crisissleepyzzzz - Tumblr blog

crisissleepyzzzz · 1 year

Text

Brown

AO3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

Summary:

(Reader's POV)

Simon has one of the prettiest eyes you've ever seen.

You don't think anyone else has noticed, maybe Price knows -You'd never say it to his face, but you're sure Simon sees the Captain as a father figure-. Maybe even Soap, considering how close those two have become after the mess in Mexico.

(Or, your POV of this work. Don’t need to read it but will probably feel better if you do.)

Warnings: medic!reader, very mild gore, mentions of death, blood, knife injury, mentions of surgery, angst, (not really) unrequited love, complicated relationships (?), implied hanahaki disease

A/N: Did I plan on posting more of this work? No. Am I still doing it? Evidently. Enjoy.

Simon has one of the prettiest eyes you've ever seen.

And, to be honest, you've seen a fair share of them.

One of the first things you need to do as a medic is look. Actually look. Pay attention. You're gonna get a patient and they're gonna stare at you expecting a solution for whatever they have going on. You have to look at them and show them that when you say you'll do everything you can, you mean it.

Simon has heterochromia.

When you first met him, you were never sure why some days they looked blue and sometimes they looked brown. At first, you thought it was the war paint he wore around his eyes or the balaclava that never actually let you fully see them, making them look different with the light or the colors around wherever you were at that second. He had such an intense gaze that paying attention to the color tends to get hard if he looks at you. His eyelashes were so blonde sometimes they looked white, and they framed his eyes so pretty you had to look away before you got too lost.

The first time you noticed, he got hit by who knows what right at the side of his head in the middle of a mission that was supposed to be “easy”. When they finally got him back to base, he was disoriented, blood soaking through the skull that covers his face right down to his neck. You were trying to make him pay attention to your words, but his gaze couldn't even focus and you were starting to get desperate.

“Simon,” you kept repeating, keeping his head upright with one of your hands. It was already covered in red. “Simon, look at me please?”

He didn't answer, and you had to swallow the concern that was making a knot in your throat. "Work with me here, L.t. Please."

You don’t know what made him react exactly, but after that, he finally did. And that’s when you noticed.

The contact lense had moved, letting you see the brown under, inside his right eye. You quickly looked at the other, but there was no clear outline that indicated he wore the pair.

He had chosen blue for today, apparently. It shocked you so much you gasped a little, and you could have sworn he frowned at the sound.

As slowly as you could, you took off one of your gloves and reached for his eye. He recoiled back instinctively, but even as out of it as he was, he realized what you were trying to do. He cast his eyes down for a second, almost… embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything and let you take it out. Then, a pair of eyes of a different color each looked straight at you. Blue and brown. They were beautiful, and you felt your entire body heat up.

“You gonna help me get you patched up, big guy?”

He nodded sluggishly, finally reacting to what you were saying.

Softly, you raised your hand, feeling around under the mask to see how bad it was (it was bad).

“I need to take off the mask Si, can I?”

He stayed silent for so long you were about to panic again, before his answer came.

“C-can you just-just cut that s-sside?”

You suppressed a sigh, nodding. “I can.”

You swung your arm to grab the scissors for clothes behind you, careful not to touch his skin when you started cutting. His hands were shaking, and you weren’t sure if it was shock or pain. He was bleeding too much.

“How did this happen, Lieutenant?”

He swallowed. “Kn-knife.”

Once you saw it, it made sense. He was lucky it didn’t go any deeper, otherwise you’d be trying to put his brains back inside his thick skull instead. You hoped the knife was clean, at least. If not, you were in a whole new mess.

You grabbed a cloth to start cleaning the wound, pulling his hand towards his face and extending it. “Keep it there, so the mask doesn’t fall off.”

Or what was left of it anyways.

He obeyed, relaxing a little.

“This is going to sting, Ghost,” you tried to warn. He didn’t say anything, but still when you brought the cloth to his skin, he hissed.

“Told you.”

You stayed silent the rest of the time he sat there inside your little infirmary, trying and sometimes failing to keep still. Slowly, you saw him get back to his senses, not shaking anymore. His skin still looked white as paper, but maybe it had to do with the fact that he was always covered up and less with him almost dying again.

Once you finished stitching him up, you let your body slow down and unclench.

“Gonna have to stay here with me tonight, L.t.”

He nodded again, not looking at you.

You took his vitals, gave him a change of clothes that you kept there for people in observation, led him to his cot. He followed around silently, not even raising his head. He was never a man of many words, but he was particularly quiet this time. It unnerved you a little.

Once he was on the cot, with his torn up mask with crusted blood around the edges and bandages on the side of his head, you finally heard him speak again.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

You were about to tell him the entire base saw him arrive covered in blood before you realized he was talking about his eyes.

“I would never.”

He let out a breath, nodding in thanks.

“Can I say they’re really pretty though?”

He didn’t answer, but you swear you saw his skin was pink when you left the room.

Ever since then, the first thing you do when he’s in the room is look for his eyes. Sometimes blue, sometimes brown. It amazes you, how no one has noticed or mentioned it, but it made sense to a certain point. Not many are brave enough to look him in the eye, much less would mention something like that about Ghost, of all people.

He always looks back, never hiding from your gaze when you’re close. It feels too intimate sometimes, a secret shared between the two of you. You know how his eyes actually look, know that those white lashes enmark a different color in each.

You notice something’s wrong when he stops looking at you whenever you’re near.

It starts happening out of nowhere. No matter how much you wreck your brain to try and remember something specific, nothing happened. Nothing. He just stops. Not even after you fucked up in Christmas did he act like this.

He never raises his head when you arrive, never lets you see what color he chose to keep for the day. He barely even talks to you, and when he does, it sounds like sorrow.

At first, it bothers you, makes anger boil from the bottom of your stomach to the top of your head. What right does he have to treat you like you’re nothing? Does he think you don’t deserve even a look? What the fuck is he on? Fuck, it burns so bad. it’s not even indifference, it’s deliberate avoidance. He cares enough to make an effort to avoid you, to not look at you. You thought you knew him so well, and then he pulls shit like this.

You... you even considered he might feel the same way you do. You couldn’t have imagined the lingering gazes he sent your way after training and lunch, the candy that appeared mysteriously on top of your desk when you were having a bad day or the jealousy over the flowers. You couldn't have, right?

That almost kiss in January, the hug in March. Were they all in your mind? Did you misinterpret everything? The warmth he poured when he was near you, the half hooded gaze he got when he looked at you for too long. Was it all a lie?

