#zombie ghost cod

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove (A Zombie!Ghost Story) Masterlist

This fic got long so it gets its own masterlist lol.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

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???

Dividers by: @sweetmelodygraphics

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-seven —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.2k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex!!! SEX. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

It is difficult to tell who lifts the mask. You think you start it, then he finishes it with a shove up to his nose.  

Your mouth claims his, ivy to stone. His lips part for your tongue as your arms loop around his shoulders. His fingers dig in your scalp, sharp enough to draw a hiss, while his other arm yanks you closer by the waist, heat searing against your bare skin. It's not a kiss—too unruly for that. His tongue grazes your chin; you taste the edge of his nose. The world narrows to the harsh sound of your breathing, the scrape of your teeth, a tangible truth:

You want him, too. 

He pulls back with one great heave of breath just after the tear on your lip is reopened. A strand of pink-tinted saliva connects you. His eyes search your face, hesitation flickering in his gaze. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I clearly just did.”

His jaw tightens. “I need words. Tell me you understand what you—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, voice trembling with a mix of frustration and need. “Don’t act like I can’t make my own decisions. Like I can’t handle you.” Rising on your toes, you bite his lip, hard enough to draw a matching drop of blood. “I’ve handled you before—Simon."

A shudder wrenches his shoulders. Your words rip a growl from his throat, snapping the last of his restraint. His kiss devours you, raw and unforgiving, until everything else fades to red. Not blood, but something else, something you’ve kept hidden for longer than you care to admit. It burns in your chest—the terrifying realization that you might break if you don’t have him here and now.

His grip on your hair shifts to your thigh, lifting you with ease. Tree bark bites into your spine. You trail clumsy kisses down his jaw to the hollow below his ear, ankles locking around his waist, dragging up his shirt. The metal buckle of his belt presses where you ache, the friction drawing a sharp gasp. Even through the layers, he feels impossibly thick.

He forces your neck to the side, mouth sucking down your throat to your collarbone with urgent deliberation, as if he wants to memorize every inch but realizes neither of you possess the patience for it. He licks, then bites, the pain making your hips angle in upward seeking. Your reaction pulls a smirk from him. His teeth and tongue glide lower, and he hikes your damp bra up to expose your breasts.

"Fucking hell." A guttural exhale before hand and mouth devours them.

Thought evaporates as your chest turns sheen with spit. You thrash against the tree, nipple caught between his teeth. He teases it with a graze, then sinks in. Heat punches the pit of your stomach with a ferocity that makes you cry out. You claw at the back of his mask.

"I need...I need—more."

He groans, low, staving the bite mark with his tongue. This time when he rolls the other nipple between teeth, it is in combination with two fingers slipping under your underwear. The muscles in your thigh jerk. A rough finger grinds circles into your clit, and another glides through the wet seam of you. It is impossible not to fight for more. Delirious with greed, you cant your hips down to slip his middle finger inside. 

He takes the hint and works a second finger into you. Your legs tighten around him in unending tremors that must make keeping his arm between your bodies uncomfortable, his wrist straining to reach you. Arousal leaks steadily onto his hand as his fingers pump faster. You turn less vocal now that you're close, vision failing you, and he tongues at the shell of your ear with a growl.

"I'm not going to fuck you until you cum."

"I'm—"

Strong fingertips curl into the sensitive pad within you, coaxing an orgasm much stronger than the one you gave yourself. It beats through your blood in hot bursts, robbing you of the ability to keep your head up. You lean onto his shoulder, feeling it flex as he fucks his fingers once, twice, then three more times before drawing them out. Through the haze, you hear the drag of his tongue over them and then a soft wet release.

"You will give me more of that."

A flush consumes your face. Your lips part to speak, but you can't—

"What happened to my mouthy girl?" he taunts in a murmur.

His tone snaps the world into focus. "She's here."

"I thought she could handle me."

You lift your head to narrow your gaze at his, despising the tick in his brow. "You are insufferable."

"Ah. There she is. I was worried I lost her."

The striking awareness that you are almost naked, while he is fully clothed head-to-toe, suddenly irritates you. You curl your fingers around the fabric bunched by his ear.

"Take this off. I've already seen you. It's pointless now."

"You'll have to take it off yourself."

You’re about to move when he pins your wrist to the tree, then the other. A silent challenge. You squirm, but it only drags the belt across your sensitive cunt, making you hiss. You've been here before—restrained by him. But this time, his weakness is clear, a heavy, undeniable pressure pressing against you.

After wetting your lips, you nudge your nose against his and kiss the taste of yourself from his mouth with slow, ribbing strokes of your tongue. The change in pace makes him sigh into you. You give a teasing swirl of your hips, grinding into him, staggering his breath. When he moves again, pressing for relief at the juncture of your hip and thigh, you still your movements, leaving him hanging.

A growl vibrates in his chest and he squeezes your wrists. On his next attempt, you swiftly unlock your ankle and jab your knee into his ribs.

He flinches, but doesn't loosen his grip, laughing softly. "A valiant attempt," he mutters.

"Shut up," you mumble, breath huffing out of you.

"Was that your entire plan?"

"I'm not fucking you until it's off, you know."

"Make more of an effort, then."

Fine.

Your teeth catch on your lip and you offer another shift of your hips. "You are needy for this, too, Simon. Don't act like I am the only one." Your voice comes out hoarse, almost foreign. You move your hips in a steady rhythm, your lips finding the tender skin just above his collarbone. His throat bobs, a quick, instinctive response. "I bet I could make you cum, just like this. You won't even need to be inside me."

It is an experiment, really, but the thundering of his heart confirms your claim. With your panties bunched to the side, your arousal glides over him, staining his jeans. He matches your movements with firm presses at the base of his clothed-cock; he would be fucking you if it weren't for the layers in the way. You taste the pulsing vein beneath your tongue, swirling and nibbling, a smoldering heat blossoming in your stomach once more.

"I touched myself thinking about you," you whisper into his skin, ego swelling when his breath stills, then rushes out from his nose. "My fingers didn't feel nearly as good as yours." You purposely moan, almost a whine and impossibly, he feels harder. Swelling towards release. You nose the underside of his jaw, feeling the temperature of his skin inch higher. "You're going to cum soon, aren't you? I can tell. I haven't even taken off any of your clothes yet and you're going to cum. How does it feel to be weak for me?"

His jowls flex from your words and his hips buck with a mindlessness that makes you smile. The heat between you is obliterating, almost enough to crumble your vengeance. But when he digs his nails into your wrists with a slight tremble, ashen lashes fluttering, you interrupt the moment before he can finish.

You bite the skin where his throat meets his jaw and kick his ribs again. His eyes snap open, his hold faltering. He stumbles back, and you grapple his shoulders, forcing him to the ground. You fall on top of him, knees bracketing his hips, fingers moving swiftly to tear off the mask. You exhale a breath over his nose, lips twitching at the corners.

"Gotcha."

For a few seconds, you merely stare at each other, deer to hunter.

Face to face, truly, for the first time.

His face, flushed red, is even more handsome like this—rugged and scarred, bared at your mercy beneath you. It makes your heart falter over a beat. His hands drag down the notches of your spine before fiercely gripping your hips, never breaking eye contact. Because you’re paying such close attention, you catch it—a sweeping glint in his gaze. Admiration, maybe. Or just lust.

You swallow thickly and give a tug to his shirt.

He rips it over his head.

You finish yanking the damp bra off.

Your underwear is next.

When you're both bare, exposed and raw, jeans bunched awkwardly at his ankles, the game ends. Neither of you are willing to play anymore. His fingers dig into your hips as you grip his cock, heavy and slick with the evidence of the edge he was pulled from. You drag the fat head of him through your folds, just once to make him shudder, before lining him up with your hole and sinking down.

Pain flares. Either because it has been years since you've been stretched like this, or because he is just that thick. You hiss through your teeth and pause halfway down, scratching over the hard plane of his chest in search of relief. You feel him deep already, uncomfortably so, and his touch softens over your skin despite the veins sticking out in his neck.

"Take it slow."

"I can handle it."

"It's alright if you can't," his voice softens over the gravel in it.

"I can."

Stubbornly, you take another centimeter, then another, before slamming all the way down, the full length of him breaking through the last layer of resistance until you are fully seated. The press of his fingers into your ass is as rough as the exhale that follows. You feel him twitch within you, his balls heavy and tight, but he allows you the time to adjust, slowly rocking your hips until the discomfort teeters toward pleasure.

He is so big that the tip of him reaches a crevice between your inner wall and cervix. When your pace quickens, the pressure of his pubic bone on your clit makes your body quake with one fierce tremor. You fail to keep yourself upright, the jolt of it bringing your face to his neck. Strong arms tighten around you, hands pressing firmly against your shoulder blades, holding you anchored to his chest as his hips rise to drive him even deeper. He is in you and around you. All at once. Every inch of grey rot living in you is replaced with damning hunger for him. You swirl and grind and bite his neck, breaking capillaries. 

"That's it, yeah." The raw grit in his voice makes your muscles clench around the base of him. "Take what you need." 

He grips your ass firmly, supporting you as his upward thrusts meet your flesh with echoing smacks. You feel the curls of hair at the base of him, soaked with your arousal, each time you slam back down. When his firm, neatly corded muscles begin to quiver, his movements begin to lose their precision. He is trying to hold back from the ledge you left him on. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking you back from his neck, and his teeth sink into the tender skin below your ear as a distraction. His breaths come hot and quick, cooling the sweat slicking your skin. 

You feel like a conglomerate of broken pieces about to be shattered, every carefully stitched seam straining, ready to snap. Your eyes roll back. Your toes flex and curl. You are so close—

Without warning, and all too soon, he lifts you off. 

"Fuck—"

His cock bobs between your bodies, liquid heat frothing over your stomach in pulses. His eyes are screwed shut, lips parted to let out a noisy rush of air, all of the hardened lines on his face unwoven in the wake of pleasure. You hover over him, blades of grass indented into your knees, watching with silent fascination despite the frustrated fizzle of your own approaching orgasm. When his eyes reopen, they are glazed and unfocused, yet somehow he had more wherewithal to remember pulling out than you did.

Then, he flips you over with a heaving push, cock still hard. You are neatly caged by the sprawl of his muscle, reminded that he easily could've overtaken you before if he wanted to.

"I can go again." It sounds as if he has to dig the words out with great effort, still breathless. 

You reach between your bodies to keep his slippery cock at bay near your thigh. "We can't. It wouldn't be safe after you just—just came."

His lashes flutter in resignation, a firm nod as he dips his head to your collarbones. He rests it there for a moment, likely ignoring the ache in his cock that vies for more attention, and you stare down at the flexing brawn of his back, at the firm swell of his ass. Then he kisses your sternum, over your heart, and sucks his way down the soft curve of your abdomen, gentle, chapped lips against faded bruises.  

When he reaches the raw flesh between your thighs, he lifts your legs and urges your feet on his back. His nose nudges your clit, inhaling deeply the scent of where you'd just been joined, and your breath hitches in anticipation. 

He kisses you here, a curious circle of his tongue around your clit that mimics his finger, before sliding through the slippery seam. When you fist his hair and dig your heels into his shoulders, his gentleness ceases. He closes his entire mouth on you, working furiously to reignite the heat from your spine, which arches off the ground in desperation, driving your puffy cunt harder against the pad of muscle. You grind your hips in combination with pulling on his hair, keeping his tongue right where you need it. It strokes your hole, pushing in and out.

"That's so good, Ghost. So good. I'm—"

You cum hard on his tongue, free hand fisting the grass. It is less of a precipice that you fall off of, and more a crashing wave, like the one you nearly drowned in, but this time you let it sweep you, searing white through the backs of your eyelids. He keeps his tongue there to catch the leakage with an obscenely wet sound you barely hear over the ringing in your ears. By the time it fades, you feel wrecked, spit out on the shore, your mind blank. The wave recedes. 

You hear a soft grunt and then his forehead drops on your sticky belly. The tremor in his shoulders indicates his own release, which he emptied in the grass.

You lay together like this for minutes, recovering your breath.

Fingers against his scalp.

Staring at the sky.

It’s as if you’re drifting through a dream, aware only of the heavy thrum of your heartbeat and the measured breathing of the person nestled between your legs.

Finally, awareness seeps in as the sound of fluttering birds and the quiet ripples over the creak. 

The hum of life returns around you. You'd almost forgotten where you were or how you got here. How long has it been? Your fingers slacken in his hair as you gaze around, the silent trees your only witness, and the sun beginning to dip toward the horizon. The understanding sinks in that you are both absent, and returning together at dark would—

The thought is tucked away when strong arms lift you up, scooping under the crook of your knees.

He is able to walk steadily even when you aren't certain you could.

He carries the mess of your body to the water. The peaceful warmth of it converges over you, highlighting the soreness that you were able to ignore in the throes of it all. Wordlessly, and with a thoughtful crease between his brow, he holds you up with one arm while scrubbing your stomach with the other, rinsing off his essence. It is not an uncomfortable silence, just a thick one, only broken by little drips of water as he cleans you with more intent than you did the first time.

You try to piece together everything in your mind, but the thoughts slip through your fingers like the water. You don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling—a stark contrast to the clarity you found in the heat of him only minutes ago. His body has always been the more decipherable part of him, but now even the stiffness in his shoulders feels like a cipher you can’t crack.

When he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your damp hair, it doesn’t feel affectionate, exactly. It’s not distant, either—just tender in a way you’re not sure how to interpret. The gnawing questions fill your brain: When was the last time he did this with someone? How many more times will you do it together? Not just once, he said. But what does that mean?

Why do you feel hesitant to ask, even though you were just brindled with confidence while riding his cock?

You try to wipe his own stomach but he brushes your fingers away and does it himself, nodding his chin toward your clothes. "Get dressed. You'll go first."

"Huh?"

"They think I am scouting up ahead right now. I'll be back later."

"Oh," you say, not able to conjure a meaningful response.

He raises an eyebrow at you but offers nothing else except a gentle thumbing over hair that sticks to your cheek. You follow his directions, returning to the grassy bank while the cool air prickles your wet skin. You feel his heavy stare as he watches you towel off, trying to ignore the obvious marks on your hips, stomach, ass, and collarbones. They taunt you with a blush to your cheeks. Luckily, when you slip on the oversized shirt, the majority of them are concealed, your hair finishing the job of covering your neck.

You've no idea what hour it could be when you return, feigning nonchalance, but the setting sun means Ghost won't be out there much longer. In his absence, you feel colder than the temperature truly is. The deep ache that ebbs and flows with each step proves him right. There is no going back after this. No—you will still be able to feel him, like a phantom, even when the soreness between your legs fades. What you are meant to do about that fact is something you can sort through later when you have the state of mind for it. 

Will you ever have the state of mind for it?

You push the voice away and keep your gaze lowered as you approach Nereida, returning the borrowed soaps. The others are gathered around the fire—Kyle eating, Blue and Ari laughing about something, while Price hunches over the map, finalizing tomorrow’s route.

"Was it relaxing?" she asks.

"Hm?"

You blink, bringing your gaze to her, and only now realizing that it is still rather droopy and blurred, the look in her eyes barely in focus as she tilts her head. "Your bath," she clarifies.

"Oh. Mhm." You nod, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, it was just what I needed. I'm actually, um, rather tired now. I think I will sleep early."

She drags her eyes over you, causing your weight to shift, before she returns the smile. "Sounds like a good idea. Long day tomorrow. You should eat first, though."

"Right," you concede, tongue to cheek.

Ghost returns in the midst of you shoveling beans into your mouth, knees tucked to your chest in front of the flames, and his silence as usual. He reports to Price about the clear motorway, his voice clinical, but you catch the subtle roughness beneath it—something no one else would notice, the only detectable trace of what you shared. What you told Nereida wasn't a lie, you feel robbed of energy, and can hardly muster the strength to tie your dried hair in two braids before tucking yourself in a sleeping bag, staring dazedly at the oncoming stars. 

