[commitments]

⤷ simon “ghost” riley x f!reader; established relationship, porn with plot, oral sex (f!receiving), facesitting, jealousy, slight slander to blondes (sorry blonde friends!), simon being a good boyfriend, waxing poetry about simon's trauma, not beta’d

⤷ summary: between you and simon, which one of you is more likely to get jealous? spoiler alert: it’s you.

(w.c 6.1k)

Simon, by all means and methods of measurement, has always been a man committed to his goal—both on the field and off of it. It’s a feat he served life and limb to before he even understood what it meant.

A boon thrown to him when he was on his hands and knees, beaten and kicked to the ground for his simple existence. Some devil watching with a bated smile as a small boy with bruises and scraped hands held on tightly and forged an inner resolve in hopes of a way out. Commitment fortified the fragments of his heart; It strapped him with stone, created a manolith out of a boy. The devil whispered hauntingly into the boy’s ear, a knife to Simon’s palm in silent question, while his own dripped with blood; Asking him to shake his hand, demanding him to survive.

It kept him upright when his father’s grasp strangled him and rendered him bloody, when Tommy felt inspired by the man and decided to take part in the torture. Found him in the late nights when he would work past closing at Old Man Winston’s butcher shop before heading to the warehouse for the overnight shift at fifteen, just so he could scrounge up enough to leave. When exhaustion and burnout crept between the spaces of his bones, and the edge of the bridge he passed on his way home from the end of a twelve hour shift seemed too enticing to pass up, that wiggle of commitment, the desperation of escape, would start him anew.

The forces gave him a freedom that he excelled well in—almost too well. Tough and fast, he moved up within the ranks with a drive and commitment that was unlike the others. He was formidable, resourceful, and could take a hell of a beating just as much as he could give one. Amidst the carnage that the job provides, he was absolved from the life that took from him and disappeared into this new one. Ghost—not the devil he once knew, but something close to it.

He doesn’t thank his youth for making him this way, certainly doesn’t thank his father, but it’s not necessarily his to own, either. It just is. This commitment to the tethers of the long forgotten is one that burns hot within him—whether he wants it to or not. It’s half the reason why Tommy is still alive, the bastard. Doped up on drugs and a baby on the way, Simon is less inclined to attribute his leading of his older brother to reformed behavior as a good deed and more of the bond to an idea of family that he just can’t cut.

It isn’t all bad, though. There is some good to this quaint affliction of his. A pleasant caveat to selling your soul.

Simon wouldn’t have you had the claws of desire not dug into his shoulders and drive him forth in want. If he hadn’t capitalized on the pulsing streak of interest that burned within him upon seeing the curve of your smile and heard the lilt of your giggle when you introduced yourself, if he hadn’t made haste toward the beating heart of hope that you gave him, if he hadn’t committed himself—mind, body, and soul—to making it work with you, then he wouldn’t have this.

An enthralling love; Finally, a home to come back to, where stone crumbles beneath your guiding touch, melting into a bubbling magma that heats the hearth of the home. Choking on breaths, not because of hands but because of the surge that clouds his gaze and transfixes him to you. A love where he cares, not because he has to, but because something within him wants him to; A love that reduces him down to a boy, finally being cared for in the way that he has always wanted but could never admit. Chaos and all of its ugly siblings that have dictated his life thus far falling into absolution with you. Rendered to little nothings when next to the hum of your breaths, the lulls of your voice, the sweetness of you.

He sinks himself deep into you, taking root and letting fidelity sprout selfishly. Unable to convey himself appropriately with words, but better with actions. Letting you become all consuming of him. There is never an intentionally missed phone call, and if there is it is shortly returned. He listens, eagerly, swallowing every detail of the mundanity of your life as though it were the great retelling of the epics.

(“My work is boring. Why don’t we talk about you?” The static of your voice rings through his phone. He settles into his cot, pressing the phone closer to his ear, as if that would pull you closer despite the seven-thousand mile distance. “You must be so tired of hearing about this.”

“Never. Quite like hearing about what you’ve got going on. Especially when it gets you mad.”

“I swear, Si. If I get one more email from her where she misspells my name, I’m going to end up in jail.”

He huffs a breathless laugh, falling further into the bed and for once, comfortably. “Fuck ‘er.”)

He’s never been doted on before, and yet, you do it with such ferocity, such intensity that there’s hardly a chance for him to tell you no. You crocheted him a scarf—not because of an impending holiday or a birthday he always avoids, but because he made an offhand comment about his next assignment being set somewhere cold. It’s a gray accessory accented with stripes of maroon that you present with wringing fingers.

“It’s not the best. I messed up one of the cross stitches but realized it too late so this line is a little wonky.” You tell him, pointing out the error in the stitch. His eyes remain fixed on the scarf in his hands. “I just know it’s going to be cold, so… If you don’t want to wear it, it’s fine. I just wanted you to know that when you’re cold, I’m hoping you’re not.”

Time stills, his eyes wandering over the loops woven by your hand. He’s held captive, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything but stare at the item in his hand. This great treasure, this prized possession.

“So? Do you like it?”

He’s never been gifted something just because before. An old fling once gave Simon an antique lighter in the wake of a post sex discussion where she tried to dig her fingers in and pry him open. The conversation ended as quickly as it started, a hard glare sent her way and an ask for a light had her chucking the item at his chest and telling him to fuck off. It wasn’t until after he’d been sent overseas for a duration of months that she reached out asking for it back.

And he did, because he could feel a pair of eyes staring at him from over his shoulder and the scissors just aren’t strong enough yet to have him cut through whatever sense of loyalty he has.

His eyes finally tear, looking up to your nervous ones. Voice softer than he intends it to be.

“Yeah, love. I‘ll wear it everywhere.”

(“Yer fuckin’ whipped, LT.” Soap laughs as he watches the man try to—discreetly—snap a photo in the moving truck of the gray fabric around his neck. The Andes Mountains looming largely behind him.

“And warm, Johnny.”

If the Scotsman sees his superior officer pull the scarf up to his nose and inhale multiple times throughout the deployment, he doesn’t mention it.)

And home, sweet home, is no longer four walls of a spartan apartment with an unpacked duffel bag sitting beside the door. It’s yours, now. Or rather, he lives in your home these days. Filled with warm lights, and lively decorations, and a bed with an actual headboard, filled to the brim with pillows. He can’t possibly fathom what they’re all for, you only ever use one anyway, but they’re all so pointedly you that he doesn’t feel the need to discuss it. They’re nice enough to tuck underneath his back when his spine decides to reveal the ache that years in the force can bring; Relieves enough of the building pressure before you mother hen him.

They’re even nicer to tuck underneath your hips, tilting you up and open for his consumption.

You’re urging him these days, insisting that he take part in your remodeling efforts since you’re here enough as it is, might as well make it your own, too. It’s a slow convincing, but soon enough your closet also becomes his. Your drawers fill with his t-shirts and joggers, his boots sit tucked by the door next to your sandals and his body leans against granite countertops as you feed him another spoonful of the soup you’ve made for dinner, gently advising you of the need for more salt.

This home is an undeserved one, but in the silence of the late nights when the sound of your sleeping breaths and the whir of the fan is all he can hear, he thinks that this must be it—the endless tug for survival has led him to his final resting place. This is where he is meant to die.

Cause of death: strangulation; The familiar ache of fingers against his throat. Not from his father’s hands as he once expected, but yours. Your palm held over the lump in his throat where the I love you seems to be lodged. You know it’s there, you find it so easily. In the meeting of your eyes, in the sweetness of your touch. You know how he feels even without him having uttered the words, but it's crippling all the same. He once felt the need to fight this, to run far away from the things you brought up in his chest that made him feel sticky, and unnerved, and entirely too unworthy.

But now, in the safety of your kiss and the laughter of your eyes, he’s all too convinced that this would be a good way to die. There’s no question about it. He makes a point to ensure that there is no question about where he stands on this.