The pain sits on top of your chest and doesn’t let you think straight for weeks. It clouds your senses, makes it hard to breathe. It burns your eyes sometimes, keeps you awake at night. You feel foolish for thinking that he would feel something too, delusional. Everything was fake, made up in your mind to alleviate your puppy love.

Just when your anger starts turning into sorrow, someone tells you he passed out during training. Then, he stops going to the barrack’s gym, Soap is now lifting weights alone and looking like a kicked puppy, and you start to worry.

Now that the anger doesn’t cloud your mind, you remember him looking thinner, paler. He walked slower whenever you got the chance to see him, his movements stunted. And his entire team semed like they were looking at an actual ghost the few times you saw them all together.

A few days later, someone is coughing their lungs out right outside your office. It sounds like death, like it’s almost too late for you to do something. It sets your nerves on fire, makes you stand up to look for them. But you hear them run, and you’re not fast enough to catch them.

You just hope they come to you soon.

The next week, Soap and Gaz look angry, furious even. They spar like they’re in an actual life or death fight. One of them almost always ends up inside your office with a split lip or a split brow, maybe a bleeding nose. The anger is burning them, consuming the lovely softness that both of them somehow had managed to keep despite the kind of shit this job throws at them. It makes your skin crawl, seeing them like that.

Price though, Price looked like someone had died. He was mourning something or someone, and you didn’t want to let yourself dwell on who. Maybe one of their friends in México got sick.

(A twisted part of you wishes it’s one of them they’re so worried about.)

Before Hell starts, the Captain pays you a visit.

He goes to you late at night, with a broken finger that you don’t even bother to ask how he got when you see the bloody knuckles that accompany it.

You set it straight and he doesn’t even make a sound. He doesn’t protest when you put his hand in a cast, takes the pain killers without any water. His eyes are empty, and your chest is tight.

“You can’t let him do this,” he mutters under his breath. He looks like he’s in a trance, too out of it to notice he’s even speaking. “I can’t lose him like this.”

You don’t understand what he’s saying, what he’s talking about. You nod anyway. “I’ll see what I can do, Cap.”

He snaps out of it at your words, almost scaring you when he turns around and grabs your hands. He’s drowning in desperation, red rimmed eyes pleading for you to fix something that you don’t know it’s broken.

“Please,” he begs. His voice breaks. “Please don’t let him do this.”

Price is such a strong man that seeing him come apart right in front of your eyes feels like watching an entire city turn to dust.

You look him straight in the eyes and hold his hands.

“I’ll do everything I can, John.”

And you mean it. You have no clue what he’s talking about, but you’ll die finding out if that’s what it takes.

He just nods. You know he doesn’t believe you.

The answer to John’s pleas come to you a week later, with Soap dragging a bloody Simon towards the infirmary at three in the morning.

Anger lights inside your chest at first. You knew something was wrong, he’s sick with who knows what, and they still made him go on a mission?

All the blood is covering the lower half of his face and the entirety of his chest. You rush towards them, holding Simon’s other side and already looking for the injury.

“What happened now?” you demand, glaring at Soap. “I don’t remember any missions for you lately.”

(Ever since you noticed something was wrong with Simon, you kept track. You'd get in trouble for it later, you're sure.)

Johnny offers no help, just shakes his head and keeps walking.

“You’re gonna have to cut him open if you wanna find out this time, bonnie.”

You roll your eyes. Bonnie, Jesus Christ. You're a Captain. And can he stop joking around for a second? This isn’t a fucking joke for him to-

Simon’s coughing interrupts your thoughts, and a flood of blood and petals fall from his balaclava.

You gasp. When he gets heavier and almost brings you down, you start screaming.

A nurse you don’t remember the name of gloves you up and starts bossing around everyone to get the OR ready. Your entire body feels numb, it’s a miracle your hands aren’t shaking. Everything sounds far away, all the yells and the material clanking around don’t reach your ears fully.

Simon is lying on top of a table, shirtless and with a line tracing the middle of his torso. That’s where you’re supposed to cut him open. His skin is stained with red, and there are petals sticking to it. He looks ethereal, almost.

When another nurse approaches to try and clean him up so you can start, you stop him.

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone around looks at you like you’ve lost your head. You don’t really care.

You take the water and the sponge from his hands and start softly rubbing at Simon’s skin. The red comes off, the petals fall to the ground. His skin is soft, with scars littering every other corner you see.

Your gaze gets clouded, but you blink it away.

“Simon?” you call for him, softly so only he can hear. He’ll kill you when he wakes up if he realizes the entire med team knows his name.

But he doesn’t answer.

You try again.

“Simon? Can you wake up for me?”

His lips start moving, sparkling something inside your chest. Your eyes are full again.

“Please, please wake up.”

Your bottom lip stings when you bite it to hold back a sob.

Leaning your head against his, you grab his face and close your eyes. There’s a blue petal trapped between your hand and his skin.

“I love you, Simon.”

He opens his eyes.

You start laughing, switching between sobbing too. He looks at you like he’s lost, frowning. He’s worried, you realize.

“There you are,” you whisper. “Thank you for letting me see those pretty eyes, Si.”

He tries to speak, but he has damaged his throat so bad he starts coughing again. You push against his chest, rising up so you can start working.

“I’ll keep you here, Simon.”

As a medic, you’re not supposed to make promises. You never know what will turn out no matter how hard you try, what you do or say. You can’t promise life.

“I won’t let you die.”

You do it for him.

It takes 10 hours of surgery. You lost count of every petal you took out of him, every branch that was killing him that you cut out of his lungs. They glared at you, showed his love in the worst possible way. Love isn't supposed to be this horribly pretty, it isn't supposed to hurt this much. You had to take out with scissors and tweezers what love had done to him. You feel like something is digging into your chest, all your insides. You wonder briefly if it felt like this for him.

When he’s finally out of surgery, nothing manages to wake him up. His vitals are fine, everything is relatively okay.

But he doesn’t wake up.

His team is sitting outside, on the floor and with Gaz leaning against Soap, asleep. There are two other faces you don’t recognize, and you can’t be bothered to ask.

Price gets up when you come out, with bags under his eyes. You can’t speak, you don’t know what to tell them.

You sit down to wait with them. He'll wake up. He will. He will.

John just hugs you, and you sob against his chest

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crisissleepyzzzz · 1 year

Text

Myriad of colors

Ao3

Simon Riley x f!reader

Summary: He doesn’t ever remember liking colorful things. Ever since he was a child, he favored dark colors. He stopped liking red as life progressed, too many memories.

Blue, though? Blue he doesn’t mind.

All the color in his life comes from you, which makes anything other than gray or black stand out when you're not near. When it starts, he almost misses it.

He should pay more attention.

