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sprout-fics · 1 year

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The Depths of Him

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F! Reader

(Part of the Consequences Series)

Word Count: 9.3k (A LONG BOY) Rating: Explicit (18+ only) Tags: Brat Tamer! Ghost, Brat! Reader, Flirting, Jealousy, Poor communication, Arguments, Sex with feelings, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, PiV Sex, Unprotected sex (Use protection!!), Dirty Talk, Praise kink, Overstimulation, The mask comes off, Pleasure Dom Ghost, Mean Dom Ghost, Punishments, Possessive sex, Rough sex, Just absolutely filthy rotten terrible, Probably more but I can't be bothered, Angst Warnings: None A/N: Y'all asked for smut. Don't say I don't love you

You can feel his eyes on you.

The rum in your drink burns the back of your throat as you tip it backwards. Like a welcome burn it trails over your lips and spills across your tongue- sweet, sharp, ambrosial. You'd requested the Jamaican kind, and when the bartender had turned Soap had given you a look that was nothing less than withering. Yet it had been swallowed by his bark of laughter when you had elbows him gently in the ribs.

All while a dark pair of eyes burned into your skin, stinging more fiercely than any liquor.

Ghost sits off to your side, past the two seats previously taken by Price and Gaz. The two are up near the pool table, and when you turn your attention you can hear the sharp clack of the balls as they scatter across the green felt surface. They talk in low voices, the trail of Price's cigar smoke curling and whispering into the thick air of the quiet pub.

Soap is chattering at you, his elbow leaned across the bar top and bumping your forearm. He's close. You can smell him, the scent of cedarwood and smoke curling across your senses. When he speaks, it's with the exhale of whisky that imbues itself pleasantly in the buzz of your thoughts.

He's made a point this evening of being especially forward. It's not unlike the Scotsman to make a point of cracking a few jokes and letting his eyes linger on you for a few moments too long. Yet now Soap's smile seems to creep into your own, his fingers drumming against the polished wooden bar and his voice low, suggestive.

Maybe it's the contagious high of a successful mission. The assassination had gone rather well, executed flawlessly with your team long gone before the body had been discovered. It had been your shot that had taken the general down, a pure chance between you and Gaz positioned to overlook the other terrace.

Maybe it's the outfit you'd worn for the occasion. You'd seen Johnny's eyes rove over your form when you had slid up the pub, sliding from the curve of your ass over your chest and back again. The black blouse you chose dips low across your bosom, and with your arms tucked in front of you at the bar you know he can see the dip of your cleavage vanishing beneath the silky fabric.

You hadn't worn it for him.

No, it had been for the other man who Soap seems to have completely forgotten about during the course of your conversation- the one who's watching you two intently, unblinking, form coiled with displeasure.

You've been ignoring Ghost all evening. Recently he's made it a point of trying to maintain appearances in front of the others, trying to prevent them from catching on to the... relationship between you both. That means sidelining you during briefings, assigning you to Price and the others, cold-shouldering you over comms.

It shouldn't bother you as much as it does. You two aren't exactly an official item, really. To all outward indicators Ghost treats you like all the others- a rookie, one who is still earning her place on the team. He's a lone-wolf, one that takes charge when needed and barks orders like the alpha of a pack of predators. He corrects you like he would any other soldier, offers a rare dash of praise when you earn as much.

You can still hear his words sing in your thoughts from the mission.

"That's right, give 'em hell Bravo nine."

He'd let his pride bleed through in a rare moment of transparency, and it hadn't gone unnoticed- both by you and the rest of the taskforce. Not a soul had commented on it, but you'd let your pleased smile carry across your face all the way back to base.

Only for him to ignore you.

Now, in the quiet after-hours of the mostly empty pub, you've decided to return the treatment. You've barely said a single word to the Lieutenant the entire time you've been here aside from a simple greeting. Instead, you've turned your attention to the sergeant next to you, offering him a coy smile and a girlish giggle hidden behind your hand.

His eyes are flashing at you when you do, steel blue and keen on the swipe of your tongue across the lipstick painted on your bottom lip- cabaret red.

"Alright lass." He purrs, head tilting at you with that trademark smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. "Got another one for you- Wha d'you call a soldier who's survived mustard gas and pepper spray?"

You give him a sly smile from behind your glass as you take another sip. The moment lingers as you rest the drink back on the counter, drawing it out like the sweet, bitter aftertaste of the liquor on your lips.

"Dunno." You reply at last, leaning your cheek on your fist and angling your body towards Soap's. Your boots knock against his calf, and the motion doesn't go unnoticed as he drums his fingers on the countertop once more.

"A seasoned veteran." He replies after a beat, and you can't contain the roll of your eyes despite your amused smile.

"That include you, sergeant?" You husk, and when your eyelashes flutter at him Soap sucks in a breath like he's finding his footing before firing a high-powered rifle.

"Mm." He hums, and there's a flush creeping across his cheeks, ruddy from whiskey and desire. "I think you'll find I'm fairly well-seasoned when you bite into me."

Your smile crinkles the corner of your eyes.

You both start when a glass clanks down on the bar, sounding for all the world like a shotgun against the low murmur of the bar. Instantly your eyes are darting up to the other soldier seated past Soap, around the corner of the counter and partially hidden by the shadows of the dim lighting.

The paint is faded from around his eyes, his irises eclipsed by the size of pupils as his stare narrows in on you wordlessly. You can tell even with his skeletal gloves on the grip on his glass is white knuckled- the only sign of his fracturing restraint. To anyone else it would seem like he's suddenly paying attention after zoning out. Not to you. Not when you can read this man like an open paperback in your palms.