(It’s your call, really. He’s already laid the cards on the table about his intentions. Thought about them ad nauseam, made the contingency plans, looked into the paperwork that would need to be filed, the kinds of protections that would be needed for the kind of work that he does. He’s just waiting for your green light.

When you’re ready—when you’ve finished the last of your classes for your graduate degree, or when you have a chance to discuss the logistics further with your family—is when it will happen.

He already refers to you as his wife. It’s only a matter of time until it truly happens.)

Which makes this all the more peculiar. It’s hard to fathom where this could possibly stem from, considering he doesn’t understand what this is. You’re his good girl, his bird and equally, he is, and always has been, yours. Almost two years and conceptualized tattoo ideas of your birth flower on his rib cage have never made him more sure of something.

It happens on Friday date night— a tradition kept alive and well when he is home between deployments. It was his turn to choose, and his decision to go to the casual bar that he used to frequent was one made with well intentions.

Lowlights and tucked corners made for his favorite evenings with you, where his cautious gaze gets to rest from wandering over exits and new customers and instead settle on you. Where he gets to sit close to you in the booth, knees touching yours as you lean into him, elbows on the table and the tendrils of a smile playing on your face. Leaning into the padding of the seat, his hands enjoy the obscurity the table grants him and gets to sit high on your thighs. His thumb rubbing the fabric of your dress back and forth, teasing the skin that each ministration of his fingers reveal.

It’s a silent question for more, of which you eagerly let him explore. The sweet and alluring grin on your face turning dangerous under the faded lights. His favorite kinds of date nights—where your hunger seems less directed at the food and more for him. But—

The waitress has made… attempts.

Simon is—acquainted, he insists and you roll your eyes—with her. She used to be at the bar, serving him the drink whenever he stopped by in the olden days and has since picked up shifts as a server.

(“Oh goody.” You say dully and Simon’s eyes fill with amusement.)

“Simon!” She initially greeted, her tone a bit too excited and breasts a bit too out for your liking. You’re positive she pushed them out upon seeing him at the table but you try to tamper the thoughts down before they start running wild with tidings of bitterness. You’ll admit that you’re prone to irrationalities—who isn’t? Particularly when said causes of irrationality are conventionally attractive blonde servers that bat their eyelashes rather innocently at your equally attractive blond soldier. (Shoe scraped off the underside of a boot, you are not; But your lover is an English man and they are known to have their… preferences.)

You swallow the acid that threatens to be spit, trying to convince yourself that this is all a part of your imagination. That you’re just territorial over the man who came home only four days ago, starved of your time with him and desperate for more. She is just a kind server who is also pleased at the return of your the soldier and is reminiscing in their shared history.

Yes, that must be it, you lie to yourself.

Her eyes slide over to you and there you see it; the slight edge of resentment that glints in the iris. “And… a friend!”

You force your lips into a sweet smile, hiding the canines that you run your tongue over, lest she know that you bite.

“Joy.” Simon greets in turn, and you suppress the urge to roll your eyes at the irony of her name. He nods his head to you, “This is the missus.”

“Oh!” Joy smiles—and it’s too wide, too fake— as her eyes quickly dart down to your left hand. In search of a ring. There’s a smugness to her voice when she finds your hand empty, looking back at Simon, she puts a hand against her mouth as she mimics a whisper, one that you can hear rather loudly, “She’s rather pretty! Was wondering when someone would take one for the team and snatch up that ugly mug of yours!”

And that’s when it begins.

The tectonic plates shift, the ground splitting beneath your feet, Hellfire escaping from the core of the earth and into the depths of your soul. Heat licking up the column of your throat and poisoning the smile that used to sit so nicely on your face.

“Oh,” You say, mustering as much niceties as one could afford, “You’ve been serving Simon for a while, then?”

“Been taking good care of him all on my lonesome for years now. Know his order by heart, love!” She laughs loudly, her eyes settling on Simon too comfortably. Your own twitches. “Tried for years to set him up with some girlfriends, but he never took the bait. You must be quite the special lady.”

Canines dig and the copper taste of blood spreads onto your tongue. You hum sweetly despite it, “Mm, quite.”

Finally tearing her eyes away from him, she sends you a wink—obnoxious and pointed. “Just remember, I had him first!”

And that’s when Simon sees it. The night goes downhill, quickly, from there.

She takes your drink order shortly thereafter, in which you pointedly order a glass of the most expensive red wine. Simon attempts to order his own before Joy completes it for him— Bourbon. I haven’t forgotten, Simon. When she walks away, there’s an exaggerated sway to her steps and you both tear your eyes away from the sight. You in unbridled anger, him in disbelief.

A silence befalls the space at the table interrupted only by the rhythmic tap of your nails against the hard surface. You have since separated yourself from him, no longer leaning into the press of his body against yours, but instead sitting erect and upright. A glance to you reveals a grimace that has your glossy lips turned downward and your eyes that held such twinkle before practically set into slits.

This is… new. He’s never seen you behave so viscerally. Usually it’s him with the moods and stretches of silence where you’re rational and emotionally mature. But this bug of jealousy, this streak of possession, that has dug its fangs into you and made you so intense is quite the sight.

He’s content to watch you stew from the corner of his eye, grateful that the black surgical mask hides the smile that pulls against his lips. It’s when Joy begins her trek back to the table that you finally break the stillness.

“Return the drink.” Your voice is low and serious, it almost makes Simon balk.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Your eyes look to him, fire burning in the sea of your irises. “Give it back. Tell her you want a whiskey instead.”

“What for?”

Your eyes narrow, “Because I’m your girlfriend, and I think you should drink whiskey.”

He’s curious, really. There’s no competition to be had, no point to be made when it comes to you. Joy was never an option when he was single and she could never be one now where you’re concerned. But a challenge has been presented, a command rendered that you’re demanding he follow. New turf, for once.

“Or would you like to sit here and drink bourbon with your other girlfriend?”

Truth be told, he rather likes it. His sweet and caring girl suddenly cold and threatening; Venom all but spewed out as her territory is encroached on.

A charge ignites the air, one that settles thick on his tongue and jolts the tether held between you two. The string of affection that holds you so tightly to him, that allows for the moments of silent communication and the likes that belong to you and he, vibrates ominously. Pulled tight and taut in anticipation.

Your eyebrow quirks upward in challenge, and Simon finds that his lips are pulling upward into a smirk without him even realizing. There is no sense of play, no flirty conquest that you bait him to rise to within the burn of your stare, but it’s all so intriguing, nonetheless. This is pure, unadulterated determination that scorches the ground beneath you, has you lit violently beneath the rustic lowlights in a dress Simon hasn’t been able to keep his hands away from. Steel infused in your heated glare as you make it abundantly clear that date night has become less about you dating each other and more about the fact that he’s dating you.

Joy returns to the table, placing the glasses on the table. “One red and a special bourbon for—“

“Actually,” Simon begins, eyes trained on you, “Grab me a whiskey instead, would you.”

She stands affronted, “Oh… well, I can leave the bourbon here. Just as an option for you?”

“No need. Not interested.”

The approving quirk in the corner of your lips shouldn’t thrill him, but it does. Especially when you turn to grab your glass of red wine, smug victory painted beautifully on your face as you peer up at the woman before you.

Your hand grabs his underneath the table, placing it on the inside of your thigh. His pinky finger brushing against the crease of your thigh.

“We’re ready to order now.” You smile, innocently.

—

Dinner passes by with much less of a hurrah—much to your pleasure and Simon’s chagrin.

Joy quickly retreats from her place of familiarity into one of passive service, taking your orders without much of a second glance either of your ways. She’s not quick to return back to your tables and you make Simon switch meals with you, not entirely convinced that she hasn’t spit in your food. Simon throws a handful of bills on the table once you declare your desire to leave. He hardly looks back, much too transfixed on your backside to even consider sparing a glance to the disgruntled waitress.

The night is cool, but your temperament hardly seems affected by it. If anything, you continue to radiate burning heat. Your heels click across pavement in quick steps, anger driving you forward to the car park, muttering all the while.

“I cannot believe that bitch—” You spit as your hand yanks on the door handle once, then twice, your anger now directed to the car door that Simon has yet to unlock.