(Or, Simon gets Hanahaki from his love. He's an idiot)

Warnings: mild (VERY mild) gore, angst, repressed ghost, mentions of death, not actually unrequited love, sickness, military unaccurancies probably

A/N: not my first time writing/posting on Tumblr, BUT my first time in the fandom. I'm a whore for attention, what can I say?

Is it better to speak or to die?

He doesn’t ever remember liking colorful things.

Even when he was little, he remembers favoring black and gray. He had an Oxford gray sweatshirt with a blue dinosaur holding hands with a smaller red one, and that was as colorful as he got. Back then, he was innocent enough to say that those were him and Tommy, making his mom laugh whenever he would tell her so. Tommy would just roll his eyes but fail to hide his smile.

He ended up not liking red as life progressed. Too many memories.

Blue, though? Blue he doesn’t mind.

His room is simple, with no decorations besides the little purple box he got from you with a black ring on it for last Christmas. He remembers his face getting hot, not knowing how to react. He also remembers how bright your eyes were when he put it on.

When he met you, he was surprised by your callsign. Caelestis. Exceptionally long for a military nickname, but no one ever questioned it. Goddess of war and health, couldn't be more fitting.

You always wore something blue with you; sometimes a bracelet, a ribbon, a necklace with a celestite in it that stayed under your shirt most of the time. He started to associate the color with you, tricked himself into it. He likes it now, doesn't just tolerate it. And when he bought a light blue sweatshirt in one of his breaks, it wasn’t long before he "lost it" and saw you wearing it around base. He still gets warm just thinking about it.

You wear other colors too. Yellow sneakers that he sees from a mile away, bright orange shirts that make you stand out and draw all eyes to you, that one green ankle bracelet he gifted you and you never take off. He always finds a bouquet of flowers on top of your desk whenever he goes to your office, the old burn from jealousy gone after you told him you buy them yourself. He also remembers you once told him you hated not being able to paint your nails because of the job, and jokingly told him no one would notice if he did because of his gloves.

He'll take to the grave the fact that he had a whole fucking rainbow on his nails for a week after he let you paint them just to feel your touch.

All the color in his life comes from you, so anything other than black or gray stands out whenever you're not near.

It's not until he sees the little spots of blood in the sink when he realizes maybe he should pay more attention.

The very first petal that falls, he almost misses.

He's brushing his teeth, about to go to bed. When he brushes his tongue, he feels tingling at the back of his throat and doesn't think anything of it when he starts coughing.

The first thing he does is try to remember if he was hit on the last mission, anything that would mean internal bleeding that somehow went under his radar and his-the medic. He doesn’t recall getting anything more than a few punches, and when you checked him over once they came back to base, he was too busy basking on your soft touch to even think of anything else. You touched him with such reverence and care that nothing really mattered outside of that.

Just when he feels his body getting hot at the thought of you again, it takes him a few seconds to see the pink, bloody petal glaring at him from the top of the sink.

He realizes quickly what’s happening after that.

"Lookin' a bit under the weather there, Lt."

Oh, fuck.

Johnny's voice startles him out of his thoughts, and that should be a sign of how out of it he is.

He grunts in acknowledgement, doesn’t deny or accept anything. If there is anyone that could help it's Johnny, but he doesn't even know what he needs help to begin with.

He has a hidden napkin somewhere in his pockets that has been slowly turning red as the day has gone by.

He doesn’t cough up specific petals either. It was a pink rose in the morning, then an orange tulip by midday and something blue that he couldn't put a name to in the afternoon.

(He did his best to try and clean that one, and saved it in his breast pocket)

"Keep your food safe, they're especially hungry today."

He's talking about the new recruits. It may also be his fault.

It bothered you, not the things they were saying but how easy it was for him to control them. You don’t seem to get that they did it out of fear, not respect. They're new here, they don't get what respect is yet.

Captain. You are of a higher rank than him, but you also are technically not his superior. You're in the med team, so you're kind of everywhere and nowhere all at once. It's not often they send someone from med to help train recruits, but you had bad luck today.

The 15 miles he made them run after he heard the kind of things they were saying behind your back is the reason they're eating like it's their last meal.

(Is this one of his lasts?)

But he'll teach them. He'll teach them to respect even the ground you walk on, even if it’s the last thing he does.

(Will it be?)

He starts coughing again, just as Price walks towards them with clear signs of sleep deprivation.

You can see those same signs in probably everyone here, but they look particularly rough on his captain today.

"What's up with you two? Is there a bug going around?"

Soap's panicked tone almost makes him chuckle. Almost.

Price glares at him, but he frowns at Simon, staring for a bit too long before he flips Johnny off.

"Shut the fuck up, Sargeant."

He learned to ride a bike when he was six. He doesn’t remember who's bike it was, because it clearly was not theirs, but he remembers it was green. It had a backlight that was red and a front light that was white, a black ringing bell and a light green basket that would fall off if you rode it too harshly.

And that's it for the moment.

He remembers he fell the second time he tried to do it without Tommy and tore open the skin of his left knee, dripping down blood. His clothes were ruined, but he didn't cry. He remembers seeing the red droplets leaving dark stains on the concrete, trying to find a shape and failing.

It's so ironic too. He always guessed he would die young, not even make it to 40. He's right so far about that, but he never guessed his death would be this… pretty. It hurts like a bitch, feels like his lungs are eating themselves, but all the petals that fall out of his mouth are so beautiful that he can't help but appreciate them a little bit.

He can find a shape on the napkin now though. It looks like a butterfly, after coughing into it all day and then balling it up to shove it inside his pocket. It's a miracle he managed not to stain his mouth with it.

If he looked at himself in the mirror, his cheeks would be red. He's sure he has a fever, and the pressure inside his chest has been growing as the day gets old. He's afraid that he'll open his mouth and see branches in the back of his throat.

He always told himself he'd rather die than letting you mess with all the dark of his soul. Life took it a bit too literal, but he'll stand by his choice. He's okay with it.

He recalls that he asked your favorite flower once, and you had told him that you didn't have one, but favored any blue one that came across your path.

It makes sense. The most petals he has spit out are blue, mixed with different colors that take away the fact that they're killing him from the inside.

His love is taking roots inside, urging him to speak, speak. But he can't.

As he stands in the middle of the hallway that connects the barracks with the med aisle, he hears you giggling.

A week passes. It's getting harder to breathe.

His cough interrupts it, and he can perfectly hear the moment you stop and a chair is harshly pushed back, followed by hurried steps towards him.

For the first time in years, he runs.

They haven't been sent out on any missions, not even a slight clue of what’s coming next. Soap is getting antsy, getting on his nerves. He takes it out on the -not so new anymore - recruits. They've learned to respect you, but they still fear him.