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Zombie! Ghost NSFW Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, Zombie Fucking, Monster Fucking, Zombie! Ghost, Human! Reader, Zombie Anatomy, Cockwarming, Unprotected Sex, Stagnant Semen, Stomach Bulge, Stomach Swelling, Mention of Breeding, Engorged Penis, Brief Worry of Infection, Mentions of Blood, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except ‘You’.

Zombie!Ghost who’s been travelling with you for the last couple of months or so.

Zombie! Ghost who wasn’t like all the other infected — he retained most of his autonomy with only his body succumbing to the disease, blood smattered down his tactical gear, eyes milky.

Zombie!Ghost who, though he can’t speak, can still communicate via growls, gurgles and groans, as well as body language, albeit in a stiff manner.

Zombie!Ghost who, despite existing in a decaying body, has retained most of his human, primal urges. Even had some of them enhanced.

Zombie!Ghost who, though you might not know it, rocks himself into his hand when the night is quiet, your name and face on his mind amidst the buzz of the virus telling him to act on his base instincts to eat, feed and breed.

Zombie!Ghost who sees that, much to his lethargic delight, this was the case for you, too.

On many a night had he caught you with something hard between your legs, trying desperately to alleviate the the knots below your stomach.

Zombie!Ghost who, one night, after a long day of running from the undead and hiding in an enclosed space with you, chest to chest as you both waited for the horde to pass, found that palming himself did nothing to rid him of the aching feeling between his legs.

Zombie!Ghost who can sense that you’re the same: all that excess adrenaline and pent-up sexual frustration permeated the air with scent only a creature like Ghost could smell. A scent which he followed to the door of your room.

He knocked. Once. Heard you shuffling, scurrying, before clearing your throat, telling him to “Come in,”

Zombie! Ghost who can see your hasty attempt to cover yourself, your pants pulled up with such speed that you’d neglected to zip them back up, the hem of your underwear showing between the open space.

Zombie!Ghost who sees your eyes flicker to his trousers, widen slightly, before returning to his eyes.

Zombie!Ghost who wastes no time, kicking the door shut behind him and taking heavy, deliberate steps towards you.

Zombie! Ghost whose hand slithers down his front to the bulge between his legs, never taking his eyes off yours as he squeezes it, letting out a guttural groan.

Zombie! Ghost who knows you’re intelligent enough to pick up what he’s putting down. Even if you are stunned into momentary silence.

Zombie! Ghost who feels something in him grow warm when you look up at him with wide eyes, asking him, tentatively: “But…won’t I get infected?”

Zombie! Ghost who shakes his head, for he can do little more to put your mind at ease save for leaving and never proposing such a thing again.

Zombie! Ghost who sees you mulling it over in your mind, though he can tell by the rampant heat coming from between your thighs, the tantalising scent of your hormones thickening in the air, that your mind is already made up.

Zombie! Ghost who approaches with a rabid look in his eyes, coming to stand right where you need him.

Zombie! Ghost who has to bite back a growl when he feels your fingers brush him through his clothes, taking the zipper of his pants between your fingers and pulling it down.

Zombie! Ghost who, after having himself freed of his tactical gear, lies back on the bed, watching your mouth drop open as you see his swollen, drooling, stiffened cock for the first time, blackened veins running up the shaft. Pulsating. Something viscous and almost white oozes from the tip.

Zombie! Ghost who has to resist the urge to buck his hips when you come to straddle him, your pants and underwear abandoned somewhere on the mattress.

Zombie! Ghost who shudders when his tip meets your heat, the first semblance of warmth he’s felt since his un-death.

Zombie! Ghost who, even with his vocal cords having thoroughly decayed, lets out a carnal growl as you take him, sinking down onto his tip and wincing at the coldness — the size — of him.

Zombie! Ghost who can only wait for you to adjust to his girth and his lack of temperature as you sink further, a bulge in your stomach forming.

Zombie! Ghost who can feel you squeezing around him, already coaxing him to forfeit his restraint and pump you full of the stagnant semen all but bursting from his engorged ballsack. The consequence of not having an outlet for weeks.

Zombie! Ghost who gasps, back arching against the mattress, his gloved bands coming to grip your waist while he grinds up into you, desperate to feel more of your warmth.

Zombie! Ghost who can barely hold it together (literally) as you rock yourself on his cock, whimpering and gasping as he fills every ounce of space your body can give him.

Zombie! Ghost who can see that this is the turning point for your relationship — that the two of you have entered something you wouldn’t be able to explain to others even if you wanted to. If there was anyone left to explain it to.

Zombie! Ghost who, the longer and harder you rock against him, lifting yourself and dropping again back onto him, feels himself start to come undone, starts to feel the all-too human tremours and electricity — the tell-tale signs of a release.

Zombie! Ghost who, when he sees you try to pull away, try to stop him from splattering your insides with his seed, tightens his grip on your waist, keeping you flush against him.

Zombie! Ghost who, despite his lethargy, bucks up into you. Despite your protests, your begging for him to “Pull out — please!” knows it’s far too late as his eyes squeeze shut and his body spasms.

You’re filled with a wet coldness that can’t possibly be mistaken for anything else. And what’s more, there’s tons of it. You’re sure the sheer amount of semen Ghost is pumping you full of is going to leave your stomach swollen for days to come.

Zombie! Ghost who bounces you on his dick until he feels you cum, hears you cry out, sees you go limp, his hands keeping you upright.

Zombie! Ghost who, in the panting, sweating, sweltering aftermath, lays you beside him, his cock still deep inside you, a parasite in its own right as it sought and fed from your warmth.

Zombie! Ghost who brings an arm around you, pulling your back to his front, his face in your hair.

Zombie! Ghost who, tiring now, wonders if you’d have been together like this when he was a human, when he was alive.

Zombie! Ghost who wonders how he’s managed to live without you in the first place. Who knows now he’ll do anything to make sure that never happens.

Zombie! Ghost who can feel that you’ve fallen into a deep slumber, your breathing steady.

Zombie! Ghost who wonders how much of his strength, his load, you can take — where and when you’ll get yourself off on him next.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[dmitriene]

zombie simon ghost riley, it's not the rotten flesh, the unintelligible words he gurgles, the milky gaze of his lost eyes, it's more the way he clings to you, the way his dislocated jaw hangs down with raspy, loud sounds he doesn't holds down, how your fingers look, spanned around the width of his girthy, engorged cock, decorated with angry, black veins that seem to pulse in response to your touch.

how protective he is, lurking behind your back, growling, snapping, reacting to any sound around in case he'll need to protect you, your guard, pressing his hanging jaw over your shoulder, telling you something with his rasping sounds under your ear, looking at you almost puppy like, at lough you no longer can see the umber color of his eyes.

still, he's attractive to you, your precious simon, pressing closer to you needily when your lips brush over his masked forehead, he can't take it off, not with bits of his rotting skin already sticking to the fabric, far away from hurting him by now, but it's wouldn't be a pretty sight to look at, even with your gentle, hushed words about how he's still your pretty boy, and you never would push him away, his chest rumbling with broken, animalistic purr.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ zombie apocalypse simon 'ghost' riley - 02

cw : gore details, sexual theme

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcollection - prev ⋆ next

it had been a rough winter. the heavy snow and the amount of dead in the cities had forced you and simon to retire into a small cottage you had stumbled onto. you had stayed there for the entire winter. it was safer this way, that's what simon had said.

it was almost absurd how domestic your life had been back in this cabin. simon would go out to hunt, raid anything he could find, and bring it home to be fixed or used. you knew he was still searching for the one thing he truly needed: a radio. but it seemed harder and harder to find. you'd stay at home, read, cook—but simon wouldn't let you go out with him. you had begged and cried. what if something happened to him?

he had reassured you—he'd survived years in the SAS, fought terrorism, and prevented a nuclear apocalypse; it wasn't some undead that were going to kill him. and he had been right. every time he went out, he came back full of resources.

"get more done knowin' you're safe, ain't i?" he grumbled when you marveled at his findings.

at night, you'd cuddle up on the mattress simon had brought in front of the fireplace. you didn't know what it was, but simon had opened up to you. he told you a bit about his old life, his past job in the sas, then the task force, and he spoke a lot about his teammates. you could tell he missed them, but you could never truly understand the bond that tied them together.

the biggest change had been the fact that he had let go of his balaclava. he had shown you his face. and truly, you had never seen anyone that beautiful before. sure, he had scars, and his features were hard, after years of fighting, but god, he was handsome. and you had told him. he hadn't believed you. so you showed him.

that night had been magical, truly one of the best in your life. that night, it had been the first time simon didn’t fuck you. he made love to you. even though the words hadn’t been exchanged between you, you both had felt it.

it had been heartbreaking when spring came, forcing you away from your little heaven. you knew simon was on a mission, but you had hoped maybe you'd become important enough for him to decide to stay. when you'd ask why you couldn't stay here, he had been very blunt with you. now, he needed to go further and further away to find anything, putting you and himself in danger. he had added: "you also know i’m lookin' for people, don’t ya?" as if to remind you what you had accepted when he offered you'd stay with him.

so, you left the cabin.

and now you were getting closer to bristol, because for some reason, simon had a gut feeling about this city. it made you anxious, it was a big city, and big cities meant a lot of people… of dead people. even though over the year you’d spent together, simon had taught you self-defense and how to shoot a gun, you were still very wary about killing people. "they're already dead, luv. just doin' 'em a favor," he had told you, but it didn’t change the fact that they had once been people. so you let simon do all the killing, and he didn’t mind.

he was a good dog, defending what was his. he had been trained for that.

simon had found a cute little house to stay the night. his head was on your naked chest, snoring softly, but you couldn't sleep. tomorrow you'd be in bristol, and you had a terrible feeling about it. you couldn't shake it off; it stuck to you. as if he had a sixth sense, simon moved, pulling you onto his chest. the way he manhandled you awakened something in you. when he asked what was wrong, you just told him you couldn't sleep.

"know a way to knock you out, luv. wanna give it a go?"and as his hips connected with yours, his usual praises and grunts turned into something more. "i fucking love ya, not lettin’ anything happen to ya." and that triggered your own pleasure. you fell asleep before you could say it back.

you had been right. bristol was a mess. and as you pulled an injured simon with you toward the back of the shop where you were currently, you hoped none of the dead would reach you before. simon was heavy, limping, and on the verge of consciousness. you guessed you had the dead to thank for his life.

you had stumbled into a group of men. one look at them and you knew they were trouble. they looked at you as if you were the first woman they’d seen in months, and you probably were. they offered simon food and munitions in exchange for, well, you. you couldn’t even fathom what they wanted to do to you.

if it had been any other man, they would have given you away in fear of conflict. but not simon. he fired the first shot. you had never seen him in action, he was a killing machine. but he was outnumbered, and when the bullets ran dry, the remaining men jumped him. one stabbed his thigh, while another threw punches at his face. one of them was restraining you, as you screamed at them to stop, telling them you'd leave with them.

you had been saved by the dead. the guns had made a lot of noise, surely alerting all the living and dead things from kilometers around. luckily, they had attacked the vile men first, as if they knew. you didn’t wait around to see; you picked up simon and ran. you had never been to bristol, you didn’t know the city. you spotted what looked like a butcher shop, and your brain pictured the cold storage room, so you ran there.

now you had simon's head on your lap, begging him not to fall asleep as you rummaged through your bags for a medical kit. looking down, you saw no reaction from him. outside, you heard noises—it sounded alive. if the men had escaped and found you, they would kill you. you knew it. more tears slid down your cheeks as you reached for simon's knife—a poor defense if they had guns.

the footsteps were getting closer, your breathing growing heavier.

as the door opened, you were met with two new men. you relaxed a bit, but then it hit you—they could be from the same group. you hadn't seen all of them.

"drop the knife, now, yae!" the first man said—a scot. the second man beside him was eyeing simon. you could see the skepticism in their eyes. were they thinking it was a trap?

raising your hands slowly, you let the knife go, letting it slide a few meters away from where you were on the floor. they hadn't killed you on sight—maybe that was a good thing, right?

"dead or bitten?" the scot asked again, nodding at simon. you whispered that it was neither—he was stabbed. they didn’t lower their guns, and they still hadn’t stopped eyeing you suspiciously. you were not above begging for your life, but just as you were about to, another man stepped into the room.

he was older, a weird beard adorning his face. now that you thought about it, this trio felt familiar—a handsome man, a scot, and an old bearded man. no, they couldn’t be?

"simon?" the old man asked, his eyes landing on the man in your lap. both men beside him looked back at you, surprised.

fuck. you hadn’t been the one to find them—they’d found you.

[siriusleee]

beating, twice

↳ 3.8k words

↳ simon has a new heart

↳ author's note: this has been sitting in my google docs since december of last year. so i'm posting it now because i've become stuck and can't figure anything else out with it

The mountains had never appealed to Simon; he preferred the asphalt jungle of London; the glittering beetle eye concrete of New York City. Easier to disappear into, the pulsating feel of the crowds giving him a sense of anonymity. But at discharge, the doctor's told him to take it easy - to enjoy retirement. 

"You're not exactly a young man anymore Mr. Riley," the military doctor said, a silver wedding ring glittering on the back of her clipboard. "You're being medically discharged - you need a plan to keep yourself healthy."

A new identity. A retirement account. A generous do-over to a life filled with one time only regrets. His heart had been grafted over with a piece from a soldier who died in the same blast that nearly killed Simon. He'd told the doctor when he woke up that he could feel it squeezing his heart, but the doctor told Simon that it was just psychosomatic - he knew there was a new piece to his heart and so he felt it. 

It took a year of rehab before they finally got tired of him, and another six of bureaucratic hell before the paperwork was finally processed. 

The relocation specialists asked him where he wanted to live - Simon didn't know what to say. He'd been all over the world, and yet the name of a singular town couldn't crawl towards his lips. 

"You can just point at the map," the specialists had said, fingers twirling a pen. "Some guys do that." So that's what he did - the clock ticking in his ears growing louder and louder as he stood, stupidly, staring at the map on the wall. He tried to count the seconds. How many had passed? Two minutes? Three? His eyes scanned the map, looking for places that he hadn't been to before, places that didn't leave a bad taste in his mouth. 

And then he spotted it - a little dot on the map nestled in the Black Hills. No where he'd even been before, or nowhere he had a memory of. But that graft on his heart squeezed when he saw the name, and before he could think, he was tapping the map with his fingernail. 

"Alright - I'll have you a place in a week."

The compulsion to walk starts the moment the last box is moved in; the pile of boxes pathetically small in the little house the military bought for him. Or maybe it was once a safe house - Simon didn't know and he didn't care. The walls are faded and the porch sagging, but it's a fresh coat of paint on the water stains that have plagued him. Simon can sense the neighbors peering out at him from behind their curtains; they twitch back into place when Simon steps out onto the porch, the wood moaning beneath the weight of his boots. The sky threatens to spit snow onto him; the first snowfall of the year comin' soon the movers had quipped to him. Simon hadn't replied, just grunted as he passed over the two hundred dollars he owed for moving everything in.

The air bites at his exposed face. When was the last time he was exposed like this? When was the last time he was allowed to show his face like this? Something like self-consciousness presses against him, making it hard to breathe until he tugs his hood over his head and he can breathe again.

The grass crunches beneath his feet, curled brown to protect itself from the oncoming storm. He doesn't look at where he's going, just lets his feet take him where they want to go as the sun slips beneath the treetops. The town falls to sleep around him as his boots carve patterns into the concrete. 