“Easy. It’s over now.”

“If I ever catch you over there again, Simon—” You turn quickly in your place, manicured finger pointed directly at him as he approaches you and your side of the car.

You pull on the car handle once more in emphasis and Simon levels a deadpan stare at you. “Fat chance.”

Approaching you, he pushes your hand away from the door before clicking the key remote to unlock the car. Opening the door for you, he gestures his head inside, hardly affected as your bothered stare bores into him. He gives no further explanation and while you don’t seem content by that decision, you accept it nonetheless. Entering the car, you keep your gaze straight ahead and a tight lipped expression on your face that conveys the depth of your displeasure. Simon shuts the door. Entering on his side and taking off to home, the car ride is submerged in the tension of your silence, one that he lets you sit in.

You’ll talk when you’re ready. Or, so he hopes.

Your mood is… pervasive. It follows and fills the entirety of your home like a slow rolling fog. Biting at ankles and hiding feet. Simon finds himself at a loss of where to step—not that he’s much good at navigating emotional waters in other circumstances, but this one is particularly jarring considering he didn’t really do anything. There’s nothing to apologize for, despite the nagging thought in his head that he probably should.

(For what? He doesn’t know. And if you know that he doesn’t know what he’s saying sorry for then that runs the risk of making the situation even worse. Women.)

He leaves you be, despite the unending realization that he doesn’t like your silence. You move through the apartment like a phantom, from living room to bedroom to bathroom, quiet as you engage in the nightly routine. He passes by you on the way to the bathroom, but you seem almost conscious to avoid touching him in the cramped space—bypassing him where he fills the room with his presence, ducking under his arm and exiting the bathroom. He leaves the door open, a silent invitation to join him as he showers, but you don’t.

Even as he settles into his side of the bed, you remain elsewhere. He keeps himself attuned to the sound of your movements, when you put your heels in the hallway closet, as you throw a load of laundry into the wash, as you brew a cup of tea and then drink it in the kitchen; He’s fixated on how much your displeasure makes you avoid him.

It’s when you’ve decided to do your skin care after your bath in the bathroom instead of on your vanity as usual that he’s decided he’s had enough.

“Come here.” He calls for you and he hears you pause. A hesitation before you finally make a choice, face the music of your actions, the sound of your feet shuffling along tile before you emerge from the bathroom. Dressed in your nightgown, face fresh from makeup and wet with products, a small pout on your face as you meet his eyes.

You wait for a moment before moving forward to him, coming around on his side of the bed and standing before him as he sits waiting for you. It was you that told him to never go to bed angry about an argument, he finds it rather ironic that when it's you that’s angry, your advice is one with the wind.

“Don’t tell me you’re still worked up about it.” His hand lands on the outside of your thigh, gently stroking the exposed skin as he coaxes an answer from you.

You let out a heavy sigh before you sheepishly say, “She practically admitted that she was in love with you.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon huffs a breath of amusement, “When did she say that? I must not have been listening.”

“She said it in the way that girls do. Admitting it without admitting it. If you asked her out she would say yes.” There’s an earnesty in your eyes that he can’t place and he finds himself chuffed.

His girl, his sweet girl, uncomfortable and bothered by her jealousy.

“Good thing I don’t care to.” He says simply and your head tilts, still unsatisfied.

“If the roles were reversed, you would have killed someone.”

And while he doesn’t deny it, it’s hard to imagine much of a labored reaction to it. The stray thought rolls around from time to time, the occasional wiggling insistence that you deserve better, but he’s much too selfish to let them fester for long. Truth be told, there are men better suited for you,—softer ones, men who are readily forthcoming with their thoughts, better equipped, more capable— this is a truth he recognizes. It’s not a defeating one though, if anything, it becomes a fortifying one. Festers toxically within him, a fermenting poison that bolsters him forward. There cannot be a man that infringes if you don’t notice them.

Three fingers in your pretty pussy and heavy kissing on your neck works well enough to distract you from that particular truth. It would take quite a person to barge into Simon’s space and threaten his presence considering Simon does a good job of making sure there’s no reason for you to even look anywhere else.

(And while this is true, let it be known that there is much more to the captured eye and long lasting relationship than a man’s pleasing of the carnal desire. But, these are truths that Simon refuses to attribute to himself, luxuries that he believes he is incapable of despite reality dictating otherwise. Despite your continued loyalty and affirmation to him asserting so.)

So, he says, “I know what’s mine, love.”

Something flickers in your eyes, then. You inch yourself closer to him, settling in the space of his spread legs, his hands soothing over the fat of your smooth thighs lovingly. The discomfort, the distaste, the jealousy, that poisoned your mood dissipates in a single second, replaced with something else the moment the word fell from his lips.

Mine.

It’s heat that swims within your gaze now, the same one that you gave him before the night was so rudely interrupted.

“Well,” You say after a moment, voice sultry and low. Your hands lift to rest on Simon’s shoulders, your fingers gently tracing an electric pattern onto his bare skin. “Maybe I need a reminder of what’s mine.”

Simon’s eyes fill with an amusement that he doesn’t dare show on his face. He gives a gentle pat to your thigh, “I can help with that.”

Leaning back on the bed, he lays on the comforter with a confidence and satisfaction belonging to a king reaping the spoils of his war. He gestures you upward, beckoning you to straddle him. “C’mon then. Take what’s yours.”

He’s giving you the reins of direction, content to play the evening by your own rulebook. And while he’s happy to give you whatever it is you may ask for, he’s quite elated when your straddling efforts do not stop over his groin, but instead you shuffle up and up and up. Until you’re hovering just below his chin, the soft of your nightgown dancing across his jaw. Heat and determination settling in your eyes as you peer down at him in silent question. His answer is an eager one, his arms wrapping underneath your thighs and pulling you closer.

He’s pleased to find that you’ve planned for this, or at the very least anticipated something, as beneath the nightgown, there’s no underwear. You pull the satin fabric up, letting it bunch around the spreading of your thighs and expose the stickied petals of your core to him further. You’re slick with anticipation above him and ready for his consumption.

(And he’s beyond pleased, really. Ecstatic, more like. Desire coursing through him, heat flicking straight down to his groin as he practically salivates for you. The happiest Simon ever finds himself to be is on the receiving end of this kind of smothering affection, where he wants to be choked and starving for breath. Your thighs on either end of his face and his tongue straining for more.

And when you want it, too? He’s ready for death.)

Like a starving dog to a meal, he’s quick to get his first taste. He pulls your core down to his mouth and laps a wide lick through your folds, tip of his tongue tasting around your entrance and through until it reaches the hard pearl at the apex of your thighs. Your clit is budding with arousal and the taste of you blossoms in his mouth, and Simon becomes a man on a mission. Drinking in your essence, licking you at a steady pace as the wideness of his tongue stimulates you and his lips wrap around your clit with a hard suck.

You whine above him, your hand immediately finding the close crop of his hair and pulling him upward and closer, if even possible. If anything, it presses him harder into you, your hips finding a rhythm of their own against his mouth as you grind a pressure against him and into you. The short stubble of his mouth rubs into the skin between your thighs and each pass of your clit against the tip of his tongue or the bump of his nose pulses a jolt through you.

With your eyes closed in bliss and your hips picking up a rhythm against his mouth, you whine a delectable sound into the air, “Simon—”

Soon enough, Simon’s tongue stills entirely and his eyes remain fixated on you, letting you use him for your deserved pleasure.

And he wants to tell you everything that races through his mind—how sexy you look grinding your cunt into his mouth, how delicious you taste, how fucking hard he is as you use him for your pleasure, a reminder to you both that his favorite place in the world is in between your legs— but all he can afford in this moment are his own hums of approval. His chin is coated in you, all he sees, tastes, and feels is you. His hands roam around the outside of your thighs, gripping the fat and delivering a harsh smack to your ass to encourage your riding. Another moan of his name tumbles from your mouth.