He doesn’t have the time to teach them that you can make the change from one to another in a matter of seconds when a person jumps in front to take a bullet that was meant for you, but he's sure they'll learn it sooner or later.

Gaz has been eating up all the attention that Price seems to be pouring into him. Seems like a common theme in the Force, projecting bad parenting into your superiors.

He's too old for that, but for the past week he's been wishing to have someone to tell what's happening, and the closest thing to that is Price.

Another week goes by. The boys start to notice that whatever he has going on is not just a bad cold.

But the burning that's starting to spread to his throat is telling him that it's too late now.

Soap approaches first.

"You got pneumonia or somethin'?"

He almost says yes, but that would mean having to get checked and possibly admitted, so he shakes his head.

"Smoking is catching up to me," he says instead, with as much lightheartedness as he can muster.

Soap just frowns and hits his back, and he's so weak he actually stumbles forward a little. It makes Johnny reel back, wide eyed and, dare he say, scared.

Johnny's fear is yellow, like the petals he threw up in the morning.

"L.t.," he starts. "Something's wrong."

Nothing's wrong. He wants to say. Nothing's wrong, it's just my love trying to find a way to get out of my chest.

But doesn’t say it. Instead, he just shrugs Johnny's hand off and walks away.

He, admittedly, isn’t very close with Gaz. He would take a bullet for the kid, that's for damn sure, but it's not common to find them together.

He's sure he'll miss that stupid mohawk.

It doesn’t surprise him when he approaches next though.

"You need to tell us what the fuck is happening to you man, cause it's starting to get on my nerves."

He appreciates that from Garrick, how straightforward he is. He doesn’t beat around the bush, doesn’t hesitate to speak his mind even if that means getting cleaning duty for months.

So he gives it back.

"I'm not telling you shit."

He can clearly see how the anger climbs up his face, and he almost argues back but decides against it right at the last second.

His eyes though, his eyes are blue. He was delirious once, after getting a bullet lodged inside his belly, and Price was looking down as he yelled at him to "not fucking die, not on my watch". He remembers thinking the blue of his eyes was a nice one, and he noticed a speck of light brown in one of them before he passed out.

Gaz stands up and stomps away. His anger is orange, like the flames that consumed the bag of petals and blood he burned that morning.

Price's favorite color is brown, if he had to guess.

He doesn’t have any argument besides the fact that the stupid bucket hats he uses are different variations of the same stupid color. It's dark brown, light brown, dark brown but not, light brown but not.

He's staring right at it now, with Price glaring at him with worry and fury from the other side of the table.

"Tell me what the fuck is happening now, Simon."

He's not scared to die, not really. In some ways, he's spent a lot of time craving it or at the very least expecting it. He's had so many close brushes with it,

Caelestis. It resonated in his mind the first time he heard it. Caelestis.

it's a miracle - a curse - he's still here at all.

Then he met you.

You arrived at base in January. A whole new medic team, after a certain mission that the 141 had nothing to do with, went sideways.

You were their leader, of course. Bright eyes, despite the fact that he was sure you've seen some shit, same as him. Maybe even worse.

You had your temper, of course. No one gets so high up without one, much less a woman.

You were an expert in your field. All your little medics followed you around like puppies, paying attention to every last word you said, every movement of your fingers. You always smiled at them, kind and nurturing. That's exactly why, whenever you scolded one of them, it was normal to see them crying in one of the bathrooms.

She isn’t cruel, a young recruit once told him as he found them sitting down next to the sink. But she never lies.

He was completely smitten by March.

He's been avoiding you all this time. He sees you in passing sometimes, with your pretty smile and your soft hands helping other soldiers. Your eyes linger on him, looking like you want to pull him out of the turmoil that you know he's going through.

But he always runs before you get the chance.

He loves you. He truly, deeply loves you.

He loves your voice. He loves the way you look at him, the way you frown when you take out his stitches and he's not sure if it's your focus or your worry making you look like that. He loves your hands, how soft they are despite all the chemicals you handle every day to clean wounds. He loves your face, your beautiful face that he hopes he gets to see when he dies before he gets sent to Hell.

And he'd rather die than taint you.

"I'm dying," he decides to say. Because really, there's not much to do now. He can feel the branches filling his lungs, he can't take a breath without coughing up a petal now. 3 times out of 5, they're blue. He wishes you could see them.

Price's eyes tear up. He doesn’t comment on it.

"You should tell her."

He won't. He won't. He'd rather die.

Soap's arms are wrapped around his waist by night, holding him up as he drags him to the medbay and Simon tries his best to pull himself free. It's no use, he's too weak. He's running out of time now.

He will.

"Leave me 'lone", he mutters, but he lets Johnny drag him anyway. He's a dead weight now, he knows nothing can help at this point.

"Just shut up, you fucking idiot."

It makes him chuckle. Johnny sounds so scared, but so angry too. Everyone sounds like that to him lately.

He's about to start trashing again when he sees you.

That bright smile that was shining in your face drops at the sight of him, and he wants to kill whatever made that happen before he remembers it's his fault.

Well, he's dying anyway, so.

You rush towards them, putting his other arm around your shoulders to help Johnny get him to one of the stretchers.

"What happened now?" You demand, "I don't remember any missions for you lately."

Johnny shakes his head but doesn’t answer.

Somewhere in his delirious mind, he appreciates it.

"You're gonna have to cut him open if you wanna find out this time, bonnie."

You think he's joking until Simon starts coughing and petals spill from the balaclava.

Tommy is yelling at him from afar.

He passes out right when you gasp.

He doesn’t like when Tommy yells. He loves his brother, but his voice is too much like their father's.

Tommy is yelling, and he doesn’t understand the words, but he sounds angry. Really angry.

Some weird instinct inside his belly makes him want to stop whatever is making his little brother sound so anguished, but he can't seem to have control of his body.

He barely makes out his name when he feels something shoving at his chest. It hurts, almost like burning.

"Get the fuck out of here!"

He looks down at his brother, confused. Out of where?

Tommy's looking up at him with a red face and sweat dripping down his head. He's furious. He pushes at his chest, making him groan in pain.

"Wake up! Wake up, you fucking idiot!"

Desperation starts clawing at his throat. He's not asleep, is he? He can't be dreaming the pain that is spreading all over his chest.

Tommy shoves him away, making him stumble and fall back. He points right at his face.

"It's not your fucking time, so you better wake up or I'll take you to Hell myself."

A soft hand caresses his head.

"Baby?"

It's mom.

"Are you listening?"

He tries to answer, he really tries. But his mouth doesn’t let him, so instead, he nods.