Ghost is pissed.

Yet you only shoot him an innocent questioning look at his sudden gesture, lower lip pouting as you blink at him in a silent question.

Ghost only squints at you, eyes bright from the shadows. Even with the mask on you know that look, know exactly what it stands for.

A warning.

Soap is too busy casting a single arched eyebrow at Ghost to notice the expression that flickers across your expression- daring, inquisitive, devilish.

The arm that's not crossed across the bar top slides across the polished wood, fingers tracing over the hair of Soap's arm as you draw his attention back to you.

"I have a bit of a sweet tooth." You murmur at him, and your tone is tinged by rum and mischief as you angle your body towards him, shoulders bumping.

"Tha' so?" Soap asks, and you can see the light dancing behind his eyes, full of swagger and enthusiasm. You're close like this, and for a moment you see his gaze flicker down to your lips, where the red stain of your lipstick has smeared.

You aren't stupid. You know Soap has the hots for you. The man is terrible at keeping secrets when it comes to that sort of thing. It's played off as a tumbling playfulness, words meant to draw your attention and spark laughter free from your chest. You always let it slide off, hardly indulging him beyond friendly banter. Not when your heart and body belongs to another man.

The one watching this whole interaction with a low, simmering ire like distant thunderclouds. Ominous, imminent.

You pointedly ignore it, instead fluttering your eyelashes up at the Scotsman with a suggestive tilt of your head.

"Mhm." You nod, and Soap's fingers are drumming on the table, the low white noise of the music playing like radio static in the back of your brain. "-But I guess you'd find that out once you figure out what I taste like."

The drumming stops.

Soap's eyebrows are arched almost into his hairline, lips parted in surprise. Yet there's a ghost of a smile there, waiting for a curtain call before it at last reveals itself. His steel blue gaze is fixed on you, lust roiling just under the surface. He's ready to take you up on your offer, ready to sink his teeth into you and savor the taste there, not knowing yet about the undertones of Kentucky bourbon that flavor your veins.

"Well, lass, I-" He starts, chuckling, and you can hear the bit of nervousness in his voice, suddenly aware of the fact that you both have an audience lurking in the corner.

Ghost's bar stool scrapes hard across the floor. You catch the motion of him as he moves quickly behind Johnny like a phantom out of your periphery. You don't fully process it until there's a gloved hand closing around your arm, setting the divide between you and your teammate.

"That's enough drinks for you, corporal." Ghost murmurs, and only you can hear that tone in his voice, the one that speaks of consequences and sends a pulse fluttering low in your stomach.

You scoff, mostly to keep appearances, with the added effect of trying to shake Ghost off and further irritate him. Yet his clasp is firm on you, and when you turn your head to catch his eyes you see the ire there, dark, precarious.

"We're just having a bit of fun." You protest, smile wicked beneath the facade of innocence. "Right, Soap?"

Soap looks like he's been thrown off a cliffside, off kilter and desperately trying to correct. His eyes are darting between the two of you, and you can see the confusion, the shock and the curiosity there. He's trying to understand this, trying to conjure the logic behind your subtle proposition and his LT's sudden interference. Yet when you speak to him he startles, and the thought fades behind the realization of what exactly he was about to do- accept an offer of thinly veiled sex from his teammate in front of a superior officer.

"R-right." He concludes at last, voice a little dry in his throat. Then, after a pause "...too many drinks."

You feel a bit bad for him, the way you're pulling him into this without his knowledge. Mentally you make a note to make this up to him later, maybe buy him some of the whiskey he prefers.

There's no time to think about it though, not as Ghost's gloved hand is wrapped around your sleeve and his eyes are boring bullet holes into your brain.

"Let's get you home, lass." Ghost grunts, and suddenly his other hand is curled at your waist, firmly guiding you off the stool.

Oh. So that's how this is going to go.

"I-I need to settle my tab." You try, feeling a spike of foreboding flash through your veins, hot like the temporary burn of liquor as you realize the imminent consequences you're about to face.

"Soap will handle it." Your Lieutenant replies gruffly, and the way his breath curls across your nape has your toes curling in your shoes. "Won't you, Soap?"

Your eyes flick to the Scotsman, and you can see the myriad of emotions conflict across his face. Confusion, shock, disappointment, perplexity at this sudden forwardness of his comrade towards you. He's grasping the edges of the picture, piecing together the puzzle pieces of what's really going on, but when Ghost's voice directs itself towards him he snaps to, blinking and offering a smile that fails to conceal his thoughts.

"Roger that, LT." A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he catches your eyes again. "Anything to buy a drink for my bonnie sniper."

You shoot him a grin, huffing a small laugh before Ghost has you turning on your heels, guiding you resolutely towards the door. Steps wobbly, you feign drunkenness to keep up with the charade Ghost has set out for you, of him being a gentleman enough to get you back to the hotel you're all staying in nearby. Yet the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth vanishes when, once out of sight, Ghost leans down to your ear and whispers a dark, sultry declaration there that ripples along your skin and up your spine.

"That was a mistake."

The breath in your lungs goes stale just as Ghost uses one wide arm to open the door of the bar, cold November air rushing inside and over your flesh. You step outside, and the flat of Ghost's hand has never vanished from the small of your back, pressing there as an ever-present reminder of his touch, of the way only he can handle you.

"Car?" You ask hesitantly, and for a moment your eyes flash up at his taller frame from under your lashes.