There is a second in your using of his face where you hold him close to you, his nose pressed deep into your mound and he takes it as a sign for it to be his turn. He flicks his tongue quickly against your clit, his thumbs reaching around your thighs to split your folds wider for him.

And its direct pressure, a white heat that builds its blinding feeling into you. The repeated motion, the delightful jolts. It’s a rising tide, your orgasm on the precipice that when he dips his tongue in a quick second down to your opening, rubbing against the lit nerve endings then back to your clit, you twitch in shock.

You try to stave yourself from the low burn that coils in your stomach, especially as you realize that almost two minutes have passed with you pressing Simon’s head into your core, and lift yourself—only to let him breathe, because really, he’s no use to you passed out— but he only yanks you back down. His mouth chasing your pussy, a disgruntled growl muffled against you.

“Don’t fuckin’ move.”

He continues his ravaging. Tongue swirling up and down then side to side, repeated motions building you further along the precipice. Your breath quickens, and it’s harder to find air than it is to exhale it. Your head grows dizzy, lost in the clouds as the lack of air and Simon’s expertise in plucking you like a string escalates you higher and higher. Your thighs shake, the burn of their strain leaving you one step closer to collapsing and suffocating him.

And you try to compose yourself, but it’s Simon. Simon, who has studied your body and all of its idiosyncrasies. Simon, who takes such good care of you, loving you in ways that you hadn’t thought possible. Never one to speak but to show you what it meant to be devoted to, devoured whole, pedestalized and adored for simply being. Simon who never makes you want or question his intentions, a clear example lying in how he’s handled this evening. Your pity party stemmed not from any sense of disloyalty on his part, nor any inferiority to the waitress who ruined your date night, but instead comes from the unavoidable issue that your man, large and imposing as he is, is not invisible. He is looked at despite being trained to blend in, and he is both unfortunately and fortunately, a handsome man. And the disrespect a waitress showed you, that you’re quite disappointed to even be thinking of as you are in the midst of the throes of passion, was enough to have the entirety of your night off kilter. Insecurity about worth and beauty and unvoiced thoughts ringing loudly in your ear.

But as Simon brings you to the brink of pure bliss, as he consumes you and looks up at you as though he wants to do more, it puts it all away. A glance downwards reveals that he’s already looking at you, blue eyes beckoning you further as he puts his all into tying your coil further.

It’s all you need for the final push.

You reach peak at that moment, coil snapping, flood rushing out of you as your body convulses under his ministrations. His forearms wind tightly around the plush of your thighs, his mouth moving in time with your jerking hips, hardly sparing you a moment to reach a plateau with the licking of his tongue. A low burn boils within you, guided by his tongue that has moved from its ferocious beckoning to languid strokes.

Sweat pools on your lower back, cooling as the slow heat of your organs slowly comes down. A low whisper and beg for him to stop finally has him relinquishing his hold on you. You lift your lower half up and off of his face with a pleased sigh, but not before he follows you up once more, wrapping his lips around your folds for a harsh suck before he pulls away with a smack of his lips.

His face glistens under the lowlights of your bedside lamp and his mouth pulls into a cocky slant, a happy tune to his words, “Better?”

You don’t have the heart to dignify him with a jest like you usually would. Instead you give him a tired nod, drunk from desire you lean down to capture his lips in a wet kiss. It’s sweet and slow, the meeting of your lips against his as you imbue as much love and gratitude to him as you possibly could. The taste of you melding from his tongue and onto yours. He trails his palms up the curve of your spine, rubbing a soothing stroke into your cooling skin.

You slump into his awaiting hold, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you depart from the kiss, desperate to be held by him, and he eagerly provides. Holding you tight to him, hardly upset that he strains tightly against his sleep pants and that your breaths begin to even out into a steady cadence from your place atop of him. He’ll get up to clean and take care of himself later.

His girl was in need of a gentle reminder, and what is he if he’s not committed to doing just that?

a/n: happy valentine's day! i am starting a series with this prompt of: between you and each of the cod men, which one of you is more likely to get jealous?

up next is johnny!

More Posts from Endymi0ns and Others

endymi0ns

9 months ago

it is so vital to my well-being to have more possessive, delusional gaz. like.. having a one night stand w him and you accidentally blurt out that you love him while you're in the middle of a life-changing orgasm.

albeit awkwardly, you manage to send him off in the morning without any issue. he was cute but you couldn't see yourself in a long-term relationship w him, so you've already made up your mind to ghost him. then the texts come. he's hounding you for days after, ranging from casual invitations to dates, to possibly half-naked selfies. it's like he doesn't understand why you wouldn't be responding.

you finally glimpse one of the messages on your homescreen (you've been leaving him on delivered, not daring to open the messages) where he says you "confessed your love” to him, which means you two must be serious.

inwardly cursing yourself for the slip, you realise you just need to block him before this escalates further.

he's concerned that he can't reach you, but luckily remembers your address from your first night together. maybe he'll just need to teach you how to accept a loving and caring man into your life <3

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endymi0ns

10 months ago

“I think you’re very likable, Simon.”

The man in the skull mask instantly jerks his gaze up to connect with the other man’s face, as if it’ll be obvious he was just joking.

Ghost’s therapist looks evenly back at him, blinking innocently.

“What,” the masked man finally grits, annoyed that he won’t even acknowledge the joke.

“You’ve convinced yourself that you’re scary enough to keep people from wanting to get to know you. I hate to tell you this, but it’s not working. I’ve liked you from the first session.”

The masked man glares down at his own scarred fingers, entwining them slightly atop his knees. “You’re paid to like people.”

“Something I find interesting about you is that you have, by your own words, a little gaggle of people in your life who won’t leave you alone. Follow you around everywhere, talk to you when they don’t have to, support you when you need it. What do you think is more likely, that lightning has struck you that many times, or that you might be a little bit likable?”

Ghost sits with that for a minute in silence, trying to manufacture a scenario in his own mind where different kinds of lightning just happen to strike the same spot, purely by nature of the infinite possibilities of the universe.

“I don’t like you,” he finally tells his kneecaps.

The therapist inwardly smiles. There it is again.

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endymi0ns

1 year ago

— aesthetic words to fill up your vocabulary ♡

✦ if you're tired of using the same repetitive words to describe feelings or actions on your writing, here are some aesthetic words that are not frequently used to help you evolve your vocabulary better and also maybe help you with creative titles <3

ABENDROT: the color of the sky while the sun is setting.

ABIENCE: the strong urge to avoid someone or something.

ACHROOUS: colourless.

AEQUOREAL: marine, oceanic.

AESTHETE: someone with deep sensitivity to the beauty of art or nature.

ALIFEROUS: having wings.

AMITY: warmth and heartfelt friendliness in a friendship; mutual understanding and a peaceful relationship.

AMBROSIAL: fragrant, delicious.

ANTHOMANIA: great love for flowers.

AQUAPHILE: someone who is an enthusiast of all things related to the water.

ARENOCOLOUS: living or burrowing in sand.

ASPERSE: change falsely or with malicious intent; attack the good name and reputation of someone.

ASTERISM: agroup of stars; a constellation; a cluster of stars.

ATTAR: essential oil or perfume obtained from flowers.

AUREATE: golden or gilded; brilliant, splendid.

AURICOMUS: with golden or yellow colored foliage.

AVIOTHIC: the strong desire to be up in the air or to fly.

BALTER: to dance artlessly, without particular grace and/or skill but usually with enjoyment.

BATHIC: pertaining to depths, especially of sea.

BELAMOUR: the one who is loved; a beloved person.

BELLICOSTIC: aggressive, belligerent, warlike.

BENEFICENCE: the quality of being kind or helpful or generous.

BERCEUSE: a quiet song intended to lull a child to sleep.

BLÁFAR: indicating the freshness and beauties of youth or health; attractive and possessing charm.

BRONTIDE: the low rumble of a distant thunder.

BURBLE: to speak in an excited manner.

CAELITIS: the divinities who dwell within the celestial planes.

CATHARSIS: the release of emotional tension, especially through kinds of art or music.

CELERITOUS: swift, speedy, fast.