"She's a nice woman baby, she's gonna hate you if you don't go back."

His mother's voice is soft, softer than her hand as it brushes all over his face. He doesn’t get what she's talking about, but somehow it pleases him. Making mom happy is always amazing.

"Can you wake up, my love? Can you do that for me?"

He smiles at his mom, taking in her face.

She's as beautiful as he remembers, with no bruises or that sad look she always had. Her blonde hair is shining, bright and pretty like an angel.

"Simon?"

He thinks it's mom calling at him again, but he doesn't see her speak. She looks so far away now, but she's still smiling at him. She mouths something he doesn’t understand, but a liquid warmth spreads over his body.

"Simon? Can you wake up for me?"

Mom starts to fade out.

"Please, please wake up."

You sound so worried, all watery. What are you so worked up for? You even sound out of breath. You're not in the field, you couldn't have lost your breath from running or something like that.

He doesn’t like how you sound.

"I love you, Simon."

He wakes up.

(His favorite thing to look at is your eyes)

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crisissleepyzzzz · 1 year

Text

Scars and all

"You gotta be kidding, Si. You got this one from your rookie days?"

He hums in agreement. Your finger traces the scar that divides his eyebrow, warm and kind. He can count with one hand the times he's felt that kind of touch in all his life. You sigh, pressing your lips together.

"And this one?" You ask, following the line across his left cheek. He grins, making his dimples show.

"Bar fight."

You shake your head, frowning at him with poorly hidden amusement. "I'm not even surprised."

He hugs you closer, getting your bodies flush against each other and tracing circles on your back. He sighs, closing his eyes and letting you explore the map of his skin. Your thumbs press against his dimples briefly, making him laugh.

"What is this one from?" You trace the scar across his lower lip that goes down to his chin. He gets distracted from your question when you get closer and kiss it.

"I..." he tries, willing his brain to concentrate. "Mission in Russia, I think. Knife."

You hum, kissing it again and completely erasing any thought in his mind.

Your hands move to his hairline, touching a thick scar that outlines almost half of the top of his forehead. He knows you're frowning, even if he isn’t looking at you.

"Don’t ask."

He feels you tense slightly, but you do as he says. With how smart you are, he's sure you figured out what that one is from. But you don’t say anything, and he silently thanks you.

Instead, you touch his nose and trace a line that goes across the bridge of it. You kiss it too. It sends shivers down his spine, he doesn’t think he can answer now even if he tries.

"This one?" You whisper. He can feel your face almost touching his. He swallows.

"I-I'm not sure." He answers instead, not actually even stopping to think. You chuckle.

"Make something up then."

He can't make something up. He can barely remember his name now, with your hands moving down to his shoulders. He's not even looking at you.

"Maybe..." he takes a deep breath, "I broke it?" He tries, even though of course it's been broken before and you know that. You giggle, squeezing his arms slightly.

"You're shit at storytelling."

He actually is not, but do you really expect him to function fully when you're touching him?

He's not wearing a shirt, and it was fine until you press your palms right at his chest. He squeezes your shirt between his fingers, trying to ground himself. He can feel his entire body getting hotter.

"Gunshot?" You ask, outlining a round scar in the middle of his right pec, close to his nipple. He shudders, nodding. He's silently praying that you won’t- fuck.

He almost bolts out of the bed when you press your lips against it. And he will deny it until he dies, but he yelps too. You giggle against his chest, setting his nerves on fire. His breaths are starting to quicken.

Everything is warm and soft. Your skin, the sheets, your clothes. He's covered in softness that he's not familiar with. He'd do anything to not let go, afraid of even opening his eyes again and all of it banishing.

"Answer me," you order him softly.

Wh-what was the question?

"Y-yes," he replies, even though he can't remember what he's answering to. He just hopes it makes sense, that you don’t notice he's saying it just to please you. He'll say no if you prefer, whatever you want. Whatever you need.

"You sure?"

You're teasing, he knows that. Of course he's not sure, he can barely think with you two pressed so close together.

"A-ask me something else," his voice shakes slightly, making his face go red. He's sure his chest looks the same.

"Okay," you accept. "But open your eyes first."

Taking a deep breath, he does. Your beautiful face greets him, soft and welcoming, loving. He almost wants to squirm with how intensely you're looking at him.

Your hands move lower, down to his abdomen. He squeezes his muscles involuntarly, making you chuckle. His face goes even redder.

Your fingers follow a line that goes from the middle to his right flank, and when you kiss it, his eyes burn a little bit. He's almost hyperventilating, overwhelmed by your attention.

"How old is this one?"

He remembers that one clearly, if only because he had met you not too long before it happened. When he had seen you again, it was with bandages covering it and stitches keeping it together. He never told you, and still, you had treated him so gently he had figured you knew. Turns out it was just you being you.

When he whispers his answer, your head snaps up to his level. He sees you figure it out, how the realization comes to your eyes. But you don’t say anything again, and instead press your lips against his.

You didn't touch even half of his scars, but he's sure you know them by memory. He'd pour out every single story if you asked, make up something if he didn't remember. He'd do anything for you, give you everything you desire. He's just lucky it's him you want, scars and all.

"You're so beautiful, Simon."

He swallows your words just as he keeps kissing you, but his dimples show again and his face stays red for a while.

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crisissleepyzzzz · 1 year

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⇝ MÉNAGE .

Simon makes the mistake of spending the night before one of the longest missions of his career in the arms of a woman he met at a pub, unaware of the consequences it would have on his life moving forward.

CW: Unplanned pregnancy, angst, smut, fluff, dad!Simon.

Also on Ao3!

— CHAPTERS:

‍‍‍‍‍‍‍

I ; Midnight ; [ 10.1k words ]

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crisissleepyzzzz · 1 year

Text

⇝ midnight .

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!AFAB!Reader.

PART ONE OF MÉNAGE.

SUMMARY: Simon makes the mistake of spending the night before one of the longest missions of his career in the arms of a woman he met at a pub, unaware of the consequences it would have on his life moving forward.

WARNINGS: AFAB!Fem!Reader (no use of Y/N!) NSFW [ Oral (F receiving), Degradation, Praising, size difference/kink, dacryphilia, dumbification, slight bondage, frottage, unprotected P in V, overstimulation, various orgasms, creampie.], Angst, Pregnancy, mentions of abortion, kind of OOC Simon? He’s just soft when he’s not Ghost, Canon typical violence.

A/N: My first COD fic! It also happens to be the longest piece of writing I've ever done 😵! This is the first part of a series I've been planning on writing for a while, so I'll hopefully get the second part out soon! Please don't forget to reblog/comment if you enjoy the fic, it helps a lot!!! Thanks for all the support!! <3

WORD COUNT: 10.1k.