The music stops him short. It's entirely out of place on the starlit street - the notes tripping over one another to spill out onto the asphalt with a gentleness that rolls through the darkness. It makes him sick to his stomach with something he can't place, some feeling on the edge of his tongue that he hasn't felt since Johnny's funeral, since he heard gunshots and saw the way Price's hand shook as he shook the hand of Johnny's mother. The absence of something he refuses to name. He's sure he's never heard it before, but it pulls him back to sand beneath his boots and to the hum of Blackhawks above him.

The street is devoid of life; light spills out of the windows and onto the streets, little jewels that hang onto the rough and cracked concrete of the sidewalk. The music is faint- a radio turned down so a conversation can be heard. The entire street is frozen with him, the little flurries that were attempting to collect on the street cracks hang heavy in the air, breathing with him. 

Simon doesn't know how long he stands there, hands in the pocket of his jacket and letting the music wash over him. But it stops eventually, and the entire street lets go of the breath it's been holding; the flurries start to fall again, faster to make up for their pause with Simon. 

It suddenly occurs to him that he must look like a fucking freak, standing there on the sidewalk, David beneath Michelangelo's hands. It takes every bit of strength in his body to keep his boots moving, moving away from the last notes that linger and swirl around him.

He walks all night, finally falling into the bed with no sheets when the sun starts to peak back out.

He gets a job as a mechanic. His references - names all made up and cell phone numbers that lead forgotten CIA workers whose only job is to answer and read a script- give him the best recommendations, and the old man running the garage doesn't really need Simon to know how to do anything other than change spark plugs and change the oil. The man looks Simon up and down, and Simon catches the POW-MIA embroidered on the man's hat, and that's that. There's something that passes between the two of them that neither of them speak about, but they recognize it in each other's eyes. He starts the next Monday. 

He doesn't need the money. Between all the years of hazard pay that wasn't eaten away at by daycare fees or wedding bands, he has a small fortune to practice spending, but he needs the distraction from the walls that should be holding up his military honors, but instead hold blank emptiness. He hasn't been able to unpack anything. He just digs through each box when he needs something, slicing his hands against the knives and sharpened memories. 

He walks his path ad nauseum. Each night there's a new symphony that washes over the little town. He tried, more than once, to not be a fucking creep and stand in the middle of the street listening for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. But even across town he could still hear the music creeping its way through the buildings and beneath the cars. 

It stalked him beneath the street lamps until he was pulled back towards the street, trying to figure out which house the sound was coming from. 

The snow is thick on the ground, being pounded flat each night by his boots by the time he discovers which house it's coming from. The curtains are pulled back, light spilling further out onto the street than usual. The window is pushed open and the music doesn't pour out, but rushes over itself angrily. He finds himself drifting towards the open window - the music is a siren song to him. He knows it. He knows.

He knows this song. He doesn't know how he knows it, he just knows that it pulls on his grafted heart in a way that's painful.

She plays with the kind of look a person has after years of practice. Simon recognizes it as the same one he has when he cleans his gun - the look you have when you don't need to fully pay attention to what you're doing because your body knows it by memory. The song ends abruptly - the last note wrong. It stops Simon in his tracks - 15 yards from her window. He suddenly panics, thinking she's going to look at and see him standing there. She must have stopped playing because she finally caught the stalker who's been standing on her street each night. 

But she doesn't.

Instead she stands, and reaches across to slam the window shut. The house shutters from her anger, and she pulls the curtains closed. A moment later the sliver of light that was left is extinguished and Simon knows then, he needs to move. 

He's getting too comfortable. He spends too many nights outside her house listening to her play - too many nights getting closer to the window until he's found that he can stand right on the sidewalk and see her through her curtain when it's closed. 

He learns the pattern of each song by heart until one night when he passes by and the street is silent. There's no light in her windows - he immediately thinks the worst. The gun at his waist feels a thousand pounds; he reaches back to grab it as he walks up her steps.

The front door is cracked open, and his heart jumps to his throat.

Each room is empty - nothing seemingly misplaced. When he clears the final room, his shoulders sag, his gun finds its place back in its holster. He suddenly feels like creep being alone in her house.

Her.

He doesn't even know her name, and he's standing in her living room. A decrepit calico cat meows angrily when he walks by the couch, and then bounds out from its hiding spot beneath the couch to rub against his leg - completely unafraid of Simon. 

The place is empty - almost depressingly so. It mirrors his own house, no relics of family or friends. The only thing that looks used regularly is the piano. He runs his hands across the top, and it spooks him. 

He leaves, making sure the cat is left sleeping on the couch and the front door is shut tight. 

He finally figures out her name when he sees her standing in her driveway, kicking the shit out of the passenger side of her car. 

Hands tucked tightly in his pocket, he stops a respectable distance away before speaking. 

"Car trouble?"

She jumps, swinging around to face him. Her face is closed, guarded from him as she takes in his face and he wishes he had his mask back - wishes it wasn't strange to wear a mask out in the civilian word, wishes -

"Yeah it won't start; the piece of shit."

Simon keeps his spot on the sidewalk as he speaks, worried that if he moves towards her, she'll move away. 

"I work at the shop in town if you want me to give it a look."

She's shrewd; she looks at him like she's waiting on him to say something else, and he knows she's used to men hitting on her. But he can also tell she's desperate, and he can see the argument inside herself as she debates letting him look at her car. 

"I'd like that."

Her starter is completely fried, and he tells her that. She kicks the tire, but this time all the fight is removed from it, and it's a pathetic kick. 

"Thank you for telling me," she says as if the words are bitter on her tongue. 

"I can fix it for you this weekend if you want."

"I can't afford it. And I'm not sleeping with you to pay for it."

Simon snorts in spite of himself. 

"I'll get a recycled part - don't worry about it."

The argument inside herself is written all over her face, and even when she reaches out to shake his grease stained hand and tells him her name, the fight is still written across the wrinkles in her face. 

It's still there when she hands her phone to him, tells him to put his number in and to text her when he's on his way back over. 

"I can't afford this, you know."

Simon can barely hear her as she speaks over the engine, her words crawling between the houses and housing of the innards of her car to reach straight up to him. 

"You can pay me later."

"I just told you I can't afford this."

Simon's mind lingers on the emptiness of her house that he'd seen the week before - he knew better than he wanted to how little she had at the moment. But he can't let her know that, can't let her know that he's traced the inside of her house while she was gone.

When he's satisfied with the noise of the engine, he slams the hood shut. She's leaning against the driver door, her breath fogging around her - it crosses Simon's mind that he could corner her right here, tell her what repayment he wants. but he's not a fucking freak.

He's not. 

So instead he wipes the grease and dirt from his hands onto his jeans where it mixes with the grease and dirt from work and mirrors her lean. 

"Cook me dinner?"

The hint of a smile starts to creep on her face, but she bites it back. She picks at an invisible piece of lint on the sleeve of her sweater before she answers. 

"You want me to cook dinner for you? How do you know I can cook?"

"I'll take my chances."

She chews on her chapped lips before sighing, boots kicking at her tire. 

"Come by tonight, alright."

He doesn't own anything fucking nice. He's pushed all his clothes around - in the back corner his dress blues hang sadly, and everything else has a grease stain on it. 

"This is ridiculous," he growls to himself, annoyed with everything all of a sudden. He reaches into his back pocket to his phone. He's just going to fucking cancel. This is fucking stupid. This is-

She's sent a picture. He doesn't know what he's going to see when he unlocks his phone, but a little piece of him has some hopes. It's a chicken in the oven, surrounded by oranges like something out of a magazine his mother would have flipped through in the grocery line. 

Hope this is enough to repay you :)

"Fuck," he says to his pants that hang limply, and they say nothing back to him. 

He chooses the jeans with the least amount of stains. 

She's wearing a skirt with a slit dangerously high when she opens the door. 

You shouldn't wear that around the wrong men, he wants to tell her, but he is the wrong man, and he knows that, but she doesn't. He doesn't want to be the first person to tell her that about him.

His repaired heart knows the curves of her - somehow he knows that if he were to run his hand up the part of her thigh the slit is showing, there's going to be a scar there, he knows - 

"Are you alright?"

"'Course. The smell stopped me."

"That bad, huh?"

"Terrible."

She wears a hint of a smile as she steps to the side to let him in; he catches a whiff of her perfume, vanilla and tobacco and whiskey, and he's got the sudden urge to lick the base of her neck. He holds himself back, hands held behind his back as he follows her through the living room, past the piano, and into the kitchen. 

The scruffy cat comes out of the shadows to intertwine around his ankles like they're old friends. A pot boils on the stove and the chicken is on the side, steam pouring off the golden skin. 

It scares Simon how at ease he feels in her kitchen, how the kitchen table's chair is so comfortable to him. She's tense - he can read it in the tightness of her shoulders, in the way she taps her nails against the counter. 

Simon's heart beats too fast watching her flash around the kitchen and nearly jumps out of him when she places a plate in front of him. 

It feels familiar in a way that terrifies him. 

He's like a stray dog - she fed him once, and he keeps coming back. She only complains once. 

"I'm a teacher, you know. I don't make enough money to keep feeding a big man like you."

Simon buys her groceries after that, his own refrigerator growing empty as he spends more dinners at her house. He knows they both feel it - they both feel how fucking weird it is that they can orbit each other so easily despite knowing nothing about each other. 

He reads in the evenings. She doesn't have much, but she has more books than one person should, and she plays the piano and he pretends not to know the pieces. He pretends that he hasn't stood outside her house night after night committing each song to memory.

If she finds it suspicious that he hums along too fast, picks up the melody too fast, she doesn't mention it. 

"I was married once," she says, like it's a dirty secret. She taps her fingers against the glass of her beer, a sharp staccato that increases in speed like it's her heart. 

Simon doesn't say anything, just takes a drink of his own beer to quell the storm that's conjured in his chest. Married once? He doesn't know what he's supposed to feel, but it can't be this, can't be this anger that suddenly starts beating against the architecture of himself, the anger that unhooks something in his blood. 

"It wasn't very long," she continues, the rhythm of her ring getting faster, "We only were married for a year before we divorced."

Simon's beer hits the countertop with a little too much force.

"Why'd you divorce?" He doesn't mean for it to sound so eager, so fucking needy, but if she hears the edge to his voice she doesn't say. He needs to know what led to the destruction of her first marriage, so he doesn't make the same mistake with her. 

"We were kids, you know. We shouldn't have gotten married to begin with, but neither of us had anyone else. And there was no one there to tell us it was a bad idea."

"Where's he at now?"

"He's dead."

Her ring stops tapping.

"He died in a bomb blast almost two years ago. He was in the army, and he was deployed. There was nothing left of him for them to ship back to me. I didn't even know that he listed me as his family."

Simon's mouth is suddenly dry, and he feels like he's going to choke. She's still not looking at him, her eyes are still trained on the red neon sign behind the bar, so she misses the way he presses his hands into the bar to keep them from shaking. 

"I just thought I should tell you," she says, half turning in her chair to finally look at him.

The ground beneath him has shifted, he's off tilt and he doesn't know what to say. I might have his heart in my fucking chest and that's why I feel this way about you. 

"Can you take me home, please?"

There's a million things he wants to say, a million ways he wants to take that request. He swishes them around in his mouth with the last of his beer.

"'Course, love."

The two beers are nothing to him, but she's a different story. She stumbles on the ice in the parking lot, and steadies herself on his elbow. She doesn't let go until he opens the passenger door of his truck for her and he helps her climb in. Her foot bounces as he pulls out of the parking lot. It's a three minute drive back to her place, four for him to put the truck into park. 

He expects her to unbuckle, to climb out. But her hands don't inch towards the buckle. She seems to steel herself for what she's going to say next, and he's waiting on her to tell him that she noticed how weird he's been - she doesn't want him to come back. 

"Do you want to fuck?" She asks suddenly, and the abruptness of it takes Simon off guard. 

"What?"

"Do you want to fuck?"

Simon's hands grip the steering wheel so hard he's surprised it doesn't shatter beneath his grip. He waits just a moment too long, and she scoffs, unbuckles the seatbelt and has her hand in the door handle before he can react. 

He reaches across to grab the handle from her, keeping her from opening the door. She won't look him in the eye, instead pushing roughly on the door to try and shake it loose from his grip. 

"I didn't say no." The gentleness in his voice shocks him, but it's not enough to get her to look at him. 

"You didn't say yes either."

She breaks the door from his grip and slides out, her skirt hiking up high enough that he catches the edge of her curves.

His stolen heart beats, trying to escape his chest as she disappears inside - to get the fuck out from behind the steering wheel, to knock on her door and explain that his timing is bad, he doesn't know what to say and when he's supposed to say it. He tells himself he's going to leave when the light from her bedroom turns off - he just wants to make sure that she's safely asleep before he leaves. 

But the light doesn't go out.

His watch creeps past midnight before the front door opens again. The nightgown she has on makes his hands sweat - it peeks out below the heavy jacket she's thrown on top. She veers towards the passenger door and when she climbs in, Simon's hands start to shake at the amount of thigh that flashes him.

"Why don't you leave?"

"I wanted to make sure you were safely asleep."

"You saw me walk into my house."

"You never know."

And she doesn't ever know. She doesn't know what kind of horrors could be around each door. Simon wants to explain that to her - explain what he's seen to her, but he doesn't know how to do that. He doesn't even know how to broach the subject of the million things that he should be telling her. 

"Why didn't you want to have sex with me?" She asks in a small voice that Simon hates, and he hates himself for being the reason she sounds like that. 

"I didn't say I didn't want to."

"Then why didn't you say yes?"

"I don't want to just fuck you."

Her knee bounces nervously.

"Alright. We can do the other stuff."

He almost tells her, more than once, about the heart that beats in his chest. Once, when he had her folded over the piano, and again, when she tangled their legs together in her bed and the ancient cat was purring on his chest. 

He's too cowardly.

[kanescrochet]

with Simon it's never been big gestures or cute dates. You know he cares, he just shows it by making sure your favorite snacks never run out keeeping your favorite pop stocked in the fridge and warm just in case your teeth feel sensitive to cold at any point. Its the notes under a glass of water at your bedside table when you wake up and he had to leave before you got up. It's ibuprophen when you have cramps. He might not show his love the way you expected but he goes above and beyond in his own ways making you feel loved with all the little things that you never expected to make a difference if someone else did them for you

[lemonelyyy]

Reach (animated and colored)

An animated frame from the Z!Ghost comic I've been working on!

[rusticfurnace]

till death

do us part

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove (A Zombie!Ghost Story) Chapter Fifteen

Summary: Dragging his palm down her belly, he cupped her pussy through the soaked fabric of her knickers, looking straight into her eyes.

“Miiiinnnee,” he told her, and she shuddered, pupils dilating as she nodded rapidly. “Yours! Yours, it’s yours, Simon, I’m yours, just p-please, please, please—” she babbled, humping his hand, fingers clenched into the fabric of his shirt. She looked so fucking pretty like that, helpless and needy and his. “Please!” Word Count: 4559 Warnings: smut (oral, fingering, slight innocence kink, cockwarming, overstimulation, crying from pleasure, enthusiastic consent), mentions of past abuse, minor emotional hurt/comfort Notes: The moment you've all been waiting for... All dividers were made by @/sweetmelodygraphics (original post here). The zombie divider indicates the text below is Ghost's POV, the dove divider indicates Lelia's POV. The combined dove and zombie divider represents a time skip but not a POV change. I still have no beta for this fic so all SPAG and consistency errors are my own, feel free to point them out. I really want to know what y'all think of this chapter!

AO3 | Masterlist

The kiss was messy.

Her soft lips bumped against his tongue and the top row of his teeth, the bottom row digging into her chin. He drooled all over her, a hungry groan leaving him as he licked at the seam of her lips, begging for entrance. She parted them obediently, and his hands gripped her waist tightly as he licked into her mouth. It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. She was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. And he knew her cunt would be just as mouthwatering.