"Your room." He replies simply, not bothering to even look at you. You can see the flurries of snow gently falling down, brushing against the blonde lashes that catch the light of the streetlamps.

"I-I don't have a room." You try, but Ghost merely scoffs, seeing the lie for what it is instantly.

"Yes, you do." He insists, voice deepening, darkening. It takes him a moment but he blinks, turns to stare down at you- and there's danger there, burning low like embers, ready to re-ignite at a moment's notice. "You came here with a plan, didn't you, pet?"

"I-"

"Oh?" He asks, and suddenly he's crowding closer, threatening to dwarf you with his size. The hand against the small of your back slithers to your hip and then hauls you to him, and the grip there is a warning, threatening to clench down. "Isn't this how you wanted this to go, little brat?"

You swallow, and there's a hand braced against his bicep. It curls into the fabric of his jacket just as your lips part. Ghost's eyes dart down to them for a moment before flickering to your gaze, pinning you where you stand.

"...Four blocks north. On the left." You murmur, and those embers spark, glowing in the dim haze of the streetlamps.

"Good girl."

---

When the lock bolts behind you in the hotel room, it's like a gunshot, a final, fatal sound that echoes into an unsettling silence, the calm before the storm.

He's behind you. Just a few steps, his hand still wrapped around the door handle. Yet his eyes burn into your back, scorching and branding your skin even where it's hidden under your layers.

Like a wolf in the dark of the woods. Eyes glowing, unblinking, ever seeing.

When he shifts you tense, stomach fluttering and then dropping straight down to your feet.

His hand is at the base of your skull, wrapping around your neck so his thumb presses up under your fluttering pulse point and you shiver where you stand. Yet then his hand is descending, snagging the collar of your jackets and descending still, dragging it down over your shoulders. You let him despite the urge to turn and narrow your eyes at him. Frustration, irritation at his earlier attempts to ignore you still simmers low in your veins. it threatens to lash out, to raise its ugly head and hiss like a venom spitting viper.

There will be time for that. Later. Not now.

There's a foot kicking apart your legs, and Ghost's hand is back on your nape, bending your head forwards so you look at the floor. You shudder when he presses into your back, his chest glued to your spine, his other hand fiddling with the hem of your shirt, fingers just barely skimming against the flesh of your stomach.

"On the bed."

It's a command, a simple one, yet the way Ghost speaks it you know it's a warning.

Even so you stay where you are, squaring your shoulders, staring forward, refusing to look at him in a silent effort to voice your displeasure.

He pauses then, at your refusal, his gloved thumb brushing against the vein of your jugular, pressing.

"I'm talking to you, pet."

"I know." You reply, and your voice is firm despite the fact that you hesitate at the implication there, at the way it settles low in your belly.

You feel Ghost still then, as if surprised that you've dared to retort at him despite all the warnings he's given you.

"Being disobedient?" He asks, and you grit your teeth at the way he sounds almost amused under the frustration there, the anger at the stunt you pulled earlier. "We'll have to fix that."

That hand wrapped around your nape grows harsh all at once, and you're suddenly pushed, guided and then sat down until your knees hit the floor.

Ghost sits before you on the bed, massive thighs spread to either side of you as his eyes glint down at your form, knelt between them. The implication is clear, as your hands hover on the breadth of his thighs.

"What was it you told Soap? He asks, and there's a tone of mockery to his voice, and it grates down harshly, here in the after effect of all the time he's taken to dismiss you, to ignore your advances. "Something about wanting a taste, was it?"

He pauses, as if expecting a response. When you don't give one, however, his eyes narrow, like pinpricks of light against a dark sky.

"I'm not as sweet as Johnny." He goes on, ignoring your silence. "But I guess that doesn't matter, does it?"

"No."

Your voice shatters the quiet hum around you both like broken glass.

It's firm, angry in a way that makes Ghost pause, still in surprise. You think you see his eyebrows arch under his mask, but that look is quickly replaced by narrowed eyes and a loosening grip on your neck.

"No?" He asks, and he's balancing, vigilant, trying to discern the origin of your refusal, trying to distinguish it from disobedience to the hurt it actually is.

You bite the inside of your lip, face souring as you stare at him. There's a warmth to your face, a warning singing low in your belly at this, at the words forming on your tongue, but it's too late to stop them, too late to stem the rolling tide of venom that seeps from your lips.

"Is that what this is, Simon?" You ask suddenly, and the air around you has shifted, sharpening into something darker, poisoned with frustration and anger. "You ignore me for weeks during deployment, try to pretend like I...like this doesn't exist and then expect me to sit down and happily suck you off? Is that it?"

You've caught him by surprise. You can see it in his eyes, the way his lashes raise to reveal the whites beyond his irises. He's off balance now, thrown by the abrupt, seething bite of your words.

You think he might back down for a moment, perhaps even apologize for what he's done. There's a flash of guilt there, sharp and sudden, until it's drowned under darkness, under an immeasurable vexation that has his gaze clouding like darkened thunderheads.

"Is that what this is about?" He asks, and in that tone, something of mockery sets your skin aflame, your hackles rising. "Flirting with Soap, being a brat, all because I was focused on our mission instead of you?"

You laugh. The sound is cracked, almost desperate as your fingers dig into the fabric of his pants.

"Yeah, that's right." You reply, and you no longer try to veil the accusation in your tone, the bite and snarl in your words- like that of a caged, wild animal. "I flirted with Soap. Frankly, I didn't think you'd care if I fucked him. After all, you're not going to do it yourself. You're just going to make me sit here and suck your dick, isn't that right, lieutenant?"

