies her with half-lidded, tired eyes instead. He watches the way her gaze gradually hardens as the silence drags on, and how a sardonic smile slowly forms on her lips.

If his rejection disappoints her, Jane doesn't say it. Instead, she breaks the silence by gesturing a half-assed salute in his direction.

"Alright. Well, fuck you too, then," she mutters, gravel and dirt screeching under her running shoes as she turns to leave.

They had spent two months together in Albania, hunting after a weapons dealer Jane had been gathering intel on for months. Just Soap, Ghost, and her; stalking local contacts, smoking cigarettes, connecting dots, and sharing bad coffee, and laughs, and mundane moments between work. Technically, she wasn't supposed to continue the operation; Shepherd has been clear about that, but Jane wanted it out of the way, and Laswell still owed her a bunch of favors. Price sent her Soap and Ghost in April, and all hesitations between them had rotted away by the time May came. They found their target, returned the stolen missile prototypes, and now Simon would be gone soon—back to the UK with the next supply plane. Two, three weeks, and maybe a few drinks later, and the Lieutenant wouldn't be on her mind anymore.

Jane pulls a squashed cigarette pack from the pocket of her windbreaker, ignoring the numerous no-smoking signs that decorate the grounds of Genístech: a heavily fortified complex for military-grade weapons and defense research, mainly inhabited by scientists, engineers, and US military. Tucked away in the northeast of Iceland, the research facility is surrounded by multiple checkpoints and miles of dense forest. Not the most entertaining place to debrief and recollect after a mission, but the CIA had sent her to much worse places before. Its space here is modern and innovative; the beds are a little softer than usual, the food a little less nasty than one would expect.

She taps the pack against her palm to loosen a single cigarette from the bunch when Ghost catches up fast and quietly, glancing at her in silent disapproval. When she can't find her lighter, he hands her his Zippo anyway.

"S'nothing personal," he says over the click of the flame.

"Yeah right." Jane exhales the smoke with indignation—or disbelief coated in anger. Maybe both. "Don't fucking patronize me."

She contemplates telling him to fuck off, to leave her alone, but they have the same way back and she's too proud to play petty. Simon keeps walking at her pace, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he scratched her ego.

He never cared much to hide his weirdness behind social niceties and the parts of him that desired anything more than skin slapping against skin died a lifetime ago. Some others never left the coffin, some burned down with his childhood home and the flesh of his family.

Nowadays he feels like a bad dog—full of rage, bite marks, and bad memories.

Simon Riley considers himself a little twisted. Dark, broken. Damaged goods. Bad luck follows him around life like a lingering infection, and human connection isn't high on his list of duties and priorities. Employment has been the only thing keeping him sane lately. The sense of responsibility and precision being the glue holding all the loose, fucked up pieces together that made up his sole identity, that made up him—Ghost. Simon. Ghost. Everything he is, everything that survived. Everything that is still whole and somewhat intact within him. He isn't made for closeness and vulnerability; the sole idea of it chokes the air out of his lungs.

They walk on in stillness. Around the east side of the base, towards the rooms they occupied since the return from their mission. The evening sun lingers in the corners of every turn they take, casting shadow figures on blank walls and heavy doors. They don't speak; the only sound coming from the tapping of their footsteps and the occasional whisper of ash falling from Jane's cigarette. The smoke curls towards the sky, painting a hazy path that twists and turns, and Simon steals glances at the woman as she stops in front of a two-sided metal door.

In this part of the world, the sun does not set gently. It casts an orange glow on her features and despite him knowing better, she looks soft like this. Familiar and warm. He tried not to think about fucking her—tried to bury the impulse in the deepest depths of his mind. His feelings are never rational, but his mind is, and he tries to ban the thoughts of her during his waking hours. It works quite well when he‘s awake—it's his dreams he can't control.

Sometimes they're a bundle of limbs in her unmade bed. He's all over her, tangled in her bedsheets, invading every sense and inch of skin and he's so close to tripping over the edge, the feeling seizes his entire body. But then her hands will be at his chest and her fingers trail over open wounds housing rusty hooks and she gives him that look from where she rests above him; the one that is flat, cold—that sparks betrayal. He always wakes up alone, the smell of burning flesh and the metallic taste of blood coating his mouth.

But then sometimes it's just them sitting out on the rooftop of some slab-of-concrete apartment building. It's a warm summer day, she's got her chin resting in her palm as she smokes and watches him clean his weapons. They're talking quietly, conversations he can rarely remember upon waking. He occasionally says something cocky and she rolls her eyes at him. It's a pleasant dream. It's a familiar one, and it's by far the worst. When Simon wakes up sweat drenched and alone, the first thought piercing his mind is that he might as well be dead.

