This Girl Must Have Pussy Like A Pizza Bc Everytime She Fucks Me I Have Little Seizures

Simon is the type to put his wedding band in the velcro pouch on his chest when he’s out on the field, mostly because he can’t wear it for work, but he also doesn't want to get it dirty or taint it with the violence his hands see.

Sometimes, he wears it around his neck on a chain under his balaclava when he's away from you for an extended period of time, hoping it’ll help him find his way back to you—that one of these days while tucked away in a window, Simon won’t be on the receiving end of a barrel—and when he's home again, it returns to his finger. 

He silently takes in how your wedding bands look next to each other—shining silver staring back at him, scarred hands next to unblemished ones—when he places your intertwined fingers on his chest before he falls asleep at night.

The only time he allows his wedding ring to get dirty is when he's knuckles deep between your trembling thighs—your sticky-wet slick glinting in the low light of the room—or when Simon pushes those same fingers into your mouth to keep you quiet as he fucks you into the squeaky mattress deep and slow, grunting under his breath about how messy you are when your spit bubbles between your kiss-bitten lips.

You tell him how good he feels under a hitched breath, and his chest tightens because he can’t remember the last time someone used an adjective like that to describe him. Good. It’s weird how such a simple word can make Simon’s head spin and make him feel like he’s anything other than the man he is outside your bed.

A soldier. A killer. With you, he’s a husband—a best friend.

He ducks his head down to suck a little bruise right above your nipple, the corners of his mouth curling slightly, knowing that he’ll be the only one that’ll know it exists—that it’ll still be there long after he’s gone.

“Come on, love,” he breathes harshly, already close, wondering if this will be the time it finally takes. “Just a little more,” a small lie because there’s never just a little more when it comes to you.

price telling the wedding planner that he wants a thirty minute “interval” after the ceremony, before the reception, so you two “can just soak in being newly weds together and have a break from everyone around us fussing” when really he wants thirty minutes so he can bend you over the top table

what the point of mmf threesomes if the dudes don’t fag out a lil

i refused to stay buried because i love you why are you running

ex-tf141!mercenary!fem!reader x ex-husband!simon because there's nothing hotter than being covered in blood and debating whether or not to kill him or fuck him (18+) ⚠️🔞

cw: reader is curvy (deal with it), mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dramatization + graphic depictions of murder + violence, criticizes military service, blood kink, size kink (simon's huge ok), pet names (luv, sweetheart, baby, honey), mw3 spoilers, reader is unhinged and unapologetic about it, dark content ahead, unprotected piv, cumplay, (can this also be considered a throuple fic? maybe...)

this isn't her. he doesn't recognize her. she doesn't fight the way he remembers, she doesn't look like she used to.

she wears all black. the black cargo pants are tight around her perfect thighs, and the way they cinch around her waist makes his mouth water. her vest covers her torso, but he has vivid memories of ripping an identical one off of her, ripping the fabric of her shirt so he could bury his mouth between her tits.

when she used to be his. when she used to be a good girl.

he watches, frozen, as she shows off her newfound ruthlessness. she fires her weapon at one man's knees, bringing him to the ground. he feels sick when she kicks him onto his back, getting on top of him, and uses her tactical knife and shoves it into the softness of his neck. she leans over him, splatters of blood freckled across her face, and she watches the life leave his eyes.

she doesn't get up until he stops twitching.

he doesn't remember this. when she used to watch his six, he remembers having to hold her close at night, quieting her cries. he remembers the conversations they used to have, where she used to tell him that whenever she closes her eyes, she sees every person she ever killed.

the justification of murder behind the patches she wore on her vest had never been enough to quiet her nightmares. she was always so soft-hearted. she was always too good, too considerate, too kind. it was something her superiors always wanted to rip away from her; it was something simon fought hard to keep.

he had lost his humanity, but she had not, and he remembers smoothing his hand over her chest and across her heart, telling himself that he would never let it go, never let her lose it.