"Like hell I'm going to let you sleep with Soap." Ghost snarls, and you've unleashed that same wildness in him now, his voice digging deep in his chest and lashing out.

"Let me?" You ask, and now it's your turn that's mocking, a hurt, bitter thing. "What are you, jealous? You can't stop me from doing shit, Simon- I'm not even yours."

Ghost freezes.

It's as if he's been shot- the way he flinches at your words, his hand still hovering above your nape, thumb digging into the crease of your skill even as you growl and hiss in his grip like a feral cat. You've never seen his eyes this wide before, the way the whites of them seem to blend into the paint of his mask, the one he uses to keep his true face concealed from you.

He closes them for a moment, keeps them shut as he draws in a breath, chest rising as he measures himself. It should be enough, that mere gesture, to warn you of what happens next, but your ire, your untempered fury bursts brightly under your skin, obscuring any warnings he has left, any potential escape he has yet to offer you.

When he breathes out, however, you realize what you've done.

"Allow me to make it clear to you then, pet." He speaks in a tone you've never heard before- something beyond anger, irritation, a bottomless void you've fallen into unknowingly with no escape. "Who you belong to."

You blink then, surprised by this sudden change in him, in his sudden emphatic possessiveness. Yet there's no time to question it, because suddenly you're being hauled forward, and you yelp as you find your upper half spread across the bed, ribs braced against Ghost's massive thigh. Yet that startled noise is nothing compared to the sound you make when a massive hand seizes your skirt, yanks it down past the swell of your ass along with your stockings and panties.

"S-Simon!" You try and protest, attempting to raise up on your elbows against the soft mattress under you. Yet all you receive to your yelp is a hand settling low between your shoulder blades, pushing you down, down until you're flat with the surface under you, face pressed into the bed spread even as your bare ass faces up towards him.

You should expect the first slap, but you don't. When it lands, stings against your bare flesh you gasp, a high, breathy sound that has Simon's hand curling into your spine. Yet before you can protest it comes down again, on the other cheek, the sound ringing out into the quiet hotel room like gunfire.

"Do you have any idea-" Simon, Ghost asks abruptly, and his voice is a snarl in his chest, whipping like a supercell, threatening to tear the flesh, the siding off of you. "How much I, how much you could lose because of this?"

You want to turn, to ask him what he means, but you can't, not with the way his hand presses you down into the mattress with nowhere else to go, his other palm- gloved, coming down onto your ass with a sound that rings in your ears. You gasp, squirm in his hold but the hand holding you down is adamantium, unbreakable even as your voice chokes in your throat.

"If they ever found out about this, if they ever found out about the way you do this- rile me up, let me bend you over and fuck the stupid, bratty nonsense out of you, I'd never see you again. You know that, don't you?"

Smack!

Your ass stings. It's random, whichever cheek he decides to lay upon next, and the sudden shift, the unexpectedness of it is enough to stutter the breath in your chest. Yet you know his words are true, that they are inescapable just as much as his touch- haunting you even in dreams. There's a pulse of traitorous arousal thrumming below your stomach at the pain, at the lewdness of this act, and even as you try to tamp down on it, it only rises higher, flickering flames at the core of you.

"You must not know." Ghost goes on, and his words are punctuated not with a slap, but with a smooth stroke of his palm over the swell of your ass- one that has you hissing into the sheets. "Not with the way you're acting out, trying to fuck one of my subordinates, your comrade."

Smack!

You shout then, bending forward and burying your cry into the bedspread even as Ghost strikes the tender, reddening flesh of your ass. The pain is so sudden, so intense it threatens as liquid warmth at the corner of your eyes.

Smack!

"G-Ghost-" You try, but he ignores you, just as he's done all this time while on mission.

"I'm trying to keep you safe." He hisses, and his words are punctuated with an impact of his hand that has you jerk forwards, away from his touch even as that arousal rises higher, threatening at the back of your throat. "Making sure nobody knows about us, threatens to court martial me, you. And what do you do, pet?"

Smack!

"You go and try to sleep with fucking McTavish, right in front of me."

Smack!

His words pierce at you, sharper than any combat knife, slicing inside you and peeling muscle away from bone. Yet the apology, the plea stales on your lips, stuck inside your throat.

You groan when his hand lands again, and the sound is as overwhelmed as it is pained, form trembling even as you refuse to concede. It's making sense now. You don't know why it didn't before. Maybe you were just too stubborn, too hard headed to see past the ever-present facade that is Ghost, distant and grim as he is. He's distant because of you, because of the consequences that come with indulging himself, indulging you.

Because it's you.

Yet Ghost pauses at the sound that leaves your lips- the lewd, open moan there that you clamp down on too late. You can't see him but you know without looking that his head tilts, that his eyes narrow down on your face smushed into the bed as his knee threatens to dig into your stomach.

"You filthy brat." He breathes, and his voice is muted with disbelief. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"N-no-!" You try, only to gasp loud when his hands comes down once more.

Smack!

"Say it."

You try and question him, try and squirm to face him, shivering and weak as you are against his assault. Your eyes peer up at him over your shoulder, eyes glassy and lips parted with heavy, shuddering breaths. Yet his eyes offer no mercy, not as they bore into your flesh, flaying you alive and offering no shelter, no respite.

"Tell me who you belong to, little brat."

You swallow, but your throat feels dry, a harsh scrape as you purse your lips, refusing to admit defeat.

Smack!