MASTERLIST.

Also on Ao3!

Going out wasn't one of Ghost's favourite things to do.

Even after getting back to his tiny flat in Manchester following a horribly long mission and shedding his mask, going back to the burly man his neighbours knew as Simon, some random guy who had moved in a few years ago and seldom stepped outside except for the random smoking session some of them would see him having on his balcony; he didn't enjoy going out.

So when he finally was able to relax onto his shitty leather sofa and catch up with some of the footy games he had missed while away, all he wanted more than anything was a good whiskey in his favourite (cleanest) glass.

And almost like a cartoon character staring at their empty wallet, Simon stared ahead at his liquor cabinet, jaw clenched as he spied at the remaining drops of alcohol that were left in the bottle, remembering the mental note he had made before leaving his flat the last time to get himself the alcohol he had chugged down during one of his depressive episodes.

So, in a fit of anger, he shoved on whatever clean clothes he could find in his duffle bag, skull balaclava pulled over his messy hair, and stomped down the stairs to the nearest Tesco…

…only to find it closed.

And fuck him if he was going to walk the extra hour to the nearest Morrison's just to get some shitty whiskey bottle to drown his sorrows in. At this point, he'd just go and sit in a corner of a pub, nursing what he would hope would be an acceptable liquor.

He was absolutely pissed by the time he made it into the homey bar, the universe having decided to make it it's personal mission to fuck him up today and making the worst storm possible start to rain upon Manchester.

Oh, and of course, the pub's tables were all full of teenagers (who definitely had fake IDs, no way they were all 18), and some old geezers who were shouting at the football game on TV (great, Manchester was loosing, another thing to worsen his night), leaving the only available seat one in the middle of the bar next to some woman chatting amicably to the waiter, who seemed a bit more interested in her cleavage than in what she had to say.

He slipped into the seat silently, his clear eyes death-staring into the bartender's, immediately scaring him shitless ("Yer about ta kill me with that look, Lt." Johnny had once joked about his murderous gaze, and to be fair, Simon /was/ slightly hoping the scot would combust and die right there.), no doubt believing that he was with the woman and was about to punch his teeth in for staring longer than he should have.

As he scurried off into the back, you turned to him, taken aback at first as you made eye contact with the towering, wet, balaclava-clad man who was staring back at you, but you were brave enough to smile kindly at him, going back to running your finger over the rim of your drink, which Simon noticed was still and hardly drank out of, despite the lipstick smudges around the top. You'd been here a while, and by the way your leg was nervously jumping up and down as time passed by, he could only assume you'd been stood up.

Now, Simon wasn't dumb, far from it; and Simon was smart enough to recognize when someone was attractive, and he was pretty sure that the woman in front of him was drop-dead gorgeous despite the sad look that adorned your features. So, if he was correct, he couldn't even begin to fathom how someone could even start to think of standing up a woman like you, especially after inviting her to this shitty pub, where the food had definitely given him food poisoning before.

He hadn't realised how deep in thought he must have been while staring at your glass until a soft hand rested against his bicep, eyes instantly flashing back towards yours, instincts haywire from having been pulled out from his thoughts so suddenly.

"Sorry!" You immediately retracted your hand from his arm, smiling apologetically up at him before turning your gaze back to the golden liquid. "I asked if you were okay. I can't imagine walking around in a storm with just that on." You gestured towards his shirt, allowing Simon to look down and stare at the tight T-shirt he had chosen to wear, a few dirt stains decorating it in the worst way possible, having dressed for the occasion that was a 10pm trip to Tesco and not meeting up with a pretty woman at a pub.

"Wasn't planning on walking 'round." He grumbled out, his voice deeper than what you had expected, the thick accent and scratchy sound of it making shivers run down your spine and heat pool into your stomach, becoming horrified with yourself that you allowed such a minimal thing like a masked man's voice get you all hot and flustered like this.

"'Nd you? Doesn't seem like you're dressed for a night out at the Crown's." His eyes moved towards your dress, surprised with himself that he had actively been the one to continue the conversation; his thick hand reaching over to grab his drink from the bartender's hand (which he must have ordered during the haze he had been in before.) as he awaited your answer.

"Oh." He watched you smooth down your hair out from the corner of his eye, your hands shaky as they found comfort around the fancy glass of your whiskey. Or was it bourbon? Maybe rum? You seemed like the type of woman to appreciate a good glass of liquor. "Yeah, 'm waiting for someone."

He watched your eyes dart over to the clock hanging on the wall opposite you both, the little hand nearing the number 11.

"Could've taken you somewhere nicer." He commented, taking a jab at both the pub and your missing date, the small breathless chuckle that left your lips catching his attention.

"Yeah. Not like I expected a reservation at the Ritz, but somewhere that doesn't look like my grandad's favourite pub would be nice." You joked over the sound of some of the old men cheering in the background over some team scoring a goal, and while Simon would've normally turned around to make sure it had been Manchester, he was too focused on the mesmerising way your eyes looked in the dim light, your eyelashes fluttering innocently as you continued what had started as small talk, that evolved into friendly conversation and him buying you another drink, and that ended with him waiting for you outside the bathrooms, holding onto your tiny umbrella.

Simon wasn't one to frequent in hook-ups, but how enticing you had been when talking to him, the way your body looked in that dress and how you'd brushed your soft hand against his bicep (this time with another intent other than to snap him out of his stupor), had left him wanting, nay, craving more from you.

So when you looked out the window behind him before gesturing to the small umbrella hanging from your bag and asked if he wanted to take you home, he would have been demented to deny you.

His screen's brightness lit up his face as he scrolled over the scarce messages he had received across the almost 10 years he had had this crappy phone, about to delete Soap's number before you came out, a smile on your face and makeup freshly applied.

"Some girls helped me with my makeup in there." You commented happily, fingertips brushing over the blush that had been applied to the apples of your cheeks, which made you somehow look even more enticing than before. "I didn't have time to look in the mirror, but I hope it looks okay."

"Looks nice on you." He let out after processing your new look, his chest tightening as your smile somehow widened and your eyes brightened, having learned across the few hours you had spent together that Simon wasn't really one to show his emotions towards anyone, so a short compliment like that was a big step.

"You think?" You didn't wait for an answer, your hand finding his and starting to lead him out of the shadowy corner he had taken refuge in while your time in the bathroom, letting him push open the exit door so he could open up the umbrella, not caring about the raindrops falling onto him and darkening his clothes, the rain getting caught onto his eyelashes like morning dew on a spiders web, the beautiful orbs drawing you in like a butterfly happily flying into a spider's nest.