It eats at him—being reminded that he's real and tangible and can be touched. That he's not a ghost, he's alive, he really is, there's blood under his skin, and he isn't rotting. He isn't rotting.

He is alive.

He should have turned away then, said his goodbyes, and gone back to his room to take a cold shower. That would have been the end of it. The end of a string of unrealistic dreams and bad habits. The end of something far beyond his comfort zone. He should not engage. He should step away. He should—

"You look tired," he hears himself say.

"Likewise, Lieutenant."

There's another heavy pause, then: "You still wanna fuck?"

Promptly looking up from her smartwatch, Jane gives the soldier a weary, amused look. She doesn't say no, and Simon counts down the second it would stay this way—but Jane isn't adverse to the offer. It's pathetic, it really is, but she would take whatever form of closeness he could offer, and sex—the act, the nature of it—was manageable for Simon. A need he could comprehend, understand, and eliminate.

"That's not what I—"

"Tsk," he makes, the noise berating. "Don't be daft. Yes or no?"

"No— Yes, obviously."

"Yes?" — "Yes."

The confusion in her eyes disappears with a twitch in the right corner of her mouth. Jane takes a last, long drag from her cigarette, before flicking it out of her fingers and closing the distance between them. Pale eyelashes flutter as her hand reaches up to his collar, but he catches her wrist before cold fingers can reach for his balaclava.

"Don't," he mutters, eyes darting down to her lips. "It stays on."

"That's—" Her eyebrows narrow. "That's alright."

Jane has hoped for a kiss, but the mental image of him fucking her with the mask on pools more heat between her legs than any bare face ever could.

Her lack of protest makes the look in Simon's eyes go soft. He exhales; not quite a laugh, but close. For a second he looks like he wants to say something, but then he pulls out of the sudden proximity and steps back—pushing the heavy door open with his shoulder. The metal hinges creak as he gestures to her to go ahead without wasting his breath on another syllable.

Jane thought about how it would play out to get under his clothes, but it never quite looked like this in her imagination. They don't speak a word on the way to her room; the sound of squeaking soles on the vinyl floor being a fitting melody to the pounding of her heart. Dim neon hums over the corridor full of doors, painting Simon in an unfamiliar bright light. She takes him in as they both come to a halt in front of her door. Broad shoulders, massive frame. The moment her keycard opens the door with a green light and a humming sound, Simon reaches for the door handle. He pauses for a beat, and then, as if he can't help himself, asks over his shoulder: "Y'sure about this?"

Jane immediately side-eyes him with a huff. "What do you want me to say? Yes, please, please fuck me?" She lets her voice go higher, girlier. "Please, I need you so-so bad?"

He laughs then; a little mean, condescending. His hand finds the small of her back and pushes her into the room, pulling the door shut behind them. He's not gentle when he pins her against the closed door; muttering curses to himself or the universe, he is not sure.

In the darkness of her room, his presence nearly smothers Jane. He's intimidating like this; using his physical advantage to tower over her. Leaning his forearm with faded ink against the door overhead. His broadness might be off-putting to some, but she has spent enough time with him to know that he is a man with strong morals and principles. Deadly and dangerous, but not to her.

Simon leans forward to press his nose to her cheek and drags the softness of his mask along her jaw, down to the line of her throat. The rough pad of his thumb brushes over the arch of her cheekbone. "You want me t' fuck you, yeah?"

When he leans back again, his eyes are darker than Jane's ever seen them. The low and gravelling sound of his words causes a shiver to move across her body. He's so close, she can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"You talk too much" she says, her voice low and breathless—but he can hear the subtle tone of annoyance dripping through. She turns her head to press a single kiss to his wrist near her cheek, and his breathing changes into something rougher and deeper in response. His eyes narrow; head cocked and pondering a thought.

Jane opens the zipper of her jacket to cut to the chase. She's only wearing a black sports bra underneath; skin shiny with sweat. He wants to taste it, but she's too hot and restless under his touch—wiggling out of her sweat-damp clothes with an eagerness that makes his cock throb.

Jane gasps as he spins her around and presses her upper body against the door, kicking her legs apart. He hooks his fingers in the seam of her leggings and harshly yanks them down with her panties. His hand dives between her legs and for a sobering moment he thinks she's not wet, that she's played one of her little tricks on him—but then his fingers slide into a soaked heat and coax a moan from her lips.