Instinctively, he rocked his hips up, seeking friction against his stubbornly soft cock. His dove gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders, the sweet, musky scent of her arousal thickening in the air. He growled, doing it again as he moved his mouth from her lips to her jaw, licking and scraping his teeth against her sensitive skin. She whimpered as he made his way down her neck, her body trembling on top of him.

“S-Simon,” she said breathily, clumsily grinding into his lap. One of his hands cupped her arse, guiding her movements, and she squeaked, pulling away a bit. Simon chased her, licking a fat stripe over her delicate collarbones and moaning. She shivered, whining softly, and he dared to go a little lower, dipping his tongue into the wide neck of her too large shirt to tease the swell of her small, perky tits. His dove moved her hips faster, and Simon slid his hand under her shirt and over her ribs to cup one of her breasts. She moaned as he thumbed her stiff nipple, pulling back to look down at him with wide eyes. He let her this time, taking the chance to admire her.

He could still taste Lelia on his tongue, sweet like the fucking food of the gods. Her lips, chin, and neck were shiny with his spit, and her cheeks were bright red. The neckline of her shirt gaped open, hanging off of one pale, bony shoulder, and he licked his teeth so he didn't lick her again. Part of her belly was exposed, and he drank in the sight of it, hips thrusting up involuntarily as he thought once again about fucking a baby into her.

His dove bit her lip, hesitating, before grabbing the hem of her shirt with shaking hands and slowly pulling it over her head. Simon sucked in a breath, eyes zeroing in on her cute little tits. Her nipples were small and pink, and he pinched the one beneath his thumb lightly, making her jolt. She was so fucking sensitive, it was driving him crazy.

“Will you— will you use your— your mouth, please?” She asked, shy as a mouse, and Simon groaned at how bloody innocent she sounded. He was a nasty dog for it, but it turned him on like nothing else.

She didn’t have to ask him twice—he eagerly started slobbering all over her tits, flicking her nipples with his tongue and dragging his teeth over them. Lelia moaned again, louder this time, and he used the hand on her arse to encourage her to start grinding on him once more. It pissed him off that he couldn’t give her nipples a proper suck, but the noises she made made it clear how much she was enjoying what he could do.

“S-Simon, Simon,” she gasped, and he was sure his name had never sounded so pretty. She slipped a hand between her legs to cup her clothed cunt, her knuckles brushing against his groin. He let out a choked noise when he could feel the slight bit of friction, the way he’d felt the softness of her skin earlier—the way he could still feel it, each and every wrinkle of her pebbled nipples. He knew sensation had been slowly returning to him, but hadn't quite realized how much, not until his dove offered him a veritable fucking feast of it.

“Please, Simon!” Lelia whined, tears in her eyes. For a second, he panicked, thinking he’d gone and cocked things up. That he'd gotten carried away, made her think he was just like all the other bastards who’d taken advantage of her, who’d hurt her. That he wouldn’t stop if she said no, that he’d take what he wanted even if she begged for mercy like she did to the men in her nightmares.

He released his hold on her, stuttered, apologetic grumbles falling from his broken mouth. But Lelia’s tears just spilled over, and she let go of her cunt to grab one of his hands and bring it to the waistband of her trousers. His fingers pressed against her belly as she tried to slip them beneath the fabric, and for a second, and he admired the bit of plushness it had regained since he met her, sinking his fingertips into it slightly. Every gram of fat she had was proof that he was taking good care of his precious dove.

“Please,” she begged again, voice high pitched and desperate. “Please! N-need you i-inside…”

A garbled fuck escaped him at her plea, and he planted both hands firmly on her arse before scooping her up, saliva pooling in his mouth at the way her perfect tits bounced with the movement.

He ignored Lelia’s whines of protest as she wrapped her legs around his waist and tried to subtly grind against his stomach, huffing a laugh. Carefully, he laid her down just in front of the fireplace, the soft rug cradling her body. He leaned over and dipped his tongue into her mouth, needing to taste her again, before straightening back up and slowly sliding her trousers down her legs. He groaned when he saw the knickers she was wearing—pure white cotton with pink, scalloped lace edges and a dainty little bow at the center. Christ, but he couldn’t wait to make her ruin them.

Once her trousers were completely off, Simon caged her in with his body, ducking his head to swirl his tongue around her nipple as he slotted his thigh between her own. He wanted to talk her through it—to tell her to grind down on his leg, to get herself off and make a mess of her pretty panties. But he couldn’t. All he could do was press his leg against her cunt and scrape his teeth over her nipple, trying to make her feel as good as he possibly could with his cock still refusing to get hard.

His dove whimpered as she writhed beneath him, trapping his thigh between her own as she moved her hips urgently, like she’d die if she stopped. He propped himself up with a hand by her head, the other making its way down her body. It was a slow, reverent journey as he stopped over and over again to appreciate every inch of her. He started at her face, caressing her cheek and brushing his fingers over her swollen lips, still slick with his spit. She kissed them as he did, glassy eyes trained on his, the gesture so sweet it made his teeth ache. He thought about pressing his cold fingers into her mouth, wanting to feel the wet heat wrapped around them, warming them up the way only she could. Make her suck on them and imagine it was cock, satisfy his darker desires by ruining her intoxicating innocence, just a little bit. 

Instead, he dragged his fingers down the pale column of her throat, lingering over her pulse point, before cupping her breast and kneading it in his strong hand. He squeezed the soft flesh firmly as he teased her nipple with his tongue and teeth, and the noises she made had him wondering if she could come from that alone. He was tempted to try and make her, but she let out a desperate sob as she pleaded with him once again to fill her cunt, and there was no way he could resist.

Dragging his palm down her belly, he cupped her pussy through the soaked fabric of her knickers, looking straight into her eyes.

“Miiiinnnee,” he told her, and she shuddered, pupils dilating as she nodded rapidly.

“Yours! Yours, it’s yours, Simon, I’m yours, just p-please, please, please—” she babbled, humping his hand, fingers clenched into the fabric of his shirt. She looked so fucking pretty like that, helpless and needy and his. “Please!”

With a growl, Simon shoved her panties aside and plunged two thick fingers into her soaking cunt, his thumb pressed against her clit. She cried out, and for a second, he thought he’d hurt her. He froze, but the desperate whine she let out spurred him on, and he pulled his fingers out only to push them back in again. Her dazed, teary eyes locked on his as he fingered her, starting slow and gentle but quickly growing rough as he lost control. She was so fucking tight and warm and wet, and he wanted so badly to bury his cock in her. But infuriatingly, it didn’t so much as twitch. Encouraged by her moans, he took out his frustration on her sweet little pussy, rubbing fast circles on her clit as he pistoned his fingers in and out of her.

The wet sounds finally drew him away from her tits, his head settling between her thighs as they trembled with pleasure. He fit his tongue inside her next his fingers, and his eyes rolled back in his head from the taste. He was immediately ravenous, ripping his fingers out of her and sitting back on his knees so he could grip her thighs in both hands and pry them apart. He ignored the surprised squeak of protest that his dove let out, yanking her closer to him so her arse lifted off the floor. And then, he devoured her.

There was no other word for the way he ate her out—he shoved his face as deep as he could into her cunt, uncaring of the way his broken jaw creaked ominously, and not needing to worry about breathing. He lapped at her slit with the flat of his tongue like a stray dog being given water for the first time in days. He fucked his tongue into her, seeking more of her delicious nectar, the teeth on his bottom jaw digging into the swell of her arse while his top teeth scraped over her clit. His dove was sobbing and moaning, eyes screwed shut and little tits jiggling with the force of her pleasure. He couldn’t even be surprised that she liked it rough—he was far too focused on consuming her perfect fucking pussy.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, or how many times he made Lelia come. All he knew was that when he came back to himself, his dove was fucked dumb from overstimulation, cunt red and puffy, clit still swollen and throbbing against his tongue, her juices filling his mouth and running down her belly, all the way down to the valley of her breasts. Her lips were parted and her pink tongue was sticking out just slightly. He half expected to find bite marks on her pretty pussy, and he was sure the only reason he didn’t was because of his broken jaw.

With one last lick to her clit that made her whole body jolt, he carefully lowered her hips back to the floor and began to clean her up with his tongue, unwilling to waste a drop. He then stood up to grab the thick quilt from the couch, making his dove whine brokenly. He shushed her as best he could before draping the quilt over her and laying down beside her, cuddling close. His gut twisted unpleasantly when he realized just how rough he’d gotten. She couldn’t even speak, for fuck’s sake. But tasting her pussy… it was even better than when he’d eaten that fucker with the machete. It was like he’d gone into a feeding frenzy, and he swallowed thickly when he thought about how out of control he’d been. If his jaw wasn’t broken, would he have eaten her in a more literal sense? He’d wanted to. No, the virus had wanted him to. To consume her whole, starting with the most intimate part of her.

He shuddered at the thought, disgusted with himself. Disgusted even more that the image his infection-laden brain conjured up turned him on.

He whispered a garbled apology, stroking his fingers through her hair and nuzzling his nose against her temple. Lelia curled into his chest, body pressed against his through the quilt. Tear tracks ran down her cheeks, and she trembled in his arms. All he could do was hold her tighter as guilt threatened to swallow him whole.

Lelia floated along happily on a river of bliss, the water warm and pleasant as it lapped at her skin. Everything else was far away, too far to reach. All that she could think of was the hum of pleasure coursing through her veins and fogging up her mind.

It took a long time to reach the shore once again, but when she did, she realized Simon was holding her. She smiled up at him shyly, still a tad dazed. He let out a grunt of concern, leaning his forehead against hers as he cupped her face.

“Simon,” she whispered, words a bit slow and slightly slurred. “That was… wow. I didn’t know it could feel like that…”

Her cheeks reddened, and she reached up to cradle his broken jaw, thumb slipping into his mouth to gently touch his tongue.

“No one has ever used their mouth on me like that,” she admitted in a small voice. “I thought… well, I thought only men could experience that…”

She bit her lip and pulled back a bit, hesitating before she continued.

“Do you… do you want me to do that for you?” She asked. “Is that why you didn’t use your…”

Lelia trailed off, looking away as her blush reached the tips of her ears. She was a little wary of sucking Simon’s cock—but he wouldn't be rough with her like Andrew and the soldiers had, would he? He’d been rough just now, but not in a way that hurt her, not really. Simon would never hurt her.

Simon turned her to face him again, shaking his head.

“Dddon’ woooorrkk,” he managed to get out, and her brows furrowed in confusion. A look that might have been embarrassment crossed his gaunt, pale face, and after a second, he took her hand and placed it over his groin, going slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted to. Though her heart began to race, she didn’t—but she let out a small noise when she found that his cock was completely soft. Simon shuddered, eyelashes fluttering nonetheless.

“Ddeead,” he continued, eyes trained on her hand. He tried to say something more, but she couldn’t understand, and he grunted before taking her hand in his own and moving it away, before repeating himself, refusing to meet her eyes. “Don’ wooorrkk.”

“Oh,” Lelia whispered, surprised. She never actually learned how cocks worked—just that they got bigger and harder right before they hurt her. She didn’t even know how lovemaking worked before she married Andrew… her wedding night had been a terrible way to learn.

She pushed away the memories crowding the edges of her mind, resting her head on his chest again, thinking.

“Does it still feel good, though?” She asked after a moment, her free hand creeping back over to his groin. He growled lowly, and she looked up at him to see him watching her through half lidded eyes. “When I touch you?”

Slowly, Simon nodded, and Lelia gave him a small smile.

“Then… I— I would like to suck your cock. Please?” she asked politely, shyly, cheeks flushed. Simon let out a groan, his hand on her back sliding down to squeeze her arse through the quilt. She squeaked, still mildly scandalized despite Simon having been nose-deep in her cunt a half hour ago.

Slowly, Simon sat up, shifting her so she sat in his lap. He cupped her face in his hands and looked deeply into her eyes, as if searching for a sign that she truly wanted to touch him, to make him feel as good as he had her.

“Please,” she whispered again, nuzzling her nose against his since she couldn’t kiss him properly—not sweetly, at least. She trusted Simon completely. He wouldn’t hurt her like Andrew and the soldiers had. He wouldn’t hold her down on his cock until she couldn’t breathe…

Simon sighed, deep and rumbling, and Lelia knew she had won. Her smile widened, and she crawled out of his lap and over to the couch, kneeling in front of it. Simon grunted, grabbing the discarded quilt and draping it over her shoulders once again. He grabbed a pillow off the couch as well, prompting her to lift her knees and then slipping it under them. Her heart swelled at his thoughtfulness, and the last of her nerves faded away, to be replaced by her earlier eagerness. If she couldn’t have Simon inside her cunt, perhaps having him in her mouth would soothe the aching emptiness.

Simon settled on the couch in front of her, legs spread wide. He was still completely dressed, and he stopped her when she reached for the hem of his shirt.

“Ugggllyyy,” he said quietly, and Lelia’s heart broke. She shook her head, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand.

“No,” she said firmly, staring into his sunken, cloudy eyes. “You’re not ugly, Simon. Not to me.”

The worried creases around his eyes softened slightly, but when she tried to lift his shirt again, his hands didn't budge. She sighed.

“I’ve seen you nearly naked before, Simon,” she pointed out. Her blush returned, and her eyes darted away from him as she continued, feeling shy. “I did just a few hours ago. And I would like to see it again.”

A growl reverberated through Simon’s chest, but his hands simply tightened around hers, then moved them away from his shirt, instead guiding them to his belt. She understood the unspoken command, and she shivered, core throbbing.

“Fine,” Lelia said, pouting a little bit as she slowly unbuckled his belt, and then undid his fly. She leaned forward, sneaking a kiss to the sliver of grey-tinged skin that was revealed. She let out a breathy noise when her lips brushed against a sparse trail of hair, and she looked up at Simon with half-lidded eyes. “You win. For now.”

Simon’s cloudy eyes narrowed at the implied challenge, his fingers winding into her hair and tugging slightly, just enough to pull her face away from his belly. A stuttered breath escaped her and her lashes fluttered at the slight, sharp pressure on her scalp. She should have been scared—a hand on her head, when she was in this position, was always followed by pain and fear—but she could never be scared of Simon. He was her protector. The only person who had ever cared for her, ever loved her. He would never hurt her. She knew that with her entire being.

He just stared at her for a long moment, holding her there. She didn’t fight him, letting him look his fill. It was strange—she had never enjoyed getting on her knees for Andrew or the soldiers, had found it humiliating, but kneeling in front of Simon was almost calming, in a way.

She didn’t pretend to understand it—but she did let herself enjoy it. She had never enjoyed lovemaking before, and though this wasn’t exactly that, it was still so very intimate. She wanted to savor every moment.

Eventually, Simon let go, his grip loosening as his fingers carded through her hair instead of holding it. She let out a soft, pleased noise, leaning into his touch as her hands slid up his thighs to grip the waist of his combat trousers and slowly pull them down. Simon lifted his hips a little so she could, stopping her once they reached mid-thigh. It seemed he was determined to keep himself as covered as possible. She was just glad he hadn’t put his mask back on. She never wanted him to cover his face again—it was a gift, getting to see it, one she would treasure for the rest of her life.

Lelia could see the outline of Simon’s soft cock in his briefs—it was large, despite not being even the slightest bit erect. She reached out and brushed her fingers against it, and Simon exhaled harshly. Her gaze flickered up to see him staring down at her hand, entire body tense. She rubbed his thigh soothingly with her other hand, and then gently squeezed his cock.

It didn’t throb or twitch under her hand like she was used to, but the growl Simon let out, low and throaty and hungry, told her he appreciated it nonetheless. She bit her lip to stifle a giggle, a little in awe that she could feel so relaxed while touching a man there. As much as she trusted Simon, and as much as she wanted this, a part of her still expected that she’d fall into a terrible memory the second she did.

Simon’s eyes darted to her face, and she blushed, knowing he’d heard her. She looked up at him through her lashes, and then began to tug his briefs down, gazing into his eyes the whole time. Only once they had joined his trousers did she look back down.