You yelp, the sound rising towards the ceiling as your flesh protests in pain, and then whimper when Ghost's hand smooths across it, traitorously gentle.

Even then, however, you shake your head, tears threatening your eyes as you remain stubborn to the bitter end.

Smack!

You grit your teeth, eyes scrunching shut and body trembling with the effort it takes to not surrender. The bitterness of his dismissal, as logical as it is, stings inside you harsher than any wound, and you hate it. You hate the way you've let your feelings overcome you in this, in whatever this is.

He indulges you because it's you, and you do the same. You needle at him, draw his attention, provoke him, summon him to you because it's him- him, and no one else.

"I-I'm yours!" You gasp just as Ghost's hand impacts you once more, and the flesh there feels tender enough to bruise. "Y-yours, Simon."

The spanking stops.

You gasp then- a shuddering, wrecked inhale that has your entire form trembling where you lay. Face still smushed into the pillow, shoulders shivering, the tender flesh of your ass too bright, too warm against the slight chill of the room. You're shaking, bridging on the edge of being overwhelmed- by his touch, by your own arousal, by the revelations that are evolving and shifting inside you.

"Again." He demands, but there's no touch this time. Just a simple, growled demand that has a tremor run through you, makes you tuck your face into the sheets.

"Yours." You echo, voice slightly muffled. "Only yours."

Simon breathes then, as if he's allowing himself to do so for the first time in your presence, letting the air settle deep in his lungs before it's breathed out, the hum of it stuck in his chest.

"Good girl." He murmurs, and even when you flinch at his hand smoothing over your bottom he doesn't abate, tracing the reddened swell of your cheeks.

"Breathe." He instructs as you flinch, suck in a gasp at his hand. Then, when you do, when your breath looses free of your chest his voice is softer, encouraging. "That's it, that's a good girl."

You bury your face in the sheets, ignoring the way your makeup is probably smeared, the way you shudder at the low timber of his voice.

Gently, you feel yourself shifted, lifted. Your body splays against the wide spread of the bed under you, cool sheets wrapping you in their embrace as you sink into them. You don't move even as Ghost frees you of your skirt, your stockings, sliding them down your legs until your bare feet dangle over the side of the bed. When he moves to your top you don't protest, lifting your arms weakly as he raises it off of you along with your bra.

Yet then he vanishes, his touch disappearing completely from you even as you lift your head to find him. Before you can, however, there's a click, the sound of a light switch before the world is plunged into darkness.

"S-Simon?" You call, unsure, pushing up on the bed and reaching for him despite yourself- seeking his warmth, his touch in the aftermath of all that's transpired. You need him. You need his touch, the gentleness of his voice here, in this moment. Here, where he's shown you the truth in himself, the one you've so desperately wanted to hear and has shattered you into stardust. You need him to mend you back together.

"I'm here, pet." He murmurs, and even though you don't see him you can feel him, the way a hand grazes across the bare skin of your ankle. The grip there is solid but yielding, and you allow him to draw your leg to the side, opening you up to him in the darkness.

You whimper when you feel his weight settle on the bed below you, absent of any words and hoping instead the sound conveys your intent. Hands outstretched, you reach for him, find the corners of him in the pitch-black room, lit only by the distant glow of the city outside beyond the curtains.

He makes his way up you, stalking up your frame as if he's crawling under barbed wire until at last you feel his breath ghost across your chest, your face.

"Easy." He tells you when you jerk at his touch as it hovers on your hip. "It's alright."

"Simon." You sigh again, and the utterance of his name is pleading, unsure and yet desiring, showing him exactly what you need from him, this man who you trust with your body, your life.

Simon hums low in his throat, something that sounds almost pleased at your voice, submissive and beseeching towards him.

"Good girl." He croons, even as his voice dips low, deep and rumbling in his chest. "Tell me what you need, love."

You swallow, and you try to regain yourself enough to demand he say the things you need him to, to confess his reasons for this, for all of this, for choosing you.

There will be time for that later too.

"I-I want you." You murmur instead as you reach, cup the edges of his face and then gasp when you realize he's discarded his mask. Your fingers trace over his lips, over the plushness of them as he hovers over you. The scant edges of him are almost visible in the darkness, outlines to a sketch you can't fully see.

"Only you." You breathe, and you shift, raise yourself, follow the trail of your fingers until at last your lips find his.

You can taste the bourbon on his lips, can feel the caramel sweetness of it roll over your tongue as you drink in his breath in the darkness. With every heartbeat you feel him relaxing into you, his form loosening, unwinding. He settles over you, braces his arms to either side of your head as he bends over your form pressed into the bed, legs caging you on either side. He's bare, you notice, having discarded his clothes, even his mask when he stepped away from you. It's enough to make you gasp, open your mouth wide enough for his tongue to press in, swipe across your bottom lip.

Hands fluttering, you raise them, unsure where to perch them until they naturally land on his shoulders, in his hair. When your fingers graze against his scalp Simon hums a low, rumbling note deep in his chest, and for a moment it almost sounds like he's purring.

He shifts then, letting one arm brace above your head as his other hands seizes your thigh, dragging it outwards and opening you to him. You shiver, feeling the grazed flesh of your ass drag against the bedsheets. Yet the little whine that escapes you is swallowed by him, drunk down and down like the liquor pooled in your belly- warm. sated.

"Fuck." He hisses when his fingers swipe through your folds, and the squelch of slick there is enough to make you bend your head into his shoulder with a mewl. "You're so wet."

