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For the first time in god knows how long Simon is nervous. Simon Riley, the man behind the Ghost moniker. A man revered and loathed all the same for his work in the field. A man who's callsign sends a shiver down anyone's back who knows anything about him. He is nervous.
Hot under the collar, he pulls at his balaclava. God damn it. Why? Why, is you. You who stares at him like he is prey, you who stares at him like he is the target at the end of your scope.
He feels his mind fog as he stares back. Of course he stares back. He's not afraid to. He should assert dominance, show you he's not scared of you. It only worked to redden his face more.
You're wearing your own balaclava, enhancing your eyes and your mouth when it's pulled above your nose. They stare right into Simon's dark browns, sharp and calculating. The sight never leaves his mind. He uses the same tactic, outside of the skull mask and his intimidating figure, his sharp eyes is a crutch, one stare would scare away any sane enemy. But you, no, not you.
Maybe it's because you work together so you know he won't hurt you or sheer stupidity, you are not one crumb scared of him. In fact, you seem fascinated by him. Your attention fixed on him.
He can't shake you off no matter how much he tries. Like a persistent pest, you're there at every turn, every step. You're always there, lingering in the shadows. Even when you aren't there, you still linger in his thoughts.
Even the very thought of you being somewhere in his vicinity, watching, sends a chill down his spine.
After confronting you for the thousandth time, you don't back away. You never do. You don't look away. After arguments and hiding himself away, you are still there.
Maybe you see something he doesn't. Maybe you see something worth looking. Something other than the monster that he's known to be. Unfeeling and hair raising. He doesn't get it. How could you... how?
How...
"Fuck! Baby!" His back arches when your mouth connects with his cock, he feels his mind buzz with desire "Ah- fuck." The heat of your mouth is addicting. He needs it. He needs more. He tries to lifts his hips, force himself in but you catch it and pinned him back down. It draws a vexed groan from him.
You're strong, he forgets that sometimes. You don't use force outside of situations like this. You're passive, you wait till your prey do something to provoke you until you pounce.
Simon gasps, gripping onto your intertwined fingers when you chuckle. "Don't laugh with me in your—" he keens, squirming at your tounge flicking over his tip. "Mouth."
You don't even demand his attention, you don't have to. You've already got it. You're the first thing he searches for in a room, you're the first thought he has in the morning and the moment he falls asleep. He can't even escape you in his dreams.
He sees you in everything, the smoke of his coffee, when he smokes a cigar, the bloody sunlight reminds him of you. It unnerves him how his every thought is consumed by you.
You aren't hesitant with your movements, you know him by feel, you've been here more than you can count; at Simon's feet, knees pressed on hard tile, concrete, soft covers or in desperate moments, dirt. You know the best spots, the ones that get his heart racing and dick twitching. You don't waste your time, you're quick, precise.
You don't often have much time to tease, prepare, be gentle. time is a luxury you both can't typically afford. Not after finishing training or quick breaks after missions when you're running with so much adrenaline there's nothing better to do but fuck it out.
You pull simon's thighs onto your shoulders, searching for a better angle. "Shit.." Simon hisses, your beard tickles, adding another sensation to the others he's barely computing. He knows to be quiet he does but how could he when you've brought heaven right down to him?
The sounds reverberating through the small room is obsene, it's wet, raw. Your slurping is just a few decibels louder than the vents overhead and he's sure anyone passing by could hear his desperate mutterings.
Sex with you is often desperate, needy, borderline posessive. There was a promise to not let it go anywhere but two teammates getting their needs met but he thinks that etching's been rubbed away with the friction.
He feels himself drawing tight. Fuck your tounge is magic. Your touch is as addicting as the cigarette he tossed when you pulled him inside the storage closet.
Just a few... hah... more... Simon closes his eyes, head hitting the brick wall, squirming for that bit more. His breath hitches when the warmth of your mouth escapes him, he gives you a panicked glare but you quickly help him with your hand to finishing.
He bucks into your hand, meeting you half way. He doesn't register when you stand, suddenly feeling your lips on his, he gasps into the kiss, teeth knocking together. His arms wrap around your shoulders, bringing you closer.
"Faa...."
He weakly thrusts up into your hand, tucking his face into your shoulder to let out a rough groan as he cums all over your hands and shirts, you give him a couple more pumps till he whines no more.
His breaths are ragged when he comes to, your hand is sliding up and down his strong back. He hates how it actually helps him.
He lifts his face up, eyes glistening with unshed tears.— he doubts it's real emotion, it's from the overstimulation, right?
God, he hates that sweet smile you give him, it makes him feel like he's something, someone. He hates that he lets you cup his cheek and he actually leans into it. He especially hates that he lets you get away with all this and you don't pay anything for it. You kiss his cheek so tenderly it hurts. God damn it, he just lets you.
Do you know how god damn scared that makes him?
Do you know how hard it is for him to push through his need for you and his fear of... of... losing you.
Simon squeezes his eyes closed, tucking himself back to where he'd made home on your sturdy shoulder. He takes a shaky breath, he doesn't cry. Not yet, maybe ever. He'll let it simmer for now because this moment isn't here forever. And that fact shoots fear through his whole body.
He holds you tighter, almost crushing.
He hates that your soft praise and carefully woven words makes him melt into you.
He hates that you see him where he is and you accept him as he is.
He hates that you are comfort personified.
Because what would he do when he lost you?