Lelia sucked in a breath, eyes widening. Simon’s cock was the same pale color as the rest of him, cast with a greyish pallor, but the veins on it were black. It was even bigger without fabric obstructing it, and thick. She was a little intimidated, thinking about how huge it would be when he was hard.

Simon grunted, concerned, his hand in her hair resuming its petting. She smiled at him and kissed his thigh, apologetic.

“I’m alright,” she reassured him, feeling bad she’d made him worry. “It’s just— it’s really big…”

Simon’s mouth couldn’t smirk, but she could see that he wanted to in the way his chest puffed up and his eyes crinkled at the corners just a tad. His hand moved to cup her chin, his thumb smoothing over her lips. She let her mouth fall open a little, her chest feeling warm when he hummed in approval. He gently guided her closer to his cock, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted to.

She didn’t want to.

As always, Simon smelled slightly of decay, like rotting leaves in autumn. He didn’t sweat, being dead, so there was no salty, musky scent like she was used to. It made her wonder what he had smelled like, before. She imagined it had been something strong and heady. Perhaps slightly earthy.

She wondered if she would be able to taste it, still.

She shivered at the thought, her face hovering a mere inch away from Simon’s cock. She realized after a moment that he was waiting for her to close the distance, and she felt tears sting her eyes at how careful he was being with her. He knew so very little about what she had been through, and still, he was so gentle.

She loved him. She loved him so much.

Leaning in, Lelia pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to the head of Simon’s cock, gazing deeply into his eyes. He moaned, pale lashes fluttering, and, encouraged, she began peppering kisses all the way down his length. She even dipped her head lower for a moment to kiss his bollocks, smiling at the near-whine that pulled from her zombie. Finally, she took the tip of his soft cock into her mouth, suckling lightly. It was cold, but she had expected that, and she let her tongue rove over the soft skin curiously as she slowly took more and more of him, until half his length was sitting heavy on her tongue. Her eyes found Simon’s once again when he let out a ragged sob, and she let out a worried noise, quickly pulling off of him. He keened, fingers tangling in her hair once again, and her heart jumped into her throat for a split second when she thought he would push her back down. But he didn’t, only applying enough pressure to let her know that he wanted her to continue.

“Pllllleeeeasssse,” he begged, a desperate look in his eyes that she had never seen before. “Wwaaarrrrmm…”

Lelia melted, heart aching, and kissed his cock once more before taking it back into her mouth. Simon’s shoulders shook as he touched her face reverently, mumbling praises she couldn’t understand. But the love in his eyes was evident, and it spurred her to take him deeper, ignoring the discomfort and slight fear she felt when his tip hit the back of her throat. The need to give Simon the comfort only her warmth could bring him was far more pressing.

She sucked softly on his cock as she warmed it with her mouth, slowly caressing the underside with her tongue. It was easier to take more of him since he wasn’t hard, but she had to be extra careful not to let him slip out. She held one of Simon’s hands in her own and hummed sweetly, trying to reassure him as he grew more and more emotional. He moaned loudly, and she would’ve smiled if she could. She was content to stay there for as long as he wanted her to, if it meant he would keep looking at her like that. Like she’d hung not just the moon, but the stars too.

And stay there she did, for nearly half an hour. When her neck grew sore, she just laid her cheek on his thigh, lips still wrapped around his cock, and gazed up at him with sleepy eyes. Simon was still running his fingers through her hair, and his other hand let go of hers and moved to cup her face, his thumb tracing the shape of her eyebrow over and over. It was relaxing, and she nearly drifted off right then and there.

Suddenly, a distant gunshot from outside startled them both, and she pulled off of Simon's cock with a wet pop and a little bit of drool sliding down her chin. She stared at the door with wide eyes, heart in her throat, but her zombie was already up and investigating.

“Simon,” she whispered, wrapping the quilt tighter around herself as she shakily got to her feet. “What was that?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he went straight to the hearth to put the fire out. Lelia watched with mounting fear, fear that grew larger with every second that passed in silence.

It was only when Simon grabbed her hand and began pulling her urgently towards the bedroom that she dared to break it.

“Simon,” she repeated, eyes wide. “I’m scared.”

Simon stopped in front of the bedroom door, then leaned down to press his forehead to hers, their noses brushing.

“I keeeepp youuu saaaafe,” he promised her in a low, serious voice. Her hand was trembling in his. “Alllwaaaayys.”

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-six —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex!!! SEX. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

You run back inside.

Discreet steps against the wood floor—the bathroom door quietly clicks shut behind you.

You lean your back against it. Eyes closed as your heart pumps between your ears. He left you. But he kissed you back—the sting in your split lip is proof. You move to the mirror. Blown-out pupils and a swollen mouth stares back at you. You touch them with your fingers in disbelief, then trace the faint marks on your jaw where he gripped you.

"You liked it."

A whisper of acceptance. 

You grip the counter, knuckles bone-white, and quickly work the fly of your jeans. One touch to your underwear confirms you are soaked—a thick pulse between your legs that matches the artery in your neck. Furiously, you work your fingers through the slippery folds, a thumb to your clit and two fingers blindly plunging in. The first orgasm in years hits you swiftly. A jolting, cathartic wave. You bite your tongue to stay silent, filling your mouth with a pearl of iron blood as images of a skull mask flash through your mind.

You struggle to breathe. 

In and out.

When the pleasure fades, you wipe your hand on your shirt, wriggle your jeans up, and zip them.

"Twix—" a quiet tap on the door. "Are you in there?"

You nearly jump as if you've been caught. 

You swipe your tongue over your bottom lip as if to erase the evidence.

When you carefully open the door, blue eyes peer at you through the dark.

"Are you okay?" she whispers. "What are you doing up?"

A tight coil in your stomach. You can't look at her. "I just was, um—I couldn't sleep."

"Did you have a bad dream?"

The lie comes easy. "Yeah."

"Me, too. I woke up and realized you weren't beside me."

"I'm... I'm sorry. I'm coming back now." An exhale filters through your nose along with a wave of sheer exhaustion. "We really need to get some sleep."

You settle back in the sleeping bag. You touch your torn lip once more—it's like you can still feel him there—then curl onto your side. Sleep steals you, but it's thin and short-lived, fragmented by restlessness. Before the break of dawn, when it's still dark, Nereida rouses you and Blue with a tap to your shoulders. Ghost must've switched watch with Price at some point because he is inside the cottage, just waking up himself.

You try not look at him, but fail to catch yourself when you roughly roll up the sleeping bag. He looks the same, unchanged. You don’t know why you thought he might look different after what happened. When his eyes lift to meet yours, you quickly tear your gaze away.

Everyone eats a small breakfast—just enough for fuel but not enough to risk sickness from exertion. You shove everything from the night before into your box and readjust your focus.

Ghost and Kyle unload the truck, piling supplies into the raft while Price gives instructions. "If we keep rowing southeast, we'll eventually reach land," he explains. "The wind shifted directions overnight, now moving south. It should help keep the needle steady, as long as it doesn't change course again."

With the raft fully inflated, they carry it to the shoreline. The first light of dawn paints the horizon, a sliver of orange sun dancing over the water. The tide is gentler than last night, its waves foaming quietly over the sand. "Ghost and Kyle will swim first," Price continues, "but we all need to be ready to switch when they get tired."

You glance at the others as you start unlacing your boots, shoving your socks inside. Clothes will hinder your movement and offer no insulation against the water. Nereida stands beside you, undressing and handing you a sports bra.

"Wear this. It's basically a swimsuit," she says.

"Thanks."

It is much less tattered than the simple bra you own. You turn your back and let her cover you as you snap it on. It should feel embarrassing exposing this much skin—stripped down to your underwear and bra—but you imagine it as a bikini. The fact that all of you are just trying to get across alive helps.

But when you turn back around, the thought of survival is staggered by the sight of the last person you want to look at. He is pinching the collar of his plain black tee, lifting it over his head and revealing a bare, scarred torso. The skull mask is gone, but his features are unmistakable. Hard jaw. Strong nose. Thick brows. Your stomach tightens. His face is—

"Good to go, Simon?"

He nods firmly to Price, clad only in black briefs that hug his corded thighs. Bending to undo his combat boots, his eyes meet yours briefly. He left you. Your nails dig into your palms as you look away, following Nereida to the raft. Price has positioned it half in the water, half on the sand, where Blue and Ari are already settled. There are two oars. He hands one to you, keeping the other along with the compass.

Kyle has stripped, as well. 

He dips his fingers in the water, gauging the temperature. 

You wade in the ankle-high tide to get inside. It's lukewarm at the surface, and a bit colder at the soles of your bare feet.

Ghost scoops a handful and splashes it over his face, hair, and chest.

"Fucking kill me," you whisper under your breath. Nereida looks at you.

"You're okay?"

"Huh? Yeah." 

"Let me know if you get tired of rowing."

"Will do."

The sea used to be a place you visited during holidays with your family, diving into the waves with your sister. Now—you stare at the sunrise on the horizon and hope that by the end of day it will materialize into France. Ghost and Kyle push the raft fully into the water until it becomes too deep for them to stand, then you start rowing, with strong strokes that make you breathe hard through your nose. 

"Keep an eye on them for any signs that they need to get out," Price orders Blue, Nereida, and Ari. "Throw out the rope if they get far behind."

You glance back at them as your biceps flex. Your eyes land on a strong, tattooed back. He hates swimming, you know. But his body weaves through the water with strong strokes of his arms that keep him aligned with the back corner of the raft. 

You row for the first half-hour, your arm beginning to tremble wildly. Nereida takes over, rowing for another half-hour before Ghost and Kyle need a break. They cling to the raft's edge, struggling to keep pace. Getting back on the raft alone is impossible—it requires strength from someone aboard to pull you up, or the raft could tip over. Price hoists Kyle inside first, then leaps in. You grab a blanket, wrapping Kyle tightly to stave off his shivering. Minutes later, Kyle then helps Ghost aboard at the same time you swing your legs over the edge. Your turn. 

Salty water envelops you.

It threatens to enter the seam of your mouth.

You grab the back of the raft to situate yourself, an immediate tremble moving through your limbs.

Despite the May warmth, the seawater remains frigid this far out, with land nowhere in sight.

"Listen to your body. Don’t wait—tell us the second you can’t go any longer."

It's Ghost barking at you from the raft. You absorb his words and start swimming, moving each leg and arm in opposition. You crane your neck against the broken water to gulp in regular breaths of air. Already sore from rowing, it is not long before your pace slows down. You take a break, blindly snatching onto the edge, before continuing. Not even an hour later, you are sputtering, numb all over, and feel lightheaded. You call out over the water that you fight to not swallow.

"I can't—I need out!"

"Pull her in!"

You reach for the raft again, but a rolling wave fights against your arm. Your head dips lower, legs flailing to stay afloat. When your face breaks the surface again, the sting of salt sharp in your eyes, the gap between you and the raft has widened. The rope is thrown, but you dip under again, unable to reach it. Your lungs burn, a mouthful of water flooding in.

Panic seizes your muscles. 

A splash—

A body collides with your own, an arm beneath your breasts.

They paddle with the other arm, pulling you to the halted raft.

"Grab her!" Ghost shouts.

A gulp of air widens your lungs as someone else grabs you beneath the arms and lifts you up. A towel is wrapped around your trembling body as you curl up on the raft, conserving every bit of warmth you can, trying to catch your breath. Kyle puts another layer over you, rubbing your arms.

"You need water."

You nod, breath ragged, as the rim of a metal canteen presses to your lips. You take a slow sip, cautious, fearing your stomach might rebel.

For the next hour, you’re left to recover. Weak, but with each sip of water that Blue helps you with, your mind clears. The others rotate shifts and Ari and Blue help row. You all eat a little to replenish energy. Nereida swims for almost as long as you did, until she calls for a break. The sun beats overhead. You can't tell how long it has been, but you overhear Price estimate you can't be more than 10 kilometers out from reaching land.

Ghost and Kyle have held up in the water for far longer than you did, but when Kyle switches with Price, you grow nervous watching even Ghost begin to start losing ground beside the raft. A glimpse of his face against the water reveals paled skin and lips. 

You shrug off the blanket and grab Kyle's arm at the oar. "He needs another break. Help him up. We'll switch."

He hesitates. "You shouldn't go back in yet, Twix."

"I'm fine now, I can—"

"I'll go again." Nereida lets go of the other oar. "Take over here, Twix."

Nereida is in the water before Kyle helps Ghost in. There is a shiver over his shoulders that you try to silence with the blanket you were using, draping it over him and rubbing it into his damp skin furiously. Your eyes catch, but not a word is exchanged before he takes hold of the blanket from you, keeping it on like a cloak. You get him the canteen and then are back to rowing with the bit of strength you regained.

You borrow the compass from Kyle to double-check the needle is still where it needs to be. Southeast. The wind has died down some, and the current is steady. Price needs to rotate with Kyle a few kilometers later. Ghost is on the other oar now. Arms burning, you get a break at the back of the raft. Then the wind begins to change. The waves jostle higher towards the west. Ghost and Price have to push hard to keep the raft moving against the shifting waters.

You keep watch on Nereida and Kyle. Suddenly, her hand slaps for the edge of the raft. Her eyes roll back. 

"Shit, shit, shit."

You reach for her just as she starts vomiting in the water. 

You flex your core to muster the strength to lift her, but her eyes shutter and she becomes dead weight in your arms. 

"Someone help me! She's passed out!"

Price is there in an instant.

"Nereida!"

He pulls her body in without considering the weight limit. The raft threatens to lower and let in water before Ghost quickly jumps out. You help Price wrap her in a blanket as he presses two fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse. 

"It's slow," he grits.

Her lips are violet. You touch her cheek. It feels icy. "Her body is struggling to keep warm. It could be hypothermia. Take off her wet clothes—"

More watery bile expels from her mouth and he is quick to turn her so she can't choke. 

He continues holding her, rubbing her arms to ignite warmth. He strips off her wet underwear and bra and keeps her tightly swaddled in two blankets. Her lashes flutter, but she fails to fully regain consciousness, muttering slurred speech when he tries to talk to her.

You look up at the sun lowering toward the horizon. 

The unmanned raft has begun to float with the current.

"We have to keep moving," you say to yourself. You grab for the oar. "Ari, get the other one." 

He follows your command. Gritting his teeth to use all his strength.

The two of you row as Price keeps her up in his arms. 

"Come on, duchess. Warm up for me."

Firm kisses to her wet scalp. 

Only when she is able to keep her eyes open and hold the blanket for herself does he take the oar from Ari. "Keep checking her pulse," he orders the boy. "And talking to her."

Nereida is beyond weakened; she can't help anymore. You've been out on the water for at least seven or eight hours now—the sun is beginning to lower when you have to swim a second time. Ghost is in the water with you. When you begin to struggle again, holding onto the raft with jagged breathing, he swims up.

"Do you need to stop?"

"No, I've got it."

"Don't fucking lie—"

"We see land!" Kyle calls from the raft. 

That encourages you. You swallow more air and keep going, pushing harder.

Your entire body turns numb.

When a cold, rocky floor touches your feet, you almost cry.

Cold snot bubbles from your nose.

You hold onto the raft and wade through the water the rest of the way, Ghost wrapping an arm around your waist to keep your wobbly legs upright. The coast materializes as rocky cliffs and sand. You land on it, hands and knees, stomach finally hurling. You retch a few times before Ghost grabs you by the armpits and drags you. 

Price carries a wrapped-up Nereida out of the raft. "We need a fire. The temperature will drop soon."

Kyle heaves the raft all the way onto the sand, Ari helping. "Somewhere the smoke can't be seen."

"We don't have the time to search tonight. She can't walk right now. We all need rest and warmth."