He pulls down his pants just enough to free himself. It takes him a moment to find the right angle, and she helps him instinctually—standing on her tiptoes to make up for the height difference. He's eager now, consumed by shuddering breaths and dirty thoughts.

"Be good and stay quiet while I fuck your brains out, yeah?”

What begins as a laugh at the back of her throat softens into a high pitched moan as he grabs both her arms, pinning them roughly behind her back. Janes' shoulder blades ache in the movement, but the sounds spilling from her lips invite him to keep going.

Simon groans in relief as he holds her steady and slowly buries himself inside of her. His eyes flutter shut for a brief second. His head falls back, mewling sounds of disbelief bubbling up in the back of his throat. He gives her a moment to adjust to his length, but once she moves her hips in search for friction, he fucks into her sharply—no longer holding back.

The frantic sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixed with muffled moans and gasping breaths. Simon's gaze is fixed on where their bodies meet in a harsh rhythm—the view of his cock disappearing between the curves of her ass just another memory to accompany him through sleepless nights.

He rips his hand away suddenly and lands a harsh, stinging slap on her ass; watching the smooth skin ripple. He's molding flesh with fingertips. Grabs her, pulls her down onto his dick. Bucks forward. She's trembling and panting, standing on her toes to take him better, but it's still too much. Too rough.

"Simon," Jane chokes out, face and tits pressed against the hard, cold surface of the door. "Slow, slower—"

"Don't say my name," he warns immediately, teeth set together harshly—but despite the poison in his voice, he slows down, then stops completely.

He lets go of her arms, and Jane immediately grasps for the doorframe. His hands wander to her hips, holding her in place. She knows his touch will bruise—he's holding her too tight, too firm—and she makes a sound like a laugh and a moan all at once. When he begins to move again, her hand reaches behind, gripping his thighs. She digs her fingernails into his joggers, shoves at him, and he stops again.

"Too much?" His voice comes out as a rasp.

"Just— just give me a second, okay?"

She feels shaky, dehydrated. Her thighs are wet, her hair damp at the nape of the neck, and she can feel him throb and pulse inside her like a second heartbeat. He could hold her down, make her hurt—it'd be easy for him, she thinks. She fantasized about it too, but her fantasies remain just that; mental images and horny dreams. The hope for something much gentler grows as she straightens up and finally turns around to face him.

She hears the change in his breathing when he meets her eyes. Simon looks at her like he thinks he might have hurt her. The expression in his eyes almost looks like fear.

The sight sobers Jane up a little. She thinks of the self-proclaimed cold, dead heart of this man and the endless attentiveness that coils up inside of him anyway. After all these months of working together and watching him, she sees that tenderness for what it is; soft marrow at the core of a burned man. He doesn't know what to do with his hands when they don't kill.

Her trembling fingers find his shoulders and clutch the soft fabric of his hoodie. Simon watches the slant of her eyes take in the furrows between his brows, the loose strands of blond hair slipping out under the mask, and he feels his heart skipping a beat.

"Can we please move to the bed?" She asks quietly, out of breath. Fingers reach for his neck, travel over sweaty skin under the balaclava—almost as if to keep him from running away.

Time seems to hold its breath, allowing the air to thicken with tension. Slowly, with a gentle push, Jane steps forward—fingers moving down to his chest, splaying and pushing over the broadness of his muscles. They take a few steps back in unison. Her bed frame squeaks and aches when he slumps down on the mattress. She doesn't say anything else, she doesn't need to. The sounds of their heavy breathing fill the room instead.

There is something very tender about the way they fuck that night.

Her hair is splayed out and she's smiling like a fool—eyes screwed shut, mouth dropped open. Soft as butter underneath him, legs wrapped around his hips; telling him exactly how to fuck her gently. It makes Simon starve for something he doesn't have a name for.

When his orgasm follows hers, a hoarse sound rips from his throat. Simon laughs like he's lost some sort of game, and those crude thoughts of his grow quiet in the moment.

The thick, softening heat under her bed sheets is too much—but he stays. Jane tucks her forehead into the place where his mask meets his collarbone; the triangle of muscle where she can feel the pulse in his throat. She winds her legs between his, mutters something about sleep, and he lets it happen. This once, he tells himself.

In the early morning, when he leaves, they don't say goodbye.

They don't talk about what happened either. Neither of them acknowledge the way they had spent hours naked and curled around each other, and Simon prefers it this way.

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#fic rec #reader who is mildly annoyed at Ghost you will always be famous to me 💕

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