CERAUNOPHILIA: loving thunder and lightning and finding them intensely beautiful.

CHEVELURE: the nebulous tail of a comet.

CINGULOMANIA: a strong desire to hold a person in your arms.

COCCINEOUS: bright red; scarlet.

COCKAIGNE: an imaginary land of luxury and idleness.

CONSTELLATE: to eluster; to compel by stellar influence.

COSMOGYRAL: whirling around the universe.

CORDOLIUM: heartache; heartfelt sorrow.

CORUSCATE: to reflect brillantly, to sparkle.

CRAMOISY: of a crimson color.

CREATURELY: a person who is controlled by others and is used to perform unpleasant or dishonest tasks for someone else.

CRYSTALLOMANIA: an obsession with crystals and other crystalline objects.

CHRYSALISM: the amnotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.

CLINQUANT: glittering with gold and silver.

CLYSMIC: cleaning, washing.

CUPIDITY: greed for money or possessions.

CYANEOUS: a sky-blue color.

CYNOSURE: guiding star; a object of common interest.

DARKLING: of or related to darkness.

DÉCLASSÉ: having fallen in social status.

DEIFORM: god-like or divine in nature.

DEMERSAL: that lives near the bottom or a body of water.

DESIDERIUM: an ardent longing, as for something lost.

DISPITEOUS: cruel and without mercy.

DOUX: sweet, soft, mild, gentle.

DRACONTINE: belonging to a dragon.

DYSANIA: the state of finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning.

ECCEDENTESIAST: someone who fakes a smile.

EFFLORESCENCE: a period or state of blooming, blossoming.

ELEGY: a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.

ELEUTHEROPHILIST: someone who advocates free love.

ELYSIAN: beautiful or creative, divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.

EMACITY: desire or fondness for buying things.

EMPYREAL: pertaining to the sky; celestial.

EPHIALTES: a nightmare; the demon Incubus that supposedly causes a nightmare.

EPICARICACY: the joy that results from others misfortune.

EREMOPHOBIA: the deep fear of stillness, solitude, or deserted places.

ETHEREAL: extremely delicate, light, not of this world.

EUMOIRIETY: happiness due to state of innocence and purity.

FLORENTIS: abounding in flowers; being in bloom and adorned with plentiful flowers.

FREICEADAN: guard, garrison, watch, sentinal.

FULMINATE: cause to explode violently and with loud noise.

FURCIFEROUS: brat; rascally, scandalous.

GLOAMING: twilight, dusk.

GRAME: anger, wrath, scorn; sorrow, grief, misery.

HALCYON: calm and peaceful; happy, prosperous.

HELLION: a rowdy or mischievous person.

HELIOPHILIA: desire to stay in the sun; love of sunlight.

HEAVENIZE: to render like heaven or fit for heaven, to purify and make a holy place or a person.

HENOTIC: promoting harmony or peace.

HIRAETH: a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was.

HOLILY: belonging to or derived from or associated with a divine power.

HYPNAGOGIC: the state immediately before falling asleep.

IGNICOLIST: a worshiper of fire.

ILLECEBROUS: attractive and alluring.

IMPLUVIOUS: soaked with rain.

INCANDESCENCE: light produced by high temperatures.

INCALESCENCE: the property of being warming.

INCENDIARY: designed for the purpose of causing a fire, likely to cause anger or violence.

INEFFABLE: too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.

INSOUCIANT: free from worry, concern or anxiety.

IRENIC: aiming or aimed at peace, promoting peace.

IRIDESCENT: producing a display of rainbow-like colors.

INVIDIARE: to envy.

ISOLOPHILIA: a strong preference and affection for solitude.

KALOPSIA: the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.

KALON: beauty that is more than skin deep.

LACONIC: expressing much in a few words.

LACUNA: a blank space; a missing part.

LATIBULE: a hiding place, a place of safety and comfort.

LAMBENT: to glow or flicker softly. Luminous, light or brilliant.

LIMERENCE: the state of being infatuated with another person.

LONGANIMITY: still suffering while planning revenge.

LOUCHE: disreputable; morally dubious.

LUCIFORM: resembling light in appearance; having, in some respects; the nature of qualities of light.

LUMINESCENCE: light produced by chemical, electrical or physiological means.

MALTALENT: the negative emotions of wanting injury or harm to befall someone; a hostile behavior or attitude towards someone considered an enemy.

MARMORIS: the shining surface of the ocean.

MAZARINE: a dark blue color; rich blue or reddish-blue color.

MELIORISM: the belief that the world gets better; the belief that humans can improve the world.

MÉLOMANIE: an excessive and abnormal love and deep attraction to music and melody.

MERCURIAL: subject to sudden or unpredictable changes.

MESMERIC: appealing; drawing attention.

MORDACIOUS: biting or given to biting; biting or sharp in manner; caustic; capable of wounding.

MORPHEAN: of or relating to Morpheus, to dreams, or to sleep.

MOXIE: courage, nerve, determination.

NEBULOCHAOTIC: a state of being hazy and confused.

NEFARIOUS: wicked, villainous, despicable.

NEMESISM: frustration, anger or aggression directed inward, toward oneself and one's way of living.

NERITIC: pertaining to shallow coastal waters.

NOETIC: of or associated with or requiring the use of mind.

NOIRCEUR: the state of being pitch black in color; a state of lacking illumination.

NUBIVAGANT: wandering in the air, moving through the air.

NUMINOUS: spiritual or supernatural; surpassing comprehension or understanding; mysterious.

ONEIRODYNIA: restless, disturbed sleep, characterized by nightmares and sleepwalking.

OPHIOMORMOUS: snake-like.

ORPHIC: mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding.

PETRICHOR: the scent of rain on dry earth.

POIESIS: creation; creative power or ability.

PORPHYROUS: purple; of purple hue.

PRATE: to talk excessively and pointlessly.

PROCELLOUS: tempestuous, stormy.

QUIDDITY: the essence of something.

QUIXOTIC: extravagantly chivalrous or romantic; visionary, impractical or impracticable.

RANTIPOLE: a wild, reckless young person; to be wild and reckless.

REDAMANCY: the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.

REDOLENT: having a strong distinctive fragrance; serving to bring to mind.

REMEANT: coming back, returning.

RESPLENDENT: having brilliant or glowing appearance; dazzling and impressive in appearance through being richly colorful or sumptuous.

REVERIE: a state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts; a daydream.

RODOMEL: juice of roses mixed with honey.

ROSEATE: rose-like; overly optimistic.

RUTILANT: glowing or glittering with red or gold light.

SANGUINEOUS: accompanied by bloodshed.

SASHAY: to strut or move about in an ostentatious or conspicuous manner.

SCIAMACHY: a battle against imaginary enemies; fighting your shadow.

SEQUACIOUS: lacking independence of originality of thought.

SERAPHIC: beautiful and pure; having a sweet nature befitting an angel or a cherub; of or relating to an angel of the first order.

SERENDIPITY: finding something good without looking for it.

SKINT: having little or no money avaliable.

SOLIVAGANT: someone who wanders or travels the world alone; a solitary adventurer.

SOMNIATE: to dream, to make sleepy.

SORTIGER: delivering prophecies of the future; having the qualities of being oracular.

STELLIFEROUS: having or abonding with stars.

STELLIFY: to transform from an earthly body into a celestial body; to place in the sky as such.

SUCCIDUOUS: ready to fall, falling.

SPUME: a white mass of bubbles or froth on the top of a wave.

SYNODIC: relating to or involving the conjunction of stars, planets or other celestial objects.

TARANTISM: the uncontrollable urge to dance.

TEMENOS: a sacred circle where no one can be oneself without fear.

THANATOPHOBIA: fear of death.

TYYNEYS: the state of peacefulness; absent of worry or fear, being composed and at ease.

ULTRAMARINE: beyond the sea; greenish-blue color.

VELLEITY: a wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to action.

VENERATION: a profound emotion inspired by a deity.

VESPERTINE: in or of the evening; setting at the same time as, or just after, the sun.

VERDANT: with plants and flowers in abundance.