The umbrella was open and poised on top of you before you could even step out of the pub, Simon doing his best so you wouldn't be touched by the rain, aware of how uncomfortable some people got when it came to water running down your back or touching your face (especially when you looked so so pretty with your make-up.). Along with his massive frame walking next to you, you were pretty sure there was no way a single drop of water would touch your skin the whole way back home.

Which ended up being almost silent, you leading the way and commenting on random stores or things you passed, brightening up every time you got a chuckle out of him and melting whenever his hand would wrap around your waist as you passed some creepy man or a suspicious-looking group of teens, pulling you into his side so no one would even think of messing with you.

You were highly aware of how dangerous it was in hindsight to take some random man home (whose face you hadn't even seen yet!), but Simon made you feel safe, special, in some weird way… like as long as you were in his vicinity, nothing could happen to you, nothing could harm you. And you wanted to cling onto that feeling, onto the feeling of protection and warmth that Simon extruded.

So you didn't think twice about it, even as you slipped the key into the front door to your apartment complex and stood next to him the whole elevator ride up to your floor, his hand curled around yours with his thumb rubbing over your knuckles, the soft action enough to make heat pool into your tummy and your panties, getting worked up over casual affection from the breathtaking man.

"Y'sure about this, lovie?" His raspy voice made you fumble with your keys as he came up behind you, watching you struggle to unlock your flat as his breath hit your ear. "Tell me to leave and I will. Last chance."

Your breathing grew shaky as his own warmed your cheek, the way he worded it making it seem like the act you were both about to perform was something akin to letting a beast free, and even if it was, as long as Simon was the one to do it, you would have let him do anything.

"Yes." You managed to get out as your door finally opened, not even getting the time to take a step in before his hands were all over you, pushing you into the apartment and slamming the door closed behind him with his foot, his balaclava somehow being pulled up to his nose, high enough so you could gaze upon his soft pink lips and the blond stubble that adorned his chin and slightly crooked nose, aware that you would have spent hours tracing his features with your eyes, engraving them to memory, but he took away any thoughts away from you as he slotted his lips with yours.

You learned immediately that Simon's kisses were desperate, sloppy, needy. The way his hands gripped at your hips and his teeth nibbled onto your bottom lip, tongue running over yours as he trailed his palms down your thighs onto your feet, wrenching off your heels and ripping apart your tights, ignoring the angered whine that left your lips.

"Easier access, lovie." He murmured against your lips, finally pulling back with a sleazy grin on his lips, a string of spit connecting you both before breaking, allowing you a bit of time to catch your breath while he took in your living room, staring at the doors. "Bedroom?"

"Th- That one-" You hazardly pointed towards one of the doors behind you, squealing out loud as he grabbed you effortlessly and started to carry you towards your room, thighs pressed to his sides and ankles crossed behind his back, making sure to cling onto him so he wouldn't randomly drop you (Although by the way his muscles barely tensed when he had picked you up, and how easily he seemed to navigate around while carrying you made you think that there was no way he'd let you fall.)

Your back finally hit your familiar soft mattress, hands clenching onto your silk sheets as he watched you like a hawk, hands resting on the space of your thighs near your now-dripping cunt, thumbs rubbing into the soft pudge.

"Fuck… Just look t'you." He rumbled out, your cheeks growing warm as he continued to stare without moving, enjoying the way you started to squirm beneath his touch. "Calm, lovie, jus' taking my time wiv' you."

You mewled out at the deep tone his voice took, thighs threatening to close as one of his hands made his way towards your clothed cunt, which had been made accessible thanks to your now-ripped tights that had been left behind in the living room.

Simon forced your thighs back open with a grunt, glassy eyes darkening as he watched your own hands come up to cover your face out of embarrassment, letting himself soak in it for a moment before finally starting to act.

"Lean up f'me." You obeyed immediately, trembling under his touch as he slowly pulled your dress off, letting it pool onto the floor along with his shirt, which he had quickly gotten rid of as soon as you were in your lingerie. His eyes roamed the lace for a moment before letting out a dry chuckle, looking up at you to find you ogling at his scarred chest, almost drooling at the sight of his well built pecs and stomach. "Tryin' to get lucky tonight?" He spoke, fingers snapping your bra strap, thinking back to why you were originally at that pub in the first place.

"Shut up." You grumbled, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him up the bed so you could continue kissing him, having been left craving more ever since that breathtaking one in the foyer.

He didn't complain, quickly indulging you as he slotted his lips with yours once again, his kiss as sloppy as needy as before, openly moaning against them as your hands run under his balaclava to pull at the short strands of his coarse hair, his own hands wrapping your thighs around his waist so your clothed pussy could grind against the hard material of his trousers over his hardened cock, rejoicing in the way your moans and whines sounded as he drank them up.

"S'needy." He chastised softly as he pulled away, moving you both towards the top of the bed so you could rest your head on your pillows, catching your breath while he started slipping off his belt and trousers (the belt being placed on the bed, just in case), and letting you gaze upon the tent in his boxers, shivering at the monstrous sight of his cock, trying to imagine how in the living fuck would he fit inside you if he couldn't even fit properly in his boxers, pulling out a moan from your lipstick smudged lips at the simple thought of being fucked by such a tool.

"Like it?" He chuckled, slowly starting to lean down with his hands on your thighs, pulling one of them over his shoulder so he was face to face with your covered cunt, his breath warm as it hit your clit, making you whine. "Gunna let me have a taste?"

"Y-Yes, god, yes, Simon, please-" You breathed out all at once, desperate for his touch after the slow teasing, watching what was visible of his face scrunch up in mock laughter as he revelled in your whines.

"As you wish, lovie."

He didn't even bother pushing your panties aside before taking a lick of your cunt from bottom to top, pressing soft kisses to your clit to hear your desperate whines and feel your thighs shake beneath his touch, continuing to slowly make out with your clothed pussy, purposefully driving you insane with his limited touches.

"Off, off, pl-please, Si, please -" You whined, pushing his head away in an attempt to start to pull your panties down, crying out in frustration as he didn't budge, a growl leaving his lips and sending vibrations up your cunt.

"Don't touch. I'm taking my fucking time, pretty. Or would you rather me stick my cock into you without any prep?" You moaned out loudly at the thought, back threatening to arch as he slowly grasped at your panties, a humourless chuckle leaving his pretty lips. "Yeah, I bet your slutty pussy'd love that, wouldn't it, lovie?" He purred before finally sliding down your pants, taking a moment to stare at your cunt and let you squirm before slowly spreading your thighs again, immediately shoving his face into his prize and repeating his movements from before, but faster and rougher, letting you feel every inch of his tongue as it ran over your lips and slowly inched inside of your hole, your moans and silent screams only edging him further on until he took your engorged clit into his mouth and started sucking, placing a hand on your stomach and pushing your arching back down onto the mattress.