The risk of a fire is forgone. You travel only a bit further, to the grassy cliffside, before collapsing. Ari and Blue collect softball-sized rocks from the beach and create a small pit as the rest of you wrap up in blankets and sleeping bags, drinking water and eating. Price forces Nereida to lift her head from his lap and take small bites of canned beans. You feel starved, but force yourself not to swallow too fast at risk of throwing it back up.

You are still shivering by the time the flames catch. The heat almost makes you moan. Even Ghost sticks his hands in front of it, the skin slowly regaining color. 

"You guys sleep, and we'll keep watch. We can wake you the moment we see something," Ari says once the sun sets. It is a struggle to keep your eyes open. 

Ghost seems ready to argue—

"You need to rest, Dad," Blue says softly. She presses her forehead to his shoulder and adjusts the blanket on him.

"The moment you see something," he says.

She nods. "We will."

B

Blue lays the pistol beside her. She pokes at the fire, trying to keep the crackling embers aglow. All of the adults are asleep. They still need warmth, that much she knows.

On the raft, the helplessness settled deep in her bones—the kind that came with being told to stay still, to do nothing but watch. The others were out there, risking everything, while she remained frozen, powerless. Ghost, the one person she’d always believed could handle anything, even he had struggled. She’d never seen him falter, never seen him wear down. But now, the weight of it begins to sink in—the world is bigger than before. Even Ghost won't be able to fight off everything that lurks in the dark.

"We'll need more firewood," Ari says, breaking her thoughts, his grip tight on the rifle.

She rests the poker by the gun and rises. "I'll get it. You keep watching."

There aren't any trees nearby, at least none she can see in the dark. She remembers the dry driftwood at the bottom of the cliff. Carefully, she skirts down, gathers as much as she can carry, and climbs back up. The fire breathes bigger as she places the wood in the stone circle, flames reaching like outstretched hands in the dark. 

She stares at the fire with her arms circled around her knees. The adults have all the sleeping bags. They need it more. Her jacket protects her from the sea breeze, but her cheeks are starting to grow numb. 

"Where are we again?" she asks.

Ari glances at her from the side. "France."

"France," she repeats, clenching her hands. Far away from her old home, he means. She looks up at the stretch of black water. There's no going back.

Her voice is meek. "What do you think it'll be like? The place we're going to."

Ari breaks a stick in half and adds it to the fire. Embers spit out, one landing on her jeans. "Better than this shit."

A sigh blows a piece of hair from her face. "Really, though."

"I dunno. There will be a lot more people. No Greys. There will be kids our age and maybe a football field. Some good food, not just stuff in cans. We might have to go to school, though."

"I don't think I want to go to a school."

He laughs softly. "Same."

She tries to imagine it, but she can't. The world from before feels too far away, like a dream. The glimpses of memories often blur with her imagination, filling in the blank spaces. She can remember a place her mother used to drop her off in the mornings, where there were other little kids. Toys, too. The blocks she used pull out onto the rug and be forced to share with others. Was that a school? 

A yawn threatens her lips, and she lazily blinks it away. She curls and uncurls her hands, trying to stay awake. Ari notices, lifting a brow. "Hey. We can't sleep."

"I know. I'm just... tired."

"Cold?"

"A little bit."

He unzips his jacket and leans over, draping it over her shoulders so they can share. A deep blush colors her cheeks as she glances back at her sleeping dad, then decides to snuggle into Ari's side. It offers her a small measure of comfort.

“Let’s play a game,” he suggests. "To kill the time."

"Okay. Would you rather get eaten by Greys or turn into one yourself?" she whispers.

"Is this your idea of a game?" He teases, before answering, "I guess get eaten, so at least it'll be over. Being a Grey means I've got to wander around for years like that."

"Unless someone shoots your brain."

"Right."

"Your turn."

"Would you rather kiss a boy or a girl?"

Her nose twists and she nudges his ribs. "Shut up. That's a dumb question."

"Well?"

She looks down at the dried sand on the toe of her boot. "I probably won't ever kiss anyone."

"You will someday."

"I think Ghost would kill them." Her tone leans serious. 

The boy beside her hums and whispers low in her ear. "He just couldn't know, then."

Her blush deepens and that feeling in her stomach rolls, mixing in with the fear she's tried her best to shut out since they left. When she looks up, warm lips give a quick peck to her cheek, and then pull away, the owner of them smirking when he sees her expression. 

"Just focus on keeping watch," she mumbles, but doesn't move even an inch as he continues to hold her close.

T

Sand is in your eyes. 

And your toes.

Every joint creaks when you awaken beside a French beach. The caws of seagulls makes your face twist. You slowly shift up, feeling heavy as if someone is laying on you. But that's just soreness. 

Kyle is the only other person up besides Ari. The boy is sitting by the cliff's edge, and Blue is curled under a jacket, asleep, beside him. When your eyes flick over to Ghost, his eyelids are still slack. In bright morning light, you can make out every scar and every hair on his jaw.

Kyle is warming canned soup over the fire. "Hungry?"

"Fucking starving."

By the time you scoop the first bite in your mouth, the others are waking up. Nereida is still tucked under a heavy blanket, curled against her husband. Bags painted heavily under eyes. Price takes a cigar out over breakfast. Apparently, he brought along two. VegaFina.

"Feels like as good a time as any to indulge," his timbre muses over the clanking of spoons and murmur of the sea. He inhales and offers it Kyle, then over to you. Fuck it. You gingerly accept, needing something to help ignore the ache in your bones and never-ending presence of Ghost.

"You should've enlisted, Twix. Could've done well."

The smoke burns your throat and you cough it out. "Respectfully, there were ten other things I would've rather done than that. Stripping being one of them." A silence follows your words and you look at their faces, handing the cigar back as you mumble, "That was a joke."

It’s isolated here, the kind of place where the world feels safer. The next three days pass in a blur of rest and planning. You also take your bow to kill a hedgehog you discover in a burrow, drying out the meat to keep with you. Getting here was just the first step—there’s still over 800 kilometers between you and the Swiss Alps. The first evening, Price and Ghost set out towards the nearest road. They read the signs, comparing them to the map until they confirm your location: near Sangatte. Along the way, they discover a culvert deeper inland—a better spot to hide the smoke from the fire. You move the camp.

Annoyingly, Ghost has put the mask back on, though it does help you to ignore him. 

"We should follow the road as much as we can, but stick to open spaces where there will be less Greys. We need to conserve ammo," Price mutters over the fire on the third night, studying the map. You steal a peek. The stretch of land you have to cross is intimidating; much bigger than England, and now you're without a truck. 

"Should be fun," you mutter under your breath. 

The plan is to keep moving tomorrow. 

One more night of rest.

Before then, you decide to bathe. You reek of dried sweat and saltwater. Your hair is still clumped from swimming, and your skin is chafed under your bra. Nereida has a small bar of soap and a handmade salve with milk thistle in it.

"It helps irritated skin," she claims, handing it over along with a towel. 

"Thank you, again." You study her, relieved to see that her cheeks are more alive. The hypothermia, luckily, was mild. A more severe or prolonged case would've been untreatable by just a blanket and fire. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes. I owe you my life, truly." She brushes your hair behind your ear in a gesture of gratitude and smiles softly. "John and I will not forget that."

The sea is the last place you want to be and won't help matters, but a kilometer up the road is a freshwater creak where Kyle got more water earlier. You head there under the cloud-streaked sky, afternoon turning to evening, and strip down to just your bra and underwear, leaving your clothes, knife, and bow in a neat pile by a tree. The water in the shallow creek is warm. A satisfied breath leaves your lips as you sink in, all the way to your chin. At first, you just sit there, reveling in the way life hums around. Birds in the trees, minnows through your toes. 

He got death, you got life.

You close your eyes for a moment but quickly reopen them when you see red against the backs of your eyelids. 

You move on to washing. First, scrubbing the soap hard through your scalp, ridding it of sand. Then, your armpits and unshaven legs. 

There is movement in your peripheral. 

You thrash around in the water. 

Ghost is leaned against the tree where your clothes are, watching you.

You keep your body submerged and lower your brows. "Do you get off to sneaking up on people?"

"Just a little."

His tone makes your lips twitch. "The name suits you well, then."

When he simply stares, you get out of the water, crossing your arms over your chest. You push past him, grabbing the towel and immediately covering yourself. You're towel-drying your hair when he grabs your shoulder and turns you around to face him.

"You can't ignore me forever."

A sigh of disbelief pushes through your nose. "As if you don't ignore me? I'm not the one who runs away in the middle of things." You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, and then shake your head. "If you don't want me, then fine. I can live with that. Let's keep pretending it never happened and just focus on keeping ourselves alive—"

His weight shifts as a hand reaches for the back of your wet hair, tilting your gaze up. You flinch away, but he keeps you put. "You'd had a shit day," is the reasoning he gives.

"Are you kidding?" you breathe out, almost choking on a bark of hysterical laughter. "Everyday is a shit fucking day." You roll your eyes. "You stopped just because I killed someone? I've doe it plenty of times before. I also almost drowned and Nereida—"

He stops you, eyes darkened. "What I mean is—if we kept going, I would've fucked you then and there. If I'm going to fuck you, Twix, you are going to be fully in the right mind to make that choice, because once it happens, there is no going back."

Your breath seizes. The blunt words make an unwarranted shiver, warmer than the water was, push through your spine.

His fingers tighten in your hair, continuing. "If I fuck you, it will not be just once. Do you understand?"

The world around you tips on its axis.

Your nostrils flare as you absorb his question: do you understand? No—nothing about this is something you could understand, and you don't think you want to. Your breath quickens, chest rising and falling, and your nipples suddenly feel uncomfortably tight in the wet bra you wear, a gentle breeze making them itch. Your mind goes blank for a moment as he stares down at you expectantly. You feel it now: the palpable want that bears down at you. That heavy something that passes through his eyes. 

Finally, you give an imperceptible nod before letting the towel around you fall at your feet, growling out a breath, and launching into him.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Zombie! MW2 w/ a Human Sex Slave

Warnings: 18+, Monster Fucking, Zombie Fucking, Implied Initial Dubious Consent, Stomach Swelling, Cum Inflation, Unprotected Sex, Brief Worry of Infection, Rough MW2, Gentle MW2, Zombie! MW2, Human! Reader, Sex Slave! Reader, Captive/Captor Relationship, Implied Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapping, Descriptions of Smut, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except You.

Zombie! MW2 who found you scavenging alone one day out in the wasteland, entirely unaware of their presence.

Zombie! MW2 who capture you soon after, not ones to waste time.

You were the first lone human they’d seen in months, and they’d be damned if they were going to let you slip through their fingers.

Zombie! MW2 whose intentions with you are unclear. Until you notice the bulge in their trousers and the purr in their groans as they watch you writhe against the restraints, watch you helplessly struggle against a fate they’ve already decided for you.

Ghost, König and Soap are the roughest with you, often the ones to just tear a your pants off when they’re desperate, filling you not long after.

They’re rarely gentle, instead opting to take you raw and use you for their own ends, slamming their hips into yours until you hear them release a guttural roar, emptying days’ worth of semen inside you.

Your first time with Ghost almost left you feeling like you were about to burst with how backed-up he was, his balls almost bursting and slapping the skin of your backside red and raw with each thrust.

He’d made sure to leave his mark on you, the prominent bulge in your stomach slowly deflating as his semen leaked out of you.

And while Soap and Ghost’s loads are somewhat palatable given how frequently they use you, König almost always leaves you feeling like you’re about to burst.

Given his height, he’s the biggest of all your captors. Not only that, but his cock is thick enough to leave you feeling like you have rocks in your stomach whenever he forces himself into you, his strokes long and pounding, making sure you feel every inch of him.

Price, Gaz and Alejandro are a lot more gentle, understanding that, while you’re human, you’re still fragile.

They’re soft and slow with their thrusts, giving you time to adjust to their size before continuing.

While they can’t talk, they do try to comfort to as best they can.

They’ll stroke your head, press their forehead to your shoulder (only to feel you tense beneath them, anticipating a bite) — anything to try and make you feel less like you’re a sex slave and more like a friend with benefits.

Of course, you worried the first few times they had their way with you that their pumping you full of their seed would infect you, turn you into one of them.

However, after weeks went by, you were still you. No rotting skin, no cannibalistic thoughts, no loss of autonomy.

But, much to your horror, you felt as if they’d infected you with an idea, a feeling.

That being that you enjoyed what they were doing to you, ravaging you, pumping you full of their load until they were satisfied and your stomach was swelling.

And while your sanity tried to reason your way through your acceptance — that you were being held prisoner by literal parasite-infested corpses — your mind, for better or worse, didn’t care.

Not when they were providing for you, bringing you food, clothes, blankets — things you were certain would be nigh impossible to obtain were you roughing it alone in the wastes.

Or, perhaps you were rationalising your willingness to stay here with them, to live as their human sperm bank, reduced to an existence of bending to the will of militant captors whose semen dripped down your thighs, whose hands forced your face into pillows or made you bounce on their cocks while looking at them, giving you a glimpse into their eyes, the people they once perhaps were: whose surprising stamina and strength left you whining, crying and almost begging for more whenever they finished, more often than not forcing orgasms out of you, too, making you push back into them, body willing to take every ounce of their cum and inch of their cocks.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ Doomsday's luckiest

     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ zombie apocalypse simon 'ghost' riley x reader

01 : as the world craves in

cw : smut, past toxic relationship, mention of eating disorders, mentions of self-harm, scars, twisted perspective of sex, chubby reader. words : 7k

     ㅤ  collection - prev ⋆ next

Miserable. That was how you’d describe your life right now. Jobless, barely functioning after finally escaping a toxic relationship, and most of your friends had taken your manipulative ex-boyfriend’s side. The few who supported you? They were busy tonight.

Thursday night. Not many people were willing to leave their houses for a “fun” night out with you. You were the only jobless one, after all.

Fuck it.

You grabbed your keys, locked your door, and before you knew it, you were sitting in your car, driving toward the nearest lively city: Manchester. It wasn’t your favorite, but Liverpool was even farther away, and you'd already have to drive thirty minutes. It’ll do for tonight, you’d thought.

Maybe it was your guardian angel whispering in your ear. You'd come to be grateful for choosing Manchester. 

The pub was shitty, dead, as expected on a weeknight. Most of the people were regulars, drunks, or teenagers sneaking their first taste of beer. 

Pathetic. 

But then again, so were you.

You’d made a small effort tonight. Dressed up, pretty, but nothing over the top. You weren’t even sure why anymore, not with the crowd here. Most of the men were pushing fifty. Not that you had a problem with older guys, but not that old. You drew the line at thirty-seven. Hell, maybe forty on a good day.

Going in strong, you ordered shots—straight vodka. It would help clear your mind, or at least blur it enough.

Checking your phone, you saw a notification from your ex. You opened the message just as you finished your fourth shot. A wall of insults greeted you, body-shaming, followed by sweet, manipulative words. He always did that. Tore you down, shredded your self-worth, then tried to convince you he was the only one who’d ever truly love you.

On bad days, he’d call your body disgusting. Say your stomach made him sick. Mock the scars on your arms like he wasn’t the reason they were there. He made you feel guilty over the smallest snack, shamed you for eating anything that wasn’t "clean." That guilt spiraled into disordered eating, your body crying out for what you denied it. Then came the binges. Hours spent eating everything in sight, followed by the cruel purge.

Leaving him hadn’t been easy, walking away from him was one thing, but walking away from his voice in your head was another. Still, it had to be done. You were killing yourself slowly. And something in you finally said: enough.

As you put down your fifth shot, your eyes landed on a man standing alone in the corner of the pub. Your brain was already fuzzy, drinking on an empty stomach never ended well. But something about him cut through the haze.

Even with his face hidden behind what looked like a skull-patterned balaclava, he radiated an almost unreal presence. Solid. Massive. Built like a mountain. And right then, with liquor courage pulsing through your veins, you decided a little climbing wouldn’t hurt.