Any response you can offer, however, is bitten off with a keening moan as he breeches you with a finger, giving you only a moment to adjust before there's another. A simple curl of his roughened pads upwards, into your fluttering walls is enough to make you arch off the bed with a gasp, fingers digging into the bare flesh of his muscular shoulder.

"Easy, love." He murmurs against your jaw, and when his voice is this quiet, this low there's a scrape there that's worse than when he usually speaks, grating low and sensual against the foggy corners of your thoughts as he opens you to him.

You're too tight, too tense, however. Even as he strokes his fingers inside of you, thumb ghosting over your clit you can't help but clench down on him, the pain of his earlier discipline harsh against your skin.

"Relax." He murmurs, and you let loose a shuddering sigh into his shoulder, trying to anchor yourself there. He's pressing little kisses into your neck to distract you, and as he does you feel your legs loosen, spread wider, body sinking into the mattress. "Good girl."

He's surprisingly gentle when he works you open like this. It's as if he knows the touch required to prep you for him, the gentle, rolling pleasure in your core that eases the way, allows you to become pliant and willing under him. With both fingers delving into you he collects the slick from your entrance, smears it up across your sensitive clit as you moan, whimper, clinging to him.

"There we go." He growls as he feels you grow slack under his touch- and you know there's something about the act of gentling you like this, of making you so needy, so drunk with it that it's all you can do to writhe and whimper, begging for release. His words alone are enough to make your stomach flop helplessly, a shuddering breath fogging into the rolling plane of his shoulder as he touches you. "Good. Good girl."

"S-Simon." You murmur, the name muffled into his flesh. "Please, I want you inside-"

You're interrupted by his groan, feel the warmth of it spill across your flesh and stoke the fire, the glow of embers flickering higher inside you.

Then, without warning, he bites.

You yelp, clenching down on his fingers- thick, full inside you as pleasure laces through your veins. The stretch of it is too much for a moment, as he presses, pulls against your slick walls. Burning, sparking, higher. Your nails on his shoulder dig instantly in an untamed reaction, and in response Simon's teeth only press down, hard enough to leave a welting, purple bruise.

"T-they could see." You try, but your voice cracks in your throat when his lips close around the spot, suckling hard and drawing blood to the center of the mark.

"Let them." He replies gruffly, pausing to let his warm breath engulf the forming bruise. "Let them think twice about looking at you."

Whatever words form on your lips die with a choke when his fingers are suddenly pressing in, further, further until he's got nothing left to give, down to the brassed, worn knuckles of him. Yet then they retreat, only to delve back in again, and again, and with each pull you feel your walls clinging to him, clamping down and sliding with delicious friction over the roughness of them.

Soon the rapid, lewd squelch of your wetness is muffled by your whine into his shoulder, forehead bent into the junction between his chest and throat. You can hear every grunt, every tremble of his voice like this, with your ear pressed to him, the way he growls down at your shivering, trembling form.

You can feel the beginning throes of your climax building inside you, rising, twisting, shivering. With every plunge of Ghost's fingers there's a mewl, a whining groan wrung from you as the pleasure clenches low beneath your stomach, at the base of your spine, racing like sparks along your nerve endings and up to your shoulders, your throat, where it escapes in a strangled, needing gasp. The sounds are enough to make Simon hum against your throat, and his lips are descending again into your collarbone, craning his head to reach the tender flesh there.

You can hardly feel it as he lays another hickey there, biting the skin between his teeth. You're too busy writhing, squirming under his touch, and when his thumb presses down, circles your clit you jerk, feeling that pleasure spike inside you, double exponentially. He seizes on it, draws it upwards until your voice rises so high in your throat it cracks, chokes into silence.

"That's it, pretty girl." He murmurs low against your throat, and you can feel how his shoulder rolls with every thrust of his fingers. "My girl."

You're panting with it, skin too warm, too flushed as he picks up, as you feel him hammer those fingers away inside you, curling, pulling, pushing, searching for the thing he knows is there. He knows your body better than any weapon, knows the note that makes you sing to him, the way you clench and writhe and beg-

Your voice rises sharply as his fingers find it, find the source of that glow inside you, and you arch off the bed, driving yourself down on him in an effort to chase it. You don't have to, however, because Ghost's aim, deadly and true, finds it just as soon, and he reaches, presses down on that bundle of nerves just as his thumb presses down on your clit. Instantly you're bowing off the bed, throat closing but lips parting, trying to find purchase somewhere, anywhere against the tide of your climax as it washes forcefully over you, too much, overwhelming.

It's his shoulder you settle on, and your teeth sink into him just as your walls pulse and flutter around his fingers, as he sets a slow, steady rhythm to work you through it. He chokes as you bite down, but his pace never slows, drawing out the pleasure for as long as he can until you shake, shudder, groan into his flesh.

"There we go." He grits as you twitch, clinging to him, biting him against the force of it all. His voice draws out the words, and it feels like running your hands over black satin, feeling the smooth dark sensation of it under your fingers. "Theeerrreee we go, pet."

It takes more than a few moments to regain yourself, and the pulsing aftereffects of your climax burn under your skin. Yet they don't die, don't dim down to darkness. Not yet.

When Simon at last withdraws his fingers you whine at the sound that results, at the slick mess of you that coats his hand down to his wrist. You feel your face warm, breath still making your chest rise in rapid little pants that have your nipples grazing against his chest. Yet he doesn't comment on it, merely grunts as he pulls away from you, sits up and uses both hands to shift, adjusting you up the bed until both your legs are held up, braced against his shoulders.