it is gone. he knows it--he knows it because she doesn't just kill her opponents, she tortures them. she aims for vulnerable places, and then she kills them angrily. she likes to hear them scream. she watches them cry. she wipes the blood of her enemies on her thigh, and then she gets up and does it all over again, in different ways, in heinous ways. she's terrifying, and she's laughing, and there is nothing behind those fucking eyes.

he holds her in his sight. he adjusts the scope, gripping the rifle tighter, and suddenly it feels too heavy in his hands. he can see her in it, and he watches in horror.

he knows his orders. permission to kill on sight, those are his orders--mercenaries had gotten the same intel as them, but they are not here to destroy the biochemical weapons. they are here to steal them.

he can kill her right now. he has her, right where he wants her, and even from this far away, he knows he won't miss.

when she's finally alone, she stands, and she looks up, turning in a slow circle. his heart squeezes--she knows he's here. she holds up a hand, four fingers held up. he reaches up to his radio and turns the knob to the right channel. it crackles, and then he hears her voice.

"hey, baby," you coo, and he sees you smile, and it's ugly, and he hates it. "you miss me that much that you gotta follow me around at work?"

"'f y'know wot's good for you, you'll pack up your shit and leave."

you tsk, spinning the knife around in your hand before sticking it back into your boot. you wipe the sweat from your forehead, and blood smears along your brow.

"awww, teddy bear, don't be that way," you pout. "how about you come down here?" you grin wide, turning just his way, giggling when you see him perched for overwatch. "hmm? you're just cranky, baby...need me to help you relax..."

"you're right fuckin' mad," he spits, and you reach down at the man beneath you, snatching his rifle off his back and making sure it's loaded. "and i'm gonna fuckin' kill you."

you wink up at him.

"yeah? so take the shot, honey," you challenge. the smirk that blooms on your face infuriates him. he hates you. but then you turn around and keep walking, knowing that he won't shoot, and his gaze follows the sway of your hips. instead of thinking about your brains splattered against gravel, he thinks about when he used to bend you over his bed in the barracks and eat your pussy from behind you--when he used to get on his knees and fuck you with his tongue and make you cum into his mouth.

when you disappear from his view, you laugh over comms. "you're pathetic, simon," your murmur. "could never trust you to get the fucking job done."

he remembers when you left. johnny had left a scar on you--an angry one, one that refused to heal. and while simon was equally as buried in his grief, he always felt just a little better when he was kissing you, holding you, feeling the warmth of you, knowing you were alive.

"you didn't love him. not like i did--" you snap, continuing to pack.

"are you fuckin' mad?! do y'hear yourself talk?! wot the fuck do you know about me and johnny?!"

"then how are you not angry?!" you scream. "how are still standing there, so fucking normal, how are you so fucking calm?!"

"sweetheart--"

"don't fucking touch me," you bite. "you don't get it--" angry tears flow easily down your face. "--you didn't love him the same."

"i did--" he grips your face, making you look at him. "i loved him like i love you, don't say that. don't fucking say that, don't you dare pretend you're the only one that feels anything--"

you rip his hands off of you, narrowing your eyes, and he does not recognize you. this is not you.

"y-you're a liar," you whisper. "you're a fucking liar. and you make me sick."

ghost steps over the bodies that you left behind. it is a massacre of men that you leave at your feet. slit throats, bullets in knees, in stomachs, little finishers you leave between their legs. you are not a fan of men--he knows this because of how hard it had been to get close to you. how difficult it had been to even so much as touch your arm, your face--to get you into his bed, to marry you in secret and fuck you spineless. the only easy thing that had ever happened to you was the way johnny fell right into step with you.

and the hardest thing that he had ever done was fucking die.

when he finds the trunk of biochemical vials, you are not there. he has found it first, and he bends down to inspect them, closing the lid and securing them inside before moving his hand up to press on the button of his comms to alert his team.