VERMEIL: a liquid composition applied to a gilded surface to give luster to the gold.

VERTICORDIOUS: to turn the heart from evil.

VIOLESCENT: tending toward violet color.

VORFREUDE: the joyful anticipation that comes from imagining future pleasures.

WANDERLUST: a strong desire to travel and explore the world.

WHIST: to hush or silence; to still, to become still.

— Aesthetic Words To Fill Up Your Vocabulary ♡

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endymi0ns

2 months ago

let's fall in love so we can fuck properly

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endymi0ns

1 year ago

Guilty By Association Commission from the very sweet and patient @soleilak

You (Callsign: Giggles, Gigs for short) are a medic on temporary assignment with the 141. The only problem? You're a former member of Graves' Shadow Company.

Content: Injury, angst, power imbalance, fingering and oral (reader receiving)

“Get your arse in gear, Gigs!”

Already exhausted and aching, the rough bark of your temporary captain urges your heavy feet faster. Gunfire sprays all around – you’re so addled you can’t tell if it’s enemy or friendly. All you know are your orders, a cry of survival in the uneven pounding of your heart. A bullet plows into the ground dangerously close to your foot.

Just a few meters ahead, Gaz curses and tumbles to the ground, hat lost. It’s not even a decision to alter your course. You can’t tell instantly what the damage is; if he’s been hit or just tripped. So you tuck and dive, grabbing an arm and leg as your back rolls across his chest. The momentum gets the two of you up and moving again, adrenaline taking the edge off his weight.

“Get us to the trees and I can run again!” he shouts in your ear.

You settle your blurry vision on the forest line ahead. Blessed cover – and your extraction point just a mile further. Goal set, you push through the pain of bruised ribs, a wrenched arm, and the ricochet of a bullet across your thigh. You wheeze your way well past the tree line, weaving between trunks until Kyle’s palm smacks at your side.

“We’re good, we’re good,” he says.

You grunt as you set him down, give him the quickest onceover in the history of medics. His calf is bleeding, just above the tops of his boots. It’s an ugly wound; it’ll need packing – but he can survive until exfil.

“Where the fuck are you two?!” Price growls through your headset.

Kyle pats your shoulder and takes off again, only the slightest limp indicating his injury. You grit your teeth and try to follow his example.

No one helps you into the chopper when you’re the last on the ladder. You’re not surprised, but it still stings. Salt on the day’s wounds.

Once the heli is up in the air, you scoot over to help Kyle with the wound on his calf. It’s almost hypnotic, the press-wind-press-wind of packing the deep gouge. Almost like unspooling your own tension through the care of a teammate. Every inch of bandage seems to amplify your own pains, though, as the mission high ebbs.

You hurt.

When Kyle’s done, you sit back a bit to assess him for any other wounds. The twitch of his mouth and slight bob of his head tells you he’s sorted, though – and it’s more thanks than you usually get.

“Where the hell were you?” Price demands.

“I got held up, sir,” you admit. Had been ambushed by two men you thought were on another floor. Bad luck, that. Or just poor preparation on your part. Your side twinges as you ease yourself into a seat. “Won’t happen again.”

Price grunts, mollified. “See that it doesn’t.”

You get maybe thirty seconds of peace before Soap’s voice cuts through the tentative peace.

“Gonnae take care o’ that or keep bleedin’ all over Nik’s seat?” he teases. Or at least it would be, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes.

What’s that saying about sins of the father? Well, Phillip Graves was definitely not your father, nor was General Shepherd – though he was old enough to be. In their absence, it seems you’re paying for their crimes regardless.

“Right,” you sigh, tearing off the bottom of your shirt, “sorry, Nik.”

“Just stay alive to clean it up, eh?” he replies jovially.

It’s not much of a joke, but you laugh anyway. You don’t live up to your callsign much nowadays, so you’ll take the levity when you can.

You tie off the makeshift bandage with a grunt and lean your head back, too uncomfortable to doze off.

At least the infirmary is a friendly sight. The staff are always grateful for an extra set of hands – even if they once belonged to a Shadow. And you have a lot of time to help since you’re not encouraged (never mind invited) to any non-professional activities with the 141. Working with the nurses during all that extra time has gained you some friends at least.

Dana is on call when you limp in. She fusses about you looking like the walking dead – then goes on to tell regale you with details from her current first-time watch of the show. The stream of words soothes you in the quiet little treatment room.

“Think we need an x-ray, dove?” she asks, prodding at your already discolored ribs.

“Wouldn’t help,” you sigh, “we can just wrap ‘em and call it.”

“Alright, dear, but you know what to do if it gets worse.”

“’Course,” you answer, summoning a grin, “can’t be keelin’ over before your nephew leaves that tart.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started – you know what she said at Sunday dinner?”

You giggle through her undoubtedly embellished story until she gets to your thigh – and the terrible bandaging.

“A piece of your shirt,” she scolds.

“My bag was too far, and my ribs hurt,” you complain.

“And what are all those big burly men for then, eh?” she huffs.

You shake your head. “I can’t ask them to help.”

Dana scowls past your hip. “Just because you’re the medic—”

“Pardon.”

You jolt in surprise at Captain Price in the doorway. Christ, he takes up the breadth of it too, shoulders brushing the jamb on either side. Even mission-dirty and stern-looking, he’s a hell of a welcome sight – though an unexpected one.

You try to sit up at some semblance of attention, but he waves you off. Can’t say you’re not grateful, unable to help wincing as you lie back.

You don’t notice him pause as Dana washes the wound, too busy sucking air through your nose.

“What’s… the damage?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth to answer, but Dana beats you to it.

“Contused ribs, sprained shoulder, and a bullet wound to the thigh,” she rattles off. You’re always impressed by the undercurrent of disapproval and accusation she manages to weave into each word. “Not to mention dehydration and sleep deprivation. You’ve been staying up again, haven’t you?”

You clear your throat and turn your eyes skywards. “Oh, look at the ceiling. What a lovely ceiling.”

She clicks her tongue and begins packing the wound as you had for Gaz.

“Bullet wound?” Price asks sharply. Your eyes flick guiltily to him. “Why the hell am I hearing about this now?”

“It’s just a graze, sir,” you reply. “Sergeant Garrick’s was worse.”

His jaw does that thing you secretly (ashamedly) drool over, where it tightens and jumps. You know it’s not good but hey, silver linings right?

He doesn’t ream you out though. Just crosses his burly arms and lets out a long, heavy breath. You’re… not really sure what that means.

“Debrief at 0700 tomorrow, Gigs,” he says, voice unusually subdued.

“Yessir,” you reply dutifully.

As always, a strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in your chest as he walks away. Talking to him is a bit like being under a microscope – if that microscope was ready to brand you a low-down, no-good, dirty, rotten traitor at the first hint of suspicious activity.

You get it, you do. Graves and Shadow Company tried to kill Soap and Ghost, Los Vaqueros, and committed unspeakable atrocities. As much history as you had with him, he deserved what came to him, and Shepherd will deserve the same when he’s found.

Not that your hands were clean before Las Almas, but you drew the line when the orders came. Couldn’t bear to detain or shoot the friends you’d made in Los Vaqueros, or join the hunting party for Soap and Ghost. You’d been labelled a turncoat by your own teammates, thrown into a cell to be “court-martialed.”

Kate Laswell coming to your rescue was a second chance, a small-time miracle that you’ve been determined to earn ever since. In your more pathetic moments, usually in the small, dark, lonely hours of sleepless nights, you wonder how much it will take. How long you’ll be guilty by association.

At least this isn’t shaping up to be one of those nights. You’re half asleep by the time Dana sends you off, arm chilly from the IV fluids she bullied you into. For once, you might get a few decent hours.

Your second surprise of the night comes just outside your barracks door. Soap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head back and eyes closed. Awake, though. His index finger is tapping a steady but rapid pace on his bicep.

“Soap?” you say, alerting him. “Did you… need me for something? You’re not injured, are you?”