"Turn on the light." He tells you after a moment, voice a little breathless and cracking deep in his chest.

You pause at that, unsure. He's not wearing his mask. The phantom of his kiss lingers across your lips, and it's enough to make you hesitate. It's not as if he hasn't kissed you before. Yet each time it's happened (five, you've counted) it's been in the dark, your eyes closed, his shirt wrapped around your eyes to shield him from your gaze. Despite this, despite all the time you've been together, you've never seen his face.

The message isn't lost on you. He knows. He knows you'll see his face and yet tells you it's fine, his words a command you're bent to obey, even as it opens him to you, revealing the piece of him you've been seeking for so long- the tender, needed acceptance of you. He asks you to reveal him, surrendering himself, hands open, waiting.

"Go on." He encourages softly when you don't move, let your hand settle against your collarbone where he's claimed you. "I want to see you. Want to see your face when I break you open on my cock, my girl."

Your breath stutters at that, choking stale in your chest at the way he says it so plainly, as if conveying intel, tactics. It's not a question of if or how but when.

So you stretch, fingers fumbling for the bedside lamp and clicking it on, washing the room in a dim, hazy yellow glow.

You see him.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust but you see him. His eyes are the same, but with his brow they seem softer somehow, more expressive. His lips are parted, swollen from kissing you, and there's paint smudged around his eyes, the sharp bridge of his nose sloping downwards on his face. Stubble clings to his jaw, his hair mussed and clinging to his forehead. He's...

Handsome.

Yet before you can say so, before you can hardly breathe he shifts, looks down, and you see him fist his cock, letting the tip slide through your slicked folds as he bends over you.

"Look at me."

You blink, not hearing him for a moment as your eyes lock onto his shaft, cum pearling at the tip, flushed and red and veiny and huge-

"I said look at me, pretty girl."

Your eyes dart up to him, and his shoulders are rising with restrained breaths as he notches the head against your entrance. When you whine his eyes flash, like stars blinking in the nighttime winter sky.

He enters you in one slow, drawn-out motion, sliding home until he meets the barrier inside you. You arch off the bed with a broken sound, hands searching, fluttering until one of his palms settles across yours, grounding you.

"Fuck!" He snarls, and without the mask you can see the way his face contorts, the way his brow knots with pleasure. "So fucking tight, pet. Gripping me like a bloody vice."

You don't answer, lost in the tide of it, eyes glassy and vision hazy as you feel him- all of him. Except there's still more. You know there is. You've taken it before, bent over desks on base, up against a wall in a safehouse, on a dingy couch during a mission where it was just you two. Yet this time feels different. For once it's not Ghost, bending you over, fucking you like he means it, growling and primal and a little depraved.

No, this is Simon.

He wastes no time, giving you hardly any space to breathe before he's pulling out and setting a steady, jolting pace that batters the head of him inside you, reaching deep, deeper with every thrust.

The friction sends you spiraling, and you can't contain the noises that come next, seeping from your lungs like a bullet ridden bottle of brandy, leaking onto the sheets below.

"Fuck, listen to you." He breathes, and there's one hand keeping your legs up, braced on his shoulders as he pounds inside of you- precise, efficient, brutal. "So loud for me. Fucking good girl."

He turns, and you see his lips open, seize around your calf as he bites there too, leaving marks wherever he can find the space for them. It feels like a brand, one that you desire, you need, for him to mark you in the way only he can.

It's so sudden, the way he fucks into you, driving the head of him knocking inside your walls even as you cry out, tears threatening the corners of your eyes. It's almost painful, and your core clenches around him, oversensitive still from his fingers spreading you and then drowning you, yet it's not enough. You need more, need him deeper inside of you until he's all you can think about, until you feel him for days, for weeks.

You need him to break you.

"Keep those fucking eyes open, love." He growls down at you when you retreat into your mind overwhelmed by all of it, by him. "Need to see your eyes."

You do, and it's hard to focus on him as he fucks you, body jolting up only to sink down on him once more. Tits bouncing, hair caught against the corners of your face, brow furrowed and eyes glassy, it's enough to drive him insane, restraint falling away like the sound of shattering glass.

"Fuck." He breathes, and his voice crackles in his chest. "Look at you, fucking cock drunk, aren't you?"

You can only imagine the state of you, as you arch off the bed with a particularly brutal thrust that grinds into you, splits you wider, letting him sink deeper.

He groans, and the sound is hidden under his gritted jaw as his cock fucks into you, your walls dragging against him and refusing to let him go when he retreats, only to drive back into you again. Burning, unyielding, devastating.

There's pleasure bursting under your veins like bruised capillaries, seeping into you and blossoming bright against your skin. You feel like you're drunk on hypoxia, and fuck maybe you are, the way your chest rises and falls and you feel like the blood in your veins is replaced with sweet Kentucky bourbon, the burn of it swallowed by a woodsy sweetness that reeks of him.

Simon shifts, and you arch, voice cracking and loud, devoid of words as you feel the tip of him grind against your cervix, knock against the entrance to your womb.

A hand settles on your lower belly and presses, and you jerk with a cry, gaze whipping down to see his hand splayed across your skin beneath your tummy. Yet when he moves his palm away you see it, see the telltale rise of him with every thrust, stretching you wider, deeper, further than you've ever taken him.

"Holy shit." You wheeze, and the resulting chuckle has your eyes flicking back to his, settling on his hungry, almost desperate stare, tinted black at the edges and set to ruin. Yet then his brow pinches with pleasure, lips closing in a grimace as he grunts, bends over you until you're folded in half, knees pressed to your chest and then pressed into the mattress until there's nowhere left to go.