Grabbing two beers—you had a feeling he was a beer kind of man—you started toward him.

The closer you got, the stranger it felt. His eyes had locked on you the second you stood up. There was an intensity there, dark, unreadable, magnetic. You could feel it even from the bar. Not even your ex had ever looked at you like that. It was unnerving. Thrilling.

Something inside you sparked. A tingle, low and electric.

As you went to put the drinks of the table, you almost spilled them, your body already on a drunker haze from the shots. The stranger stabilised both beers with one hand, while he grabbed the table with the other. How was a simple thing so hot? You might have been drunker than you thought. 

"Lost your way, eh love?" His deep voice resonated inside you, sending chills down your spine. 

Giggling like a schoolgirl, you plopped down across from him. He didn’t seem to mind—an amused glint danced in his eyes, catching the dim pub light just right.

Even in the shadows, with his hood up and his face covered by the skull-patterned balaclava, he looked handsome. Striking, even. His body seemed carved by some ancient god with a wicked sense of excess. From where you sat, you’d bet he was big everywhere.

He lounged with an easy confidence, arms stretched across the back of the worn-out sofa like he owned the place. His shirt clung tightly to a solid, soft-looking belly—strong and unapologetic, connected to even stronger pecs. Thick thighs were spread wide, his posture relaxed and unbothered, and it looked like his trousers were one deep breath away from giving out at the seams.

A gentle whistle brought you back to his face. You couldn't see it, but you knew he was smirking under there.

Distantly, you heard panicked voices coming from the TV. The usual football game had been replaced by a news broadcast for some reason—reasons you couldn’t care less about at the moment.

"I saw you… all alone," you slurred, the words sticking together a bit. "Figured I'd… y'know… keep you company. 'Cause I’m alone too." 

Your shyness had been eaten away by the liquor running through your blood—along with your shame—as you kept eye-fucking the stranger in front of you. In your defense, he didn’t seem to mind one bit.

Pushing one beer toward him, you went to lift yours for a sip when you were stopped by a strong, but soft, hand.

"I reckon I'll have that one too, love," the man said, pulling the second beer toward him.

In any other situation, you might’ve found his move patronizing, but in this moment, it was the hottest thing a man had ever done to you. Your brain was fuzzy and cloudy, and the fact that he wasn’t trying to take advantage of your state made you blush a little.

A small, deep chuckle could be heard as the man pushed his balaclava up, revealing a soft blond beard. You wouldn’t have guessed he was blond. A deep scar ran from above his full lips down to the bottom of his chin—a clean cut, surely healed for years. It should have scared you, but instead, it turned you on even more.

“Name’s Simon,” he said gently after swallowing about half of his pint. “What about you?”

For hours, you talked, as the bar was getting even quieter. About trivial things at first, and then about your ex, about your old jobs, about your shitty friends. He didn't talk much, he listened, making remarks here and there so you knew he was listening. Even if, you were strongly oversharing and trauma dumping. 

The beers were long gone, and you had been drinking water even since, while Simon sipped on a—now warm—whiskey. 

You were in the middle of your argument over why dogs were—objectively—better than cats when the distraught pub owner approached your table, sweating like crazy and begging you to leave immediately.

Admittedly, you were the last ones in the pub, but it was still a good hour before closing time. Neither of you responded at first, too weirded out by his body language, which was all aggression and panic, while Simon simply watched him in silence.

But when the owner suddenly reached for you, he was stopped by a hard hand clamping down on his wrist in a bruising grip.

Rising slowly, Simon stepped between you and the man, shielding you with his body.

“Oi, now,” Simon said, tightening his hold, “we’re off, yeah pal? No need to get physical, right?”

He released the man’s wrist, his eyes never leaving him, and then his hand appeared in front of you.You took it without a word, letting him gently pull you in front of him, guiding you toward the exit with a steady hand resting on the small of your back.

While the alcohol had mostly left your system, exhaustion had taken its place. Exhaustion and desire. A lethal mix that kept your heart beating just a little too fast as you became extremely aware of his height and build beside you.

“You wanna go home?” he asked gently, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Lighting one, the flame from the lighter flickered across his face, making him look almost ethereal.

When you didn’t answer right away, his eyes drifted back to you—like they had so many times that night. Heat crept up your face, and with a bit too much enthusiasm, you shook your head.

“No?” Simon teased, smirking as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Want me to take you back to mine?” He emphasized the me, his soft mocking sending a thrill straight between your legs.

Stranger danger, right?

You didn’t care. Not a single bone in your body could’ve made you say no in that moment.

Biting your lip, you nodded. Your breathing was already picking up, and you pressed your thighs together in what you thought was a subtle, unnoticeable move—but Simon noticed. Of course he did. He’d told you earlier: part of his job was to observe people, to notice everything.

He nodded silently, extending his hand toward you—and you took it instantly. Laughing at your eagerness, he ran his thumb gently over the back of your hand before adding, “Your car keys, love.”

“Oh,” you breathed out, flustered. Your hands fumbled over themselves as you dug into your purse, finally wrapping your fingers around your fluffy keychain and pulling it out with an impatient tug.

Gently taking the keys from your hand, he waited for you to lead the way to your car.

You were in your own little world, eyes fixed on how small your keys looked in his hand, when they already felt pretty large in yours. Thinking back to the men you’d had in your life, none of them came close to Simon’s sheer size.

You’d always been chubby, and some past lovers had made a point of reminding you—commenting on your stomach rolls and dimpled thighs, making you deeply self-conscious. Your last ex certainly hadn’t helped you rebuild any confidence. But as you looked at Simon, desire warm in your chest, that cruel little voice, the one that always told you you were too big, that you’d crush them, was suddenly silent.

Patiently, the man smoked his fag in silence, letting your eyes roam over his figure. He’d never minded a pretty bird’s gaze on him—and after everything you’d overshared tonight, he sure as hell wasn’t going to make you uncomfortable with a shitty joke. So he let you look, subtly adjusting his movements just enough to make his muscles flex beneath the tight gym shirt and almost-too-small trousers.

He’d been home for quite a while now. The weight he’d lost on his last deployment had come back, thanks to the homemade meals he’d been cooking for himself. And as he exhaled smoke one last time and dropped the cigarette to the ground, he noticed something clear in your eyes.

Desire. Want. Heat.

His eyes on you made you suddenly realize you hadn’t moved in minutes. Gently turning around, you started walking toward where your car was parked. It was a short distance, but thanks to Manchester’s parking nightmare, it would still take you about five minutes.

A low whistle stopped you in your tracks.

Turning around, you saw Simon approaching at a lazy pace, like he had all the time in the world. Only then did you notice—you’d been rushing.

As he reached you, he gently guided you toward the shops instead of the road, his hand settling on the small of your back, just centimeters from your arse.

“Go on now, kitty. Strut away,” he teased, smirking.

There was a mocking edge to his voice, but it was playful, nothing like the cruel digs your shitty ex used to throw your way. Once again, a rush of heat surged straight between your legs. You prayed he wasn’t just all talk—but with the way confidence and quiet dominance came so naturally to him, you knew you were in for a good night.

On the way back to his place, your brain was still too fuzzy to fully register how dangerous this could be. Letting a man you’d known for only a few hours drive your car through a city you barely knew. For all you knew, he could take you to some dark forest, kill you, and bury your body.

Yet something about Simon intrigued you. And you trusted your gut.

Although... every time you’d trusted it before, it had led you straight into the arms of a gaslighter. Sadly, you’d never been the best judge of character. Naive, they’d called you. Easy to deceive. Easy to break down and reshape into the perfect doll for selfish men.

But Simon felt different. He seemed genuinely interested, not in some version of you, but you. And for the first time in a long while, you had a feeling that maybe, just maybe... he might like you exactly as you are.

Shaking your head, you reminded yourself—it was just a shag anyway. Hopefully a good one, but nothing more than that. The man looked good enough to kill… but he also looked like a killer. Brooding silent men had never really been your type. You usually went for the chatty, sunshine types, people like you. Sure, you had your dark days, but most of the time, you were a damn ray of sunshine.

Even if he wasn’t exactly your type mentally, his physique had nothing to envy from any man who’d ever crossed your path. 

Quiet music played in the background, your phone connected after you’d grown tired of the radio stations rambling about some epidemic, interviewing panicked voices even in the dead of night. You’d brushed it off and let your playlist take over.

Silently, your eyes traced the shape of his arms. You’d never thought driving could be sexy, but every time he shifted gears, something in your brain short-circuited. And his thighs—thick and flexing with every subtle movement—were impossible to ignore. You couldn’t even think about them without feeling your knickers grow damper.

It was a fairly short drive, you noticed, as Simon parked right in front of a fancy-looking building. As he rounded the car to open your door, you couldn’t help but notice how out of place he looked, dressed in all black, broad and built like a bodybuilder, standing in front of what looked like the kind of place filled with lanky finance bros.

"You're like... rich rich," you blurted out as you stepped into the building, instantly met with an elegant hall, a grand staircase, and a sleek, high-end elevator. It was all so posh, nothing you were used to.

Sure, you weren’t poor, but city rent was brutal. You’d ended up living thirty, sometimes forty minutes outside the city, in a small, cozy apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was yours—or at least, you’d made it feel that way.

Now, though, it was tainted. Stained with painful memories you’d been trying to outrun when you drove into Manchester tonight. You hadn’t planned to sleep out... but now, you were glad it worked out this way. At least tonight, you didn’t have to face the hole in your bedroom wall—left behind by one of your ex’s tantrums.

The soft ding of the elevator and Simon’s quiet laugh pulled you back to the present.

“Job pays well,” he said, watching your reaction. “Don’t have much to spend it on but rent.”

There was something in his eyes, something unreadable, that sparked a flicker of panic in your chest. Rushing to fill the silence, you blurted out your thoughts in a stream of anxious words.

“Not that I care, you know. It’s not like I knew before coming here! I would’ve come even if you were broke, seriously. I don’t care about money—never really did. You should see where I live, it’s pretty cheap—"

Simon gently cut off your ramble with a hand on your chin, tilting your head up. Then, without a word, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Just a small peck, enough to short-circuit your spiraling thoughts.

“Calm that little brain of yours,” he said with a half-smile, kissing you again, just as briefly. “Didn’t mean anything by it, yeah?”

Although his technique was a bit blunt, it worked. Your brain shut down instantly, and your body softened, leaning into his. Not that he minded.

He really hadn’t meant anything by it. You had been the one to buy him a drink, not the other way around. And it’s not like he’d shared much about his life—of course you’d be surprised to see a place this fancy. That didn’t mean you were a gold-digger.

Once inside his place, Simon settled on the couch, watching you. Like a stray cat he might’ve brought home, you began poking around—examining the furniture, the small decorations and bits of clutter, the books lining the shelves, the DVDs stacked beside them. He let you roam, curious little thing that you were. Every now and then, you’d comment on a book you’d read too, or mention a movie you’d always meant to watch.

What could you say? You liked to snoop. Always had, always would.

The flick of a lighter snapped you out of your snooping trance. When you turned back toward the couch, you nearly choked on air.

Here he was, lighting another fag, his balaclava tossed haphazardly on the coffee table. His brown eyes locked onto yours, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man you had ever come across in your short life. Blonde hair stuck to his head and forehead—a mix of sweat and pressure from the hood—full eyebrows, a strong nose, high cheekbones marked by acne scars, and a scruffy beard. His forehead and eyes were lined with faint wrinkles. He hadn’t told you his age, but from the look of him, you guessed he must be around thirty-five, or close to it.

“Like what you see?” he taunted, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate way. “‘Cause I sure do,” he added, his eyes roaming over your body without a shred of shame. They lingered on your chest before drifting down to your stomach and hips, darkening as they traveled.

You were about to approach him when sudden commotion and distant screams echoed through the hallway. Glancing toward the front door with a frown, you wondered how people could make so much noise in such a fancy place—especially at almost 1 a.m.

Looking back at Simon, you caught a flicker of confusion cross his face before it vanished behind his usual unreadable mask.

Still, he got up and made his way toward the door, gently nudging you toward the couch as he passed. When he opened it, he was met by his upstairs neighbours, both weighed down with baggage and rushing down the stairs in a panic. The two men were speaking harshly, urging each other to move faster—that they had to get out before everyone blocked the roads.

Frowning again, Simon figured there must be some kind of celebration tomorrow, something he’d forgotten about. Shaking his head, he brushed them off and closed the door, locking each bolt with care.

Better safe than sorry.

Turning back around, he was met with the sweetest sight, you, quietly seated on his couch, hands folded in your lap, looking up at him with wide, curious eyes. A gentle smile tugged at his lips as he walked over, offered you his hands, and softly guided you toward the bedroom. As if he was afraid he might break you.

Still silent, you followed, nervously biting your lip. It had been a long time since sex had felt like something to enjoy. For months, it had been all about your ex’s pleasure, your needs left in the background. You hoped Simon would be different, would see you, consider you.

He sat down first, watching you with a quiet softness as your curious gaze wandered once again, this time across his plain, undecorated bedroom. Simon had never seen the point in making it cozy. He wasn’t here much, and when he was, he spent most of his time in the living room or the building’s gym. No need for art or plants. They’d only die anyway.

Observing you, he thought about a certain Scot who was just as curious about him as you were. Shaking his head, now wasn’t the time to think about his sergeant.

Patience. He could do that. He was very good at that. He waited for you to get a bit more comfortable. He saw how your toes wiggled in what he assumed was a mix of excitement and anxiety. Same with your fidgeting fingers, and the way you kept biting your lips.

Behind your eyes, he could see how much you were probably overthinking everything, subconsciously tugging on your shirt to hide your belly.

Oh no.

He was a patient man, yes—but he wouldn’t let you fall too deep into self-conscious thoughts.

As gently as he could—careful not to startle you—he grabbed your hips and pulled you toward him. With a small push behind your knees, he guided you into his lap. Before any protest could leave your lips, Simon spoke.

“I had to carry one of my sergeants over my shoulder for an entire afternoon across the desert, and he was twice your size, darling.” His voice had shifted—deeper now, more commanding, more military. “Nothing about you is going to hurt me. Or disgust me.”

Taking your delicate hand in his calloused one, he guided it down to his pelvis, where you could feel the weight of his semi-hard cock.

“All this, already, just from you looking pretty in my room, yeah?” he said, though it wasn’t really a question. One brow arched in that calm, nonchalant way of his—almost commanding. “And now, I just want you to look pretty on my bed... and let me take care of the rest. Can you do that?”

This was new.

Sex and you had always had a complicated relationship. It wasn’t something you enjoyed most of the time—but you knew that had more to do with your partners than with you. Every time you took care of yourself, it felt better than anything they’d ever given you.

But now, here was this god of a man, promising you pleasure and attention. You almost wanted to cry—he seemed so genuine, like nothing would make him happier than giving you exactly what you needed tonight.

Too quickly, you nodded in excitement.

Eager little thing you were.

“Need words, sweetheart,” Simon murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” you muttered.

“Good girl.”

And then his lips were on yours.

It was nothing like the quick pecks in the elevator. Those were desperate, starving, something else entirely. His hands were everywhere, gliding from your thighs to your hips, gripping the nape of your neck to pull you closer. They brushed over your stomach and your breasts, caressed your arms with a reverence that made your skin buzz.

You felt euphoric. No one had ever kissed you with this much purpose, this much enthusiasm.

When his lips left yours, you almost whined, would have, if he hadn’t kissed your jaw the moment his mouth broke away. With a rhythm that was both urgent and patient, he trailed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbones, even as his hands gently worked to lift your shirt.

As the cotton passed over your face, you couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes. Anxiety gnawed at your mind, whispering that you were disgusting. That he’d hate the soft rolls of your stomach, the faded scars on your wrists. That your breasts were too small, your nipples too strange.