"uh uh uh," a low voice warns. "take your hand off the radio, sweetheart."

he moves, but the bloodied tip of a tactical knife is sharp against his throat, and he swallows hard. he calls your name, and you just giggle. this is a game to you. he lowers his hand, and you reach down, grabbing his rifle and tossing it. you also unholstered his handgun and the throwing knives from his boot, throwing them behind you.

"mmm..." you smooth a hand down his back. "you're as hot as the day i met you, baby..."

ghost grunts as you grip one side of his ass, and you grip his shoulder tight, kicking him just right so he was kneeling on both knees now. you lean over him and plant a warm, wet kiss to the jaw of his mask, moving so you were standing in front of him now. you kick the trunk of vials to the side, looking down at him, digging the sharp edge of the blade harder against his neck.

"look at you..." you hum, licking your bottom lip. "you're still so big, teddy bear..." he hisses when you lean over, cupping him through his pants. your warm hand squeeze the length of him, and you whine when you feel how hard he is, how much he still feels for you. he glares at you under that plastic, terrifying mask, but your panties are soaking. "so fucking hard for me, too...you miss me, baby?"

he leans over, into the blade, growling.

"'f you leave now, you can still take your life with ya."

you pucker your lips, and he snarls. your face is not one he knows--you have drying blood along your cheeks, smears of it along the softness of your neck. you have blood and dirt under your fingernails, and there is fire in your eyes, and you are not the good girl he fell in love with, but you look like her, and it scares him.

"awww, baby, if i thought you would kill me, you would be dead--" you lean forward and lick along his hard jaw, tasting the salt and sweat of his mask. "...right along your other boys. don't lie to me. it's not a good look for you."

he bites, and you laugh, and then you nod your head.

"sit down," you demand, and he sits. he is big, and his gear is heavy, and he sits with a grunt, and you climb over him, into his lap. you reach down, your eyes on his, and you unzip his cargo pants, your hand slipping under and pulling his cock out, and you smile when it stands hard and heavy. "oh, baby...you want this, don't you?"

you lean in, kissing him through the mask, sucking along the fabric and whining.

"you want this, don't you? you still want me? you still love me?"

"fuckin' hell--"

"you wanna fuck me, teddy bear?" you spit into the palm of your hand, reaching down and smoothing your wet hand over the red tip of him. "you're so big...as big as i remember..." you whimper. "say you wanna fuck me, simon--" fuck, you're using his name, "--say you want me."

against your lips, you feel him whisper yes--fuck--yes, luv--and you can't help it. you can't help yourself.

he's so warm and big. you hold onto his shoulders, still gripping the bloody knife, and you sink down on him. it's easy though, because you're soaking, and even though you're so fucking tight, you suck him in, right until your clit is grinding against the little hairs at the base of his cock and you're bouncing in his lap.

simon is weak. he's weak, and he knows it, because he loves you, and your pussy is so tight, and your moans are music, and fucking you is the only thing he truly understands, the only thing that still makes sense.

you smooth your hands along the back of his neck, and when you whimper and moan, simon thinks he sees you. his good girl, his pretty little wife, the soft girl that he loves, the one crying as she rides his cock because he's hitting all the gooey, pretty places inside of her that make her so fucking wet. he grips your ass tight, guiding you up and down, fucking up into you as he feels his stomach turn and his balls tighten.

"simon--" you cry, and he nods his head, cradling you to his chest, his head tilted back as he looks up at you. there is blood on your skin and a knife digging into his back, but you're saying his name, and his heart aches, and your pussy is so good-- "gonna come--gonna come--"

"yeah--" he growls, and you push up his mask, lick into his mouth, kiss him sloppy and hard and desperate. "fuck--fuck, yeah--"

he takes off his glove to touch you, two big fingers on your clit as you fuck him desperately. when you come, you soak his cock, and when you tighten, he comes, too, rolling his hips as he spills out of your tight hole and onto your thighs, onto his.

it feels so good. it feels so good to be full of him, to feel him deep, and you smooth your hands down your stomach, feeling him there, stretching you so wide with his come on your thighs, and when he pulls out, you giggle when he gathers the slick onto his fingers and feeds it to you.

you suck his fingers, tasting him, and you whine, looking right into his dark eyes. your heart hurts for a moment--but only a moment. when he pulls his fingers from your mouth, your eyes flicker.

because he still wears his fucking wedding ring.

at the sight of it, you grip your knife tight, and you sink it right into his stomach.

he is laying there in a pool of blood when you're dressed, when the trunk of vials is secure for you to take. you lean over him, pressing on the button of his radio, and you call for medevac to his team, and then you rip the radio in two.

you cup his cheeks, kissing him softly over the mask, and you smooth a finger down his cheek.