Simon shifts inside you, and then suddenly he's thrusting against something that makes you wail, cry out and fumble for him, a plea on your lips.

"I-it's too much-" You try, and your words are choked as he slows, grinding into that same spot enough to make you instantly go limp, a full body tremor wrecking your smaller frame.

"I'll say when it's too much." He snarls, and when you gasp, shiver, try to reach for your clit to draw that release sooner, closer, he swats it away.

"I don't think so."

It takes him only a moment to wrap his hand around your wrists, hauling them up, above your head and then keeping them there. All the while his thrusts have shortened to shallow, precise impacts against that bundle of nerves inside you, enough to make tears leak at the corner of your eyes.

Normally he'd stop, ask you if it's too much, make sure you're okay before he continues. Not now, not in the aftermath of what he's said, when he's crazed and desperate and possessive, needing to sink himself into so deep he's not sure he can find the surface. It's all you can do to simply take it, listen to him as his head drops towards you, bracing on your sweat slicked forehead, voice cracking.

"You. Are. Mine."

It's closing in on you now, your climax, and the gravity of it threatens to drag you under, roping around your limbs and dragging you to the precipice. The weight of it is unlike anything you've known before, and it's slick, heavy as he sinks into you, as you sink into him, as you both drown together, submerged in a tar that sears, which binds you both together.

"Say it." He grunts, and his other hand closes around your cheeks, tilting your watery eyes to face him with a curse. "Say my name."

"Simon." You wheeze, and you're ruined, by him, by desire, by need and the rolling, building press of your orgasm in your veins. "Simon."

You stare into his eyes then, close like this, and they seem brighter somehow, dancing with a dark gleam that speaks of you. It's haunting, ephemeral, and you know that here, in this moment it's enough to shatter you into grave dust, only to let his hands scoop you up into his waiting lips.

"I'm yours." You whisper, and then surrender wholly, entirely to him, as your voice builds and you scream a silent sound as the earth-shattering end finally reaches you, black and inescapable, all-consuming as the world fades into nothingness.

---

You come to a while later, and it's unclear if it's a mere second or whole minutes. The world around you blurs, and when you shift you feel the warm spend of him inside you leaking out past your folds.

A hiss escapes you when he scoops it with a finger, idly presses it back inside.

"You with me?" He asks, and the edge of him has faded from his voice now, fucked and brittled down, tamed back where it belongs.

You nod, groan as his arm wraps around you. It aches, but the throb there is stifled by the simmering aftereffects of pleasure. You feel undeniably sated, warm to the touch, limbs heavy but weighed down with contentment even as the core of you throbs and flutters.

It takes him hardly any effort to haul you on top of him, on top of his broad, sweaty chest that smells like birch and woodsmoke and the lingering, coppery taste of metal. You feel it rise and fall under you as he regains himself, a hand pressing into the meat of your hip as you splay over his form.

"I'm sorry." You mumble, ear pressed to the center of his chest where you can hear his calming heartbeat. "I was being...stupid."

He stills then, the hand on your thigh pausing here it rubs circles against your skin. Yet then he hums, raises himself so you can see his face once more, see his glazed, dark eyes stare down at you.

He could say anything in this moment, you think. The space between you feels enigmatic, full of mysteries as you both try to uncover what's left. You're his. You know that, but it still doesn't feel like he's yours. Not yet. The depths of him are still unknown to you, even as you trace over the exposed planes of his face, with his slickened brow and rosy cheeks. He could tell you he's right, could scold you for being greedy despite the fact that you are, could pull the earth from under your feet with a startling revelation that sends you spiraling downwards into doubt once more.

"I want you." He says softly instead, and there's a sadness in his eyes you don't understand despite the fact the words are so tender, so open. He's hiding in the depths, and you know that he's telling the truth, that he wants, needs you but doesn't know how.

You realize then, dimly, that this is going to end someday. You want him, want to seek him in the darkness, fish pieces of him from under the surface and assemble them in your hands even as he hides. He wants you, wants the indulgence of you not because of this, because of your body but because of you.

For now.

Bitterness, like the afterburn of the liquor he doesn't touch pools at the back of your throat, sharp, biting. You swallow it down, let it intoxicate your veins even as it poisons you slowly, makes the world fade to dazzling flashes of color until there's nothing left.

You summon a smile instead, let it pull the corner of your lips as you brace your chin on his chest. There's a pause, a moment where you think Simon sees the lie behind your eyes. If he does he doesn't say, and you know it's because he's hiding secrets too.

"I like your face." You murmur, and you reach up a hand to stroke the corner of his jaw. it flexes under your touch. "...but I think I like you better with the mask on."

He smiles then, and you can't help but let your lips part as you see it for the first time, steady, warm.

"Naughty girl." He rumbles, and the sadness is gone now, hidden away again to a place you seek but cannot see.

"Your girl." You supply cheekily, and when you shift you feel him against your thigh, hardening once more. You reach a hand down, knowing it's too soon but wanting to touch him anyways. His eyes darken at that, and the voice that he uses with the mask is there once more, thundering into an imminent, distant future.

"Mine."

There's no official taglist for this series yet but I've got a few more ideas planned! If you'd like to be included in future updates please reblog/reply to this post!

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #call of duty #cod mw22 #call of duty modern warfare #cod ghost #fucking-#take this shit #I'm exhausted #my writing #my fic #again 18+ only #smut #minors dni

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