One of your shitty exes had said that once—and the words had never really left you.

“Fucking gorgeous,” was all you heard before you felt his lips on the top of your breast, his fingers already toying with the clasp of your bra.

Looked like you weren’t the only eager one.

Two simple words, but somehow, they jump-started your brain. Your hands moved on instinct, tugging at his tight shirt, pushing him back just enough to free yourself from his mouth as he urgently pulled his own top off.

Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes took him in.

Scars. So many. Bullet wounds, stabs, burns… all mingling with tattoos scattered across his skin.

“Do you think it’s ugly?” Simon asked, though there wasn’t a trace of self-doubt in his voice.

“No,” you answered quickly, the word spilling out with raw sincerity.

“No?” he added, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Then, shaking his head slightly, he went on, “Then don’t go assuming your own disgust me, alright?”

Once again, he guided your hand—this time to his soft belly. The defined six-pack was long gone. At home, he didn’t care much for aesthetics. He ate well, hit the gym enough to stay in shape, but he didn’t obsess over it.

“You think that’s disgusting, love?” Another rhetorical question. You shook your head again, and he felt your fingers curl against him, gentle and hesitant, like a cat kneading a warm spot.

Then he brought his hand to your belly, massaging it with unexpected tenderness, rolling the softness between his calloused fingers.

“Well, I fucking love that,” he murmured. “I like my women fed and healthy. Don’t put those silly boy standards on me, kitty, yeah? I’m well past rubbing one out over a supermodel.”

As if to prove a point, he pulled you even tighter into his lap, grinding your clothed cunt against his now fully hard cock. You let out a breathy moan at the friction, a soft, helpless sound that made his grip on your hips tighten.

You might’ve been the cutest little thing Simon had ever had the pleasure of laying in his bed. And he was dead set on savouring every second of it.

Manhandling you with practiced ease, he laid you back against the pillows, your head cradled by the soft fabric, surrounded by the scent of him. When you closed your eyes and tilted your head slightly into the pillow, he knew you liked it. Good.

But he was certain you were going to like what came next even more.

Leaving hungry kisses and teasing bites along your stomach and hips, his hands roamed with purpose, searching for the zipper of your skirt. When he couldn’t find it, you guided his hand to it yourself. As thanks, he gave you another playful bite on your belly—earning a mix of a giggle and a moan from you.

Exquisite.

Once the skirt was gone, he settled comfortably between your legs, lifting them over his shoulders. He paused for a moment, admiring the damp patch on your cotton panties, and when your hands flew up to cover your face in embarrassment, he just smiled.

No one had ever given so much attention to what was between your legs.

Sure, past boyfriends had gone down on you, but it was always rushed, needed. Done more as a means to an end, never for the joy of it. Never for you.

But now?

You were soaked.

A soft kiss to your clit sent shivers all the way through your body. His fingers traced gentle patterns along your inner thighs, grounding you, comforting you, even as the other hand tugged down the last piece of fabric separating him from you.

Then, silence.

You peeked down at him, hands falling from your face, bracing yourself for the familiar sting of judgment. You half-expected some offhand comment about something else that was “wrong” with you.

But instead, Simon winked.

And then he dove into your cunt like a man starved—like he’d just found fresh water after weeks at sea.

Your back arched instantly, a strangled cry escaping your lips as your fingers twisted into his hair. Maybe a bit too hard, because he gave a small wince beneath you.

“Careful, lovely,” he chuckled against your skin. “Not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

His tongue was everywhere, spelling god-knows-what across your clit, licking and sucking, then diving lower to drink you in like he’d never get enough. The room filled with filthy, wet sounds. Your moans. His slurping, kissing, groaning—like he was truly enjoying himself, every second of it.

You didn’t see it—too lost in your own unraveling—but his hips were slowly grinding against the mattress beneath him. Harder with every taste of you on his tongue.

He was a man on a mission—and when he added his fingers into the mix, you were gone.

Soft, practiced strokes circled your clit while his tongue slurped hungrily at your entrance. Then he switched it up. His tongue flicked up to your clit while a single finger eased inside you, pressing against your warm, slick walls.

Working you open was effortless; you were so wet, the second finger slid in without resistance—and this one found the spot instantly. That’s when you let out the most pornographic sound you'd ever made.

Was he some kind of sex god? Or had all your past lovers just been selfish bastards?

“That’s it, kitty,” Simon murmured, his voice dropping low and deliberate. “Just let it go, yeah? I’m right here.”

He gave your clit another kitten-lick as his fingers picked up speed, curling with precision.

“You’re so fucking pretty, taking my fingers so well, lovie…” His voice dropped even deeper, a low rumble that vibrated straight through your core.

Your senses were wrecked. You couldn’t form words anymore—only moans, whimpers, and gasps poured from your lips. Nothing had ever felt like this. Not your fingers, not your toys, and certainly not anyone else.

That strange, overwhelming pressure began building in your belly—rising fast, heavy, desperate. Your thighs trembled against his head, and it took one of his hands to pin you down gently, keeping you from clamping too hard.

“Wait—wait—” you panted, the words tumbling out between moans. “Gonna… gonna pee.”

“No, you’re not, sweetheart,” Simon cooed with a soft laugh, licking your clit again with care. “Just let it go. Don’t worry.”

“No, no, please—” you tried again, but that strange feeling was intensifying. His tongue went back to spelling maddening patterns on your clit. You tried to push at his head weakly, but he wouldn’t relent.

“Simon, I—I—I… oh… oh God…”

And then, stars.

Stars burst behind your eyes as your thighs locked around his head, your cunt clenching around his fingers in pulsing waves.

“There you go… That's it.” Simon whispered, his voice all praise and warmth, fingers still working you through it. “Good girl. My sweet girl.”

When he finally withdrew his fingers, he replaced them with his tongue—eager to taste every last bit of you. The moment your cry shifted into overstimulation, he relented.

Pushing up onto his haunches, he licked his fingers clean and drank you in.

You were blissed out. Cheeks flushed and damp, eyes barely open with tears at the corners. Your neck and chest glistened with sweat, your thighs still trembling against his own.

From everything you’d overshared, about shitty exes and disappointing nights, Simon had assumed you’d never had a real orgasm before.

He’d been right.

Palming his painfully hard cock through his pants, he ached to be inside you. To fill you, stretch you, ruin you for anyone else.

As you watched his hand, you figured it was a silent message to reciprocate. So, still on shaky thighs, you began to lower yourself onto your knees in front of him, ready to thank him.

That was how it worked, right?

Raising an eyebrow at your submissive posture and the way your hands reached toward his zipper, a strange anger surged inside the soldier.

There was something in your eyes that set him off—something that made him feel sick. Like you had been conditioned to believe he only did this to get something in return.

A bit harshly, he grabbed both your wrists with one hand, stopping you.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice tight.

He would’ve gladly let you suck his cock, if he didn’t feel like it was automatic for you. Like a debt to repay.

“What do you mean?” Your voice was still shaky, your body trembling with aftershocks. He could see how your thighs were still spasming now and then.

“I don’t want you to do that,” he said bluntly. Given your fragile headspace, he probably should’ve phrased it more gently, but something about the look in your eyes made him furious at the world.

How could shitty men break something so sweet? Make you think your pleasure had to come with a price?

Not here.

Not in his bed.

Not with him.

When tears welled in your eyes, Simon cursed himself for the sharpness in his tone. Pulling you toward him, he kissed you gently, no urgency—just care.

“None of that, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing away a tear that slipped down your cheek. “Don’t want you to suck my dick ‘cause you think you have to. That’s what I meant.”

He held you close, running a soothing hand down your shaking spine.

“Now lay down for me, yeah? If you still want to do this. You can say no. Won’t get mad, love."

Nodding your head, you let yourself gently fall back against his pillow. A funny feeling stirred in your belly, a sense of safety, of finally being seen and worshipped. Usually, you were the one doing the worshipping, and you were tired of it.

Brushing the tears away, you watched as he finally took off his trousers and briefs. His dick sprang free, bouncing slightly, making you giggle a little—tears long gone now. It was an angry red, the tip leaking pre-cum as it begged for attention. He was a bit bigger than average, but feeling the wetness between your thighs, you had no doubt he would fit just fine.

Slowly covering you with his own body, he kissed you again. Those kisses were soft—little promises of what was to come. He wouldn’t hurt you; he’d take care of you. Like he did before. You made out for a little while. It was soft and gentle, nobody was rushing, you had all the time in the world. Sometimes, you felt his dick brush over your belly. He would let out little airy whines, and you'd be lying if you said it didn’t make you wetter.

Once Simon felt like neither of you could take much more, he shifted onto his right side, reaching toward his bedside table to fish out a condom. You watched anxiously as he rolled it down his length, giving his cock a few strokes, like he needed more stimulation. Another giggle slipped from your lips.

Smiling gently at you, he kissed you again. “Get on your side for me, baby.”

Oh, that was new as well.

Spooning felt almost too intimate for this situation, and yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking it was meant to be. Like two puzzle pieces fitting right in.

All thoughts about intimacy vanished the moment Simon raised your left leg over his and slowly guided his length inside of you, letting out a low groan directly into your ear.

Ever the observant one, he felt you clench around him at the sound. He did it again, and felt another clench. Sensitive, you were. And very warm and wet. It was perfect. God, he wished he could’ve gone in raw, but that would’ve been too much.

Giving a tentative thrust, Simon was rewarded with another one of your sweet sounds. That, combined with the earlier stimulation, made him go rogue. His hips took on a mind of their own, rutting against you like a mad dog. His lips kept licking, kissing, and biting the back of your neck, your shoulder, your back—anything he could reach.

Yours were no better—biting at his bicep, the one he had placed beneath your head like a pillow, while your nails dug into his arm and thighs.

Getting carried away after a few minutes, Simon pushed you completely onto your belly, laying you flat on his soft sheets, never once pulling out. When no sound of discomfort or hesitation came from you, he resumed his thrusts. His rhythm was messy now—far messier than just a few minutes ago. He was close. The feeling of your cunt clenching hard around his dick was intoxicating.

He let out another groan at yet another clench, almost like it hurt him. But it was quite the contrary.

Feeling he was approaching his climax, he let his weight rest on you, only his forearm keeping him from crushing you.

Cooing encouragement into your ear, praises spilling from his lips like chants, Simon felt your cunt tightening as you neared another orgasm. Words poured out of his mouth—probably more than he’d spoken in months at home—but he didn’t care. He could feel how much you loved his voice, loved when he spoke into your ear, loved when he lowered it, almost growling his words.

"That’s my fucking good girl, taking me so deep. Fucking perfect cunt on a perfect body—fuck, you feel so fucking good." He grunted as sweat dripped from his hair onto your back.

To push you over the edge, he slithered one hand down to your cunt, almost coming when he felt where his dick was entering you, then moved a bit higher, toying with your already overstimulated clit.

You clenched so hard on his dick, he came instantly. Deep groans whispered into your ear, coupled with frantic thrusts and skilled fingers that triggered your own climax.

It was unlike anything before—even better than when he was between your legs.

Still floating, you felt soft hands pulling you gently back onto your side, then onto your back. Gentle fingers brushed away tears you hadn’t even noticed fall and pushed strands of hair sticking to your sweaty forehead aside.

Watching him with half-open eyes, you saw his lips moving, but your ears were still ringing, and you couldn’t catch what he said. Bits of praise and coos reached you, enough to relax your body completely. His lips pressed softly to your temple as a hand patted your hips, demanding your attention.

Focusing on him now, you concentrated to understand his next words.

“I need you to go pee now, alright? Can you do that for me, kitty?” Simon asked, his voice low and gentle, as if speaking to a scared child.

“I don’t—I don’t think my legs work,” you replied bluntly.

“Okay.” The man chuckled softly at your words.

Carefully, he rose from the bed, took off the condom, tied it, and threw it away. Approaching you again, he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, and you were too tired to care anyway.

After he set you down on the toilet, he left the bathroom, telling you to take your time, and that you could take a shower too, if you wanted.

Making your way back toward the bedroom, you felt a bit self-conscious, walking around his place completely naked. But the sight you stumbled upon was truly mouthwatering.

Simon, relaxing in his bed, under the covers. Eyes closed, body completely at ease, basking in the lingering rush of endorphins.

As quietly as you could, you began picking up your knickers, eyes scanning the room for your bra. Your little treasure hunt was interrupted by a low whistle coming from the man just a few meters away.

When your eyes met, Simon shook his head in quiet disapproval before beckoning you over with a finger.

Awkwardly, you made your way around the bed. With a small, exasperated sigh, he grabbed you with ease and manhandled you back into the bed, tucking you under the covers and pressing your soft body flush against his.

"Rocked your world that hard and you still want to walk out on me, sweetheart?" he teased gently, pulling you tighter into his arms. "Thought your legs didn’t work, how were you planning to drive back, huh?"

With anyone else, the mockery might’ve stung. But Simon’s words felt different—genuine, laced with warmth. It was his way of saying he wanted you to stay, without actually saying it. And it was sexy.

You pressed your thighs together, a soft moan escaping your lips in response.

Kissing your shoulder like a quiet promise, Simon added with a chuckle, “Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty more tomorrow. Now go to sleep.”

There was no room for argument—especially not when a light smack landed on your ass cheek.

Giggling with excitement, you finally felt the exhaustion creeping in. Eyes fluttering closed, you buried your head into his bicep—your makeshift pillow—and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt truly warm.

Warm and safe.

That’s how you fell asleep—wrapped in his arms, as the world caved in.

what an introduction, aye?

[guhbwuh]

🌼!

[zombiegutfuck]

tf141 men and their love languages

captain john price will spoil you to the heavens. anything for his little wife. new perfume with the same high notes he knows you absolutely adore, expensive jewellery that jingle together every time you move your wrists, designer heels for date nights that he can’t wait to take off for you, big fuzzy coats for those dark, winter nights to keep you warm when he’s on deployment and he can’t supply you his own warmth… the list goes on. he has the money to spend, so why not spoil his dear darling.

lieutenant simon riley will do absolutely anything for you, you don't even need to ask. the pipes are making a funny noise when you turn on the shower? oh, lovie, he’ll get that fixed for you in no time. the fence blew over in the storm a couple days ago? sit back, love, he’ll go out and make the garden look nice and pretty again, just how you like it. it’s that time of the month again? he’s up and out at the brink of dawn, restocking your favourite snacks, painkillers for the aches he can’t get rid of, and a new fuzzy hot water bottle. the old one was in tatters, sweetheart.

sergeant kyle garrick believes in the old style of love. every night when he’s off on deployment, he’s either reading your handwritten letters under the dim light of his desk lamp in his barracks, gazing lovingly at the pictures you sent with it, or he’s spending hours writing his own to you. unlike how you write about updates in your daily life, he writes about how much he misses you, how beautiful you are, how he can’t wait to come home to you. he has a phone, of course, but it’s only use is to message you in the morning, when he knows you’re getting up after three alarms, to wish you a good morning and to have a nice day at work, don’t forget to eat and drink plenty of water.

sergeant john mactavish would have to be forcibly removed from you with a construction vehicle of some sort when he gets home from deployment, maybe an excavator would do the trick? he’s absolutely glued to your side. how couldn’t he be? look at you, bonnie thing. his beefy hand is 100% engulfing yours as you walk through the markets in town. if not, his hand is firmly planted in the back pocket of your jeans. the broke boyfriend hug doesn’t exist with this man, he pays for everything, he just doesn’t want to leave you alone, he doesn’t want to not be touching a part of you. why not downsize the sofa, bonnie? it’s overly big, his lap is just fine for you! why are you sleeping all the way on that side of the bed? don't be daft, lassie. come, let him be your personal heater.

i love them and they don't even exist (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ that's how i like my men

[emoelvin]

Ghost x y/n

:(