"don't pull the knife out, baby, or you'll bleed out," you coo. you tilt your head to the side, knowing you only have a few second window to leave, and you smile down at him.

"until next time, simon."

when you go, you take a piece of him with you.

and fuck--fuck you. because he wants it back.

posting WIPs before vacation. got a whole load of nothing queued.

kidnapper ghost who gets himself a spitfire of a girl, who immediately flinches and hisses when he strokes his fingers over her round hip and tells her that he likes how soft and pretty she is. he realizes very quickly that making her upset is his favorite thing in the world, that seeing her angry eyes well up with furious tears is the hottest thing he’s ever seen. all she wants is to fight, to make him like her less, to spite him, but she can’t. he immediately concludes that it’s his favorite thing in the world to fuck with her head, so no matter what she does, he tells her what a good girl she’s being for him.

when she somehow unties her restraints her praises her and calls her resourceful and clever, rewarding her with two fingers in her cunt. when she scratches and bites and bruises him, he chuckles and tells her he loves her spirit, that it turns him on to be marked as hers. if she spitefully goes limp and ragdolls while he fucks her, he coos about what a sweet, obedient girl he’s got and how jealous his mates will be when they hear about his pretty pillow princess. when she curses him out, tells him she hates him and wishes he was dead, he laughs and tells her that he loves a girl he can banter with, someone with a good sense of humor. there’s nothing she can do that he won’t praise wholeheartedly, and it eventually makes her break down sobbing from frustration. nothing she says or does seems to deter him from this obsessive, deranged brand of love that she is trying so hard to reject.

so when he kisses her softly after round who-even-knows-what-number of rough, animalistic fucking, and tells her in a soft voice that he loves her, that he’ll always love her, no matter what, it’s nothing short of a delight to him to watch her fall apart, sobbing and clutching at her hair, grieving the loss of freedom that she knows she’ll never ever get back. he can see in her eyes that she believes him, and that it makes her despair.

and god if that doesn’t get him the hardest he’s ever been in his life, despite already going multiple rounds that day

Give me Simon who, because of his family’s history of addiction, and his fear of losing control, he hardly ever drinks.

Give me a Ghost that, despite his size, is a bit of a lightweight.

Give me a Ghost who can't have a couple of "casual" beers cause he still gets slightly buzzed

Give me a Ghost that never went drinking with teammates (before 141) cause he was afraid of what they think. A big man like him getting drunk after only a few drinks.

Give me a Simon Riley who feels so safe with the 141, and with Johnny, that he agrees to go to the pub and have some drinks.

Give me a Ghost that's a goofy drunk. Doing little things to mess with the others. Snort laughing at his own dumb jokes, laughing so hard he nearly chokes.

Give me a clingy drunk Ghost. Absolutely demands to know where the other is going if someone gets up from the table. Is leaning onto Soap so much he's practically crushing him. Has to hold someone's hand when Soap goes to the bar to get more drinks. Complains the whole time Johnny is gone.

Give me a Ghost who is stumbling between Gaz and Soap, knocking into them and holding their hands as they walk. Give me Soap and Gaz laughing and Ghost laughing with them, not realizing they're laughing at him.

Give me Ghost who is finally healing his inner young adult, doing fun stuff while he can, drinking and being merry. We all know those years were stolen from him.

“source?” divine intuition, gut instinct, and cryptic symbolism from my dreams

someone send me their thoughts about ghost being a gross little perv 👀