He straightens up, drops his arms to his side. You pause a noticeable distance away, uncertainty leashing you to the safety of space. Not that you feel threatened. His posture is the loosest it’s been around you since… well, since before Las Almas went to hell.

“’Course no’, I woulda – tha’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh…” You process the strange wording. “Why are you here, then?”

He shifts his weight, a little line appearing between his brows as he seems to gather himself.

“I’m here to apologize.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Look, what I said during exfil – it was bang outta order. You’ve been nothin’ but good to us ‘n I’m still holdin’ on to old shite.”

You shift, adjust the stupid flimsy sling for your sore shoulder. “It’s… not that old,” you reason, “and I don’t blame you, either. Not after everything.”

“Still, ya did the right thing back then – and ya’ve proven yourself half a dozen times over, besides. I’ve got no reason to treat you like an enemy.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. It feels like you’ve swallowed a grenade; any moment the pin is going to come out and an explosion of gory emotion will splatter the walls.

“Thanks, Soap.”

He grunts something about “not thanking him” and ducks his head, shuffling past you.

“Seriously,” you say, voice strained from keeping it even. “I really appreciate it.”

He pauses, gives you a genuinely kind look. “Rest up, lass.”

It’s the best you’ve slept in a long while – after you cry into your pillow, that is.

At 0700 the next day, you’re in Price’s office, sore but in high spirits. Gaz sat next to you and Soap said good morning at breakfast. Even Ghost seemed less frosty than usual, grunting at you in acknowledgement when you’d sat down.

Of course, the good luck couldn’t last.

The debrief itself is fine. You speak when it’s your turn, listen when it isn’t. About as normal as it gets for a special ops squad.

It’s as the rest of the task force is filing out the door that the other shoe drops.

“Gigs, a word,” Price calls.

You freeze mid-step, shoot Gaz a panicky glance. He glances over your shoulder, snorts, and pats your arm in solidarity. Not as helpful as he thinks.

With a deep breath, you pivot back around. The door closes behind you with a damning click. You can’t even hide your hands behind your back to fidget at parade rest – your arm needs to stay in the sling for the rest of the day.

“We need to discuss yesterday,” Price says, palms flat on his desk.

You tilt your head. Wasn’t that what the debrief was for?

“Sir?” you ask. “If I – did I do something wrong?”

He deflates a bit, big shoulders dropping before he pushes himself up and rounds the desk.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” he explains, “but I have concerns.”

When he gestures for you to take one of the visitor seats, you do. You’re a bit surprised when he takes the other – though you can’t help an appreciative glance while his attention is elsewhere. He practically dwarfs the stupid little chair, and the way he spreads his thighs trying to get comfortable…

“Concerns, sir?” you parrot, trying to corral your scrambled braincells.

“What you said in the infirmary,” he begins, expression solemn, “is that really how you feel?”

“What I said…?” You try to recall anything of note from last night, but most of what came out of your mouth is a blur at best. “What did I say?”

He leans forward, lacing his scarred fingers together. You try not to stare, though the way he rubs at the knuckle of one thumb with the other is distracting. It’s an unusual gesture for the disciplined, determined man you’ve been honored to call captain for months now.

“That you can’t ask us to help you.”

A block of ice drops into your stomach.

“That’s not – I know you guys would help me if I needed it,” you hurry to say.

He gives you a long look. “Then why don’t you ever ask? You were shot and didn’t say a bloody thing.”

You shift, unable to meet his eyes. Can’t find the words to answer. It’s not that you didn’t think you could ask. It just didn’t feel right with the bad blood between you, Soap, and Ghost. Besides, you’re the medic, you’re supposed to be the one fixing everyone else – not the other way around. What use are you otherwise?

You try to explain this to Price, but you sense (from the grim set to his handsome features) that it’s not helping.

“I’ve been a shite captain to you, haven’t I?” he sighs.

You jump. “No, sir! You’re a great captain. I trust you with my life.”

He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. Sounds almost self-deprecating.

“I’ve not done a bloody thing to earn it.”

You shake your head. “Sir, you’ve kept me alive for months now. That’s plenty.”

Beyond that, he’s always been fair with you. Doesn’t give you shit assignments or the most dangerous roles in missions. Always makes sure you’re alive and accounted for. Calls you out for mistakes and faults, sure, but it’s for the sake of you and everyone else. He’s been just as ready to pat your shoulder for a clever maneuver or praise a good shot.

“You know damn well it’s not,” he scolds.

You huff, almost amused. “Sir, with all due respect, get off the cross we need the wood.”

His eyebrows jump up nearly to his hairline. Normally, you wouldn’t dream of being so cavalier with Price of all people. Soap’s truce last night gives you the confidence to continue.

“I know you didn’t trust me as a former Shadow at first,” you say, “but you looked out for me anyway. After the first few missions… it seemed like things evened out.”

He sighs and sits back, running a hand down his face.

“Laswell vouched for you – it’s the only reason I didn’t send you right back on that plane,” he admits. A small but genuine smile curls his mouth. “And then you put your life on the line for my boys time and time again.”

You mirror him, the tension in your shoulders easing away with each word.

“I knew things weren’t great with the others, but I thought it was best if I kept out of it. Let you lot sort it out so long as you all cooperated when it mattered,” he continues. “I didn’t realize how bad it got, and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and lightly tap your boot against his. “It wasn’t the wrong call, sir. I think things are going to get better from here on out.”

He hums, eyes searching your gentle smile for any hint of insincerity. But you believe it, and it must show, because his eyes crinkle as he smiles back.

“Speaking of better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mind if I take a look at those ribs? Dana had some choice words for me this morning.”

You giggle and tug your shirt from your waistband, hiking the hem up high to show the reddish-purple mottling all over your left side. Price makes a noise of sympathy, easing out of his chair to the carpeted floor. On his knees, he inches closer, leaning in to inspect the damage.

“How’d this happen?” he asks, voice lowering.

His fingertips skim over the edges of the bruises, featherlight. Your voice gets strangled in your throat as tingles race across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Um, hostile kicked me. A lot.”

His eyes flick up to yours, hard as ice. “Dead?”

“Yessir.”

His gaze softens, a proud, smug quirk to his lips. “Atta girl.”

You can’t fully suppress a shiver. It’s not just the gentle, considerate touches. It’s the purring praise from a man you’ve admired and harbored a sizeable crush on.

“Cold?” he asks.

This is your chance to wave it off. To pretend you are not so inappropriately infatuated with a man you thought only tolerated you until a minute ago. A little white lie, you could smooth your shirt back down, and be on your way.

But you don’t want to do that. Not really.

And from the way his pupils are slowly, steadily subsuming his irises, neither does he.

“No, sir,” you whisper.

His slow exhale caresses across your tender ribs.

“Then would you be comfortable if I checked on your ‘little graze’ as well?” It’s a tease, but also a genuine check of your boundaries. Another out, freely and openly given, that only solidifies your resolve to see where he’s going with this.

“Yessir,” you answer, shifting to get at your belt.

Price tsks, though, big hands spreading across each thigh and urging you down again.

“Now, now, don’t aggravate that shoulder,” he murmurs. “Let me help like a good captain.”

You swallow back an embarrassing noise as deft hands unbuckle your belt, thumb the button of your pants open, and drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. His thick, warm forearms rest on your thighs the entire time, keep them spread to accommodate his wide shoulders. He’s in no rush to continue his “checkup,” toying along the length of your waistband before easing it down.

“Lift up for me, darling, there we are,” he murmurs. You gasp softly as his palms brush your ass while sliding your pants down. Then outright squeak as he squeezes a cheek in each hand, a low noise of admiration rumbling in his throat.

“Gorgeous girl,” he chuckles. “Gorgeous arse.”

Your face feels hot as he tugs your pants down to your ankles, though the square of gauze and tape on the back of your thigh is long revealed. It takes conscious effort not to squirm under his hot gaze, praying a wet spot isn’t already visible on your panties.

“Let’s just get this one free…” He works the pantleg over your boot, leaving the other pooled around the laces. “Now then.”

