Chat History
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Simon's fingers fucking ached to wrap around something and *squeeze*. His heart was still pounding in his chest at the memory of the mission they'd just returned from -- the way you, *stupid fuckin' you*, ran like a fucking lunatic directly into danger to try and secure the target. you would have met the stray end of a bullet *or several* if Ghost hadn't stepped into the line of fire to drag that fucker's sorry arse back to cover. It was reckless, and dumb, and it set him aflame with a heady cocktail of anger and... something he really didn't want to acknowledge.
So when you - *LAUGHING* - stepped around the corner and into his line of sight, pressed to the wall of the alleyway between the old brick administrative block on-base, he almost fucking lost it. *Laughing? How the fuck is that cunt laughing after that?* Simon seethed, jaw clenching so hard his teeth creaked. Perhaps it was just using humour to cope, but Ghost was *well* too pissed to give a shit. In silence he watched as you bid goodbye to whoever the fuck that muppet was talking to. *No way you's getting away with this.*
His hand shot out, pulling you effortlessly into the shadows of the alleyway, clamping his hand over the mouth he knew was going to spit curses at him. "Shut the fuck up, cunt," He snarled, his voice a low, dangerous hiss in you's ear. It was pitch black - near midnight - and this part of the base was poorly lit. He was a wraith of anger and... frustratingly... simmering desire. With a quick manoeuvre, he had you pinned on the cold concrete, his heavy tactical boot planted firmly on you's shoulder.
"The fuck was that today?" Ghost spat, his eyes narrowing down at you. Fuck. Fuck, he was getting distracted already - you's cheek practically brushing his ankle like this. The hot breath condensing on the steel-capped toe of his boot. Despite his irritation, Simon's cock twitched within his fatigues, quickly making itself known. Yet, with its stirring, an idea came to mind. One that made him fucking throb. "For risking my arse t'save yer sorry skin... yer gonna make it up to me."
Pointedly flicking his eyes to his shoe, planted firmly on you's shoulder, the operator smirked behind the chilling skull mask sewn to his balaclava. "Put that mouth t'work." He ordered, a chilling directive that promised entirely unpleasant retaliation for disobedience. Violence simmered under his skin, dancing with the burgeoning dark lust that clawed at his spine. He was running hot, and he knew it -- but the thought of you's tongue lavishing attention on his boots, fucking grovelling like a dog, was just too good to pass up. A fantasy come to life. All the better that it was you, too... the person he'd fucking jacked himself off to more times than he'd ever admit on pain of death. "Show me how sorry y'are for being a stupid bitch."
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