You bite into your lip as he hauls your calf up into his shoulder, propping your leg up to get a clear view of your thigh.

“Not bled through,” he notes, tracing the neat edges of the medical tape. “You’ve been taking good care of it. Well done.”

You can’t help the little twitch that evokes, your whole body reacting to the deep timbre of his voice. He’s not oblivious to his effect on you, a glint in his eye as his bristly jaw brushes the inside of your knee.

“T-told you, it wasn’t too bad,” you manage weakly.

He hums and your pussy clenches helplessly around nothing. His eyes flick down and you know it’s all over.

“And what about this, hm?” he asks. You whimper as his thumb skims the lace edge of your panties. “Have you been taking care of this?”

Flustered and yet so, so turned on, you can only shake your head. He coos in mock disappointment, rubbing slow circles across your labia, closer and closer to where you’re aching and needy.

“It’s alright sergeant,” he soothes, “your captain will take care of you.”

Except he only rubs you through your panties A maddening pressure back and forth along the wet seam of your cunt, never delving deeper. You break down in hardly any time at all.

“Sir, please,” you whine, wriggling. He’s quick to brace you still again, leisurely movements never faltering.

“Please what, darling?” he teases.

“I-I need…” You whimper with embarrassment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you to take care of me, please, captain.”

He practically growls as he tears through the hip of your panties, tossing them aside in a sodden heap on the ground. With two fingers, he parts your labia, eyes hungrily drinking in the cream shimmering between them.

“All this and I’ve barely touched you,” he rasps, awed.

You nearly sob with desperation for something, anything. He shushes your fussy little noises with his thumb, dipping into the pool of slick at your entrance. Gets the pad soaked before drawing a line up to your swollen, sensitive clit. Your mouth falls open as he starts drawing tight, firm circles over that bundle of nerves.

He treats your body and your pleasure with all the confidence and competence you’ve come to expect of John Price. It takes shockingly little time for him to learn just how to press, how fast to rub, the patterns and circuits that get your legs shaking. And that’s before he twists his wrist and sinks a finger inside you.

“Practically sucking me in, love,” he murmurs, petting at your walls. You shudder and wordlessly beg for more, rocking your hips. “Need another already, greedy girl?”

He doesn’t even wait for your nod before stuffing you with another, curling and scissoring, exploring. You keen as he finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside you and begins toying with it, his thumb still swiping relentlessly at your clit.

He settles into a rhythm that has you moaning and keening, the heel of your boot digging into his shoulder blade. All the while he showers you in praise and encouragement, the dirtiest compliments that make you clench down tightly on his hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure.

It’s builds and builds and builds, never quite cresting. You’re near tears when you moan his name, trying to find some leverage or angle to finally tip you over the edge.

“Do you need to cum, doll?”

“Yes, yes,” you cry, “please, sir, I wanna cum for you. Please, I’m s-so close.”

He hums, bracing your thigh with his free hand as he leans in. Your foggy brain doesn’t have enough time to process before he latches onto your clit and a third finger bullies into you. You wail. Your thigh twinges from the dull pressure of his shoulder, but the slight pain only adds a delicious edge to the pleasure.

His tongue swipes across your puffy clit once, twice, three times and you’re gone. You gush all over his hand, his beard, onto the chair. Your hips jerk as he works you over, fingers abusing your g-spot relentlessly despite how tightly you clamp down. Your body feels nuclear, nerves popping like firecrackers.

He only relents when the waves of ecstasy threaten to drown you in overstimulation. He eases his fingers from your twitchy hole, making room for him to lick you clean. It’s loud and obscene, yet there’s no room left for embarrassment anymore. You shiver and pant in the aftermath, your body unravelling into a puddle.

“Wh-what about you?” you ask as he begins straightening out your clothes. There’s an absolutely delectable-looking bulge in his fatigues that you’re dying to get your tongue on.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you want more –” (“I do.”) “- then you’ll have to wait until you’re healed up. Non-negotiable.”

You try to pout, but the effort is thwarted when he chucks you gently under the chin.

“C’mon, let’s have a lie down.”

He steadies you as you wobble to the couch off to the side, lying down first and letting you cuddle up between his legs. It’s a comfort more than you would have expected from a clandestine little triste, but you should know better than to doubt your captain. Head resting on his chest, you let yourself drift for a while, lulled by his fingers carding through your hair.

“Price…?” you ask after a while.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t do this just to… I dunno, make up for something, right?”

He huffs. “No, sweetheart. I’ve been arse over teakettle for a while. Staring like a complete muppet when you train.”

You hide a grin against his collarbone. “Good. I thought I’d have to start making things up for you to owe me.”

His chuckle rocks through you, and for the first time in a while, it feels a bit like home.

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endymi0ns

1 year ago

oi mate

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endymi0ns

4 months ago

Simon Riley

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endymi0ns

11 months ago

i love men who look like theyve been through some of the most horrendous shit ever sorry

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endymi0ns

1 year ago

simon grunts, his chest heaving as he palms at his chub, tracing the twitching muscle of his cock and letting out a hiss at the muted pleasure that razes through him. he shivers at the heated look you give him, your pretty eyes awash with desire, scalding as it trails down the lines of his bulk until it settles on his flesh.

“ah,” you whisper and simon nearly moans at the awe in your voice.

“s’right, baby,” he says, feeling the way he pulses underneath his low-hanging sweats. “s’all f’r you.”

there is a whine that drags itself from the base of your throat, so primal in the way it scratches your vocal cords, and simon has to fist his cock to stop himself from rutting against his palm.

“i can’t,” you whine, pouting, your eyes still trained on his groin. “‘m gonna be late for work.”

“please,” he croaks out, breathless himself. “how about jus’ the tip, love? jus’ give daddy a taste of you ‘round me, yeah?”

simon knows it is playing dirty to pull this card on you—to exploit your one weakness—but simon’s guilt is tucked underneath his stretching need, the desire bloating as it leaks past his rationality, leaving him with thinning restraints.

your sharp inhale is all the answer he needs.

he bites the inside of his cheek to tamp down the smirk dancing to the corners of his lips.

“okay,” you reply, tentative and quiet. “but just the tip, you promise?”

“swear,” simon murmurs.

like a goddamn liar.

he relishes in the squeals dripping from your parted lips, only for them to be muffled into your pillow.

he’s got you on your knees, your front all but pressed flat on the bed, your arms having lost the energy to keep yourself up as simon fucks you from the back. he’s got fistfuls of your ass, using them as sweet, sweet leverage as he manhandles your body back to his cock.

“so good f’r daddy, sweet’art,” he rumbles, his voice so deep it even sounds foreign to him. “so, so fuckin’ good, love.”

he punctuates his words with hard thrusts; drawing his cock out slowly, deliberately torturous so he can watch the way your hole grips at his cock, not wanting to let him go, before punching it back in. he doesn’t stop and keeps pushing his cock past the gummy press of your walls until his hips are pressed flush to the fat of your ass.

then, he repeats the process—sharp snaps of his hips leaving you twitching, and simon watches with a crazed giddiness as your hands uselessly scratch at the sheets as though that could tether you.

he bends forward, his bulk covering your trembling body. “such a cute darlin’ for me, lovie.” he ruts his cock along a particular sweet spot. “say ‘thank you’ to daddy?”

he hears a warbled reply from where your head is pressed to your pillow.

“hmm? wha’s ‘at?”

simon cups a hand on your forehead and carefully pulls, tipping your head up just enough that he can hear you.

he hears a hiccuped sob, then, “than’ you, daddy.”

simon giggles and presses a kiss on the back of your head. “what a good doll y’are.”

something about that makes your body tremble, spasming in his hold, and simon watches with awe as your toes curl, before he has to let go of you at the sudden tightening of your walls. his eyes go white, his ears ringing with a sharp static.

he feels so, so overwhelmed at the expanding euphoria that washes over him, lapping at the synapses from the back of his skull to the cavity of his ribs.

“you came,” simon mutters in awe, his voice passing through his teeth like a gritted hiss. “christ, lovie-”

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endymi0ns

4 weeks ago