He was surprised, to say the least. Yes, he'd realised you were sensitive as soon as he had kissed you for the first time, but he hadn't expected you to almost burst into tears from being eaten out (He wasn't even /trying/ to make you cry, he wondered what would happen if he did.), so he wondered if all the men you'd been with before had gone down on you, but by the way you were reacting to such simple touches, he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

"So fuckin' sweet, baby." He murmured into your pussy as he let go of your swollen clit, giving your hole some attention as the hand that was on your tummy ran down to circle your clit, overstimulating you in the best way possible. "Taste like fuckin' heaven."

"Si- Simon-" you whined his name out so so sweetly, music to the normally cold lieutenant's ears. "Gonn- Fuuuck! 'Na cum! Please, please, Si, need to-"

"S'okay, let go for me, lovie." He basically purred into you as he continued licking contently at your gushing hole, fingers tactically rubbing on your clit, before changing spots, taking your clit back into his mouth and letting his fingers slip in to you, preening at the sweet gasp that left your lips at the sudden intrusion, his coarse fingers moving in and out and immediately finding that one spot that made your back arch and toes curl, and just as he was taught in the military, he took advantage of the weak spot (in this case, your sweet spot.) and didn't stop brushing his fingers against it, the increasing sound of his name alerting him of your upcoming orgasm.

And once the coil within your stomach snapped and Simon finally let your back arch of the bed, your release gushing out of you and coating his hand and wrist, you let out the loudest moan of his name, the sound immediately going to his painfully hard cock, but he didn't stop, tongue not ceasing its assault on your clit and fingers continuing to rub against your g-spot until you finally came down from your high, brain mushy and eyes glassy as you stared up at the cream ceiling.

"Such a good girl." He purred out as he finally stopped, retracting his wet fingers and taking them into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and cleaning off all of the slick you had left from your orgasm, savouring it like he would with a lollipop. "Fuckin' taste amazing."

You whined in response, the embarrassment from having cummed so fast and having to watch him lick up all your release finally catching up to you, shaky hands moving to cover your sweaty face.

He clicked his tongue, grabbing them before they could cover your pretty features and holding them together in one hand.

"No, baby. Don't want you fuckin' hiding f'me." He snapped, slowly pulling them upwards so that they were pinned against the headboard, his other hand moving to gather the belt he had discarded not so long ago, quickly taking advantage of your cum-lax state to wrap it around your wrists, making sure it was tight enough to constrict you, but not tight enough to hurt, and letting you lie there while he started on getting rid of his boxers. "Wanna see that pretty face while you come undone on my cock. Isn't that what y'want too?"

You tried moving your head to nod, but it felt so so heavy that even the slightest movement felt like a chore, feeling grateful that Simon was a man able to move you around and dominate you without even breaking sweat, that all you needed to do was lie back and enjoy everything he gave you.

"Fuckin' hell. Not even fucked ya yet and you're 'lready gone?" He sneered, coming to hover over you so he could press wet kisses to your cheeks and neck, purposefully avoiding your lips. "Pretty girl gets her pussy played wiv and turns into a right proper slut, don' she?" He purred against your neck, his words making you shiver and squirm as your body instinctively tried to move away from the stimulus, only for him to pull you back towards him with grubby hands, a loud gasp leaving your lips as he pressed your crotches together, having expected the soft cotton of his boxers and not the hard, hot feeling of his cock flush against your dripping pussy.

"Oh- Oh my god, Simon, th-"

"Mm." He cut you off with a soft purr and a nip to your jugular, no doubt making sure that you'd wake up in purple marks the next morning as he did the same all over your neck. "'S me. All me, lovie. F'you."

You moaned at the implication, slowly starting to grind yourself against him as he made it his personal mission to cover your upper body in kisses, stopping at your clavicle and staring down at your bra, that was still to be taken off.

"Fuck, forgot all 'bout these." His hand came up to squeeze one of them softly, a small sound of pleasure leaving your lips at the added stimulation as you continued to rub your cunt against his hardened cock. "Pretty little things."

He started grinding his own hips against yours, watching with amazement at how quickly you reacted to his touch, your back arching enough for him to slip his hands behind and unclasping your bra suspiciously easy, pulling it off and throwing it behind him and landing god knows where, and leaving you finally completely bare beneath him.

"Look t'you." His warm hands immediately cupped your tits, thumb and pointer rubbing your nipples between them, pinching and pulling until they were hard, an amazed chuckle leaving his lips as he listened to your moans increase in sound, his grinding against you not ceasing either.

"Oh fuck- fuck fuck!" It was embarrassing, how quickly he had you whining and mewling beneath him, when you had found yourself struggling before to even feel something with men before him doing the same. It was just something about him, something about the way he sounded and touched, the precise movements against you, almost like he had been trained for your pleasure, to get you over the edge as many times as he could muster before even getting his dick wet.

Because the instant you felt his warm breath hit one of your perky breasts, you knew you were fucked, headed towards your second orgasm of the night. His warm mouth enveloped your hard nipple, pulling and tugging with his teeth and soothing the slight pain he left with his talented tongue, his grinding becoming quicker and rougher as he felt your thighs tremble around his waist, your eyes watering as you neared the release you oh so craved, gasping out loud as one of his hands came up to cup your cheek, thumb rubbing over your flushed skin.

"You gunna cry, baby? S'okay, let it out. Let it out f'me." He growled as he let go of your now throbbing nipple, moving to give your other neglected breast the same attention, hand leaving your face to run down to your core and slowly run over your clit, a huge contrast to the rough movements of his cock against you and his warm mouth on your nipple, all the different stimulations and feelings enough to push you over the edge and let the tears that had been collecting in your waterline finally fall, gasping moans and screams leaving your lips as you soaked his cock, body trembling beneath his ministrations as he chuckled against your nipple, enjoying the way you were slowly falling apart and he hadn't even pushed into you yet.

He didn't stop for a few moments, waiting until the moment where you would inevitably start whining and pushing him off with weak arms to cease, leaning back up with a shit eating grin as he waited for you to come down from your high.

"Oi, look at me." He taps one of his fingers on your face, moving your gaze towards his, a small, patronising pout tugging at his lips as he watches the tears roll down your cheeks. "Poor thing. You all fucked out yet? D'you think y'could still take my cock? Or are you too dumb f'that right now?"

"Y-yes, yes, please, please, need it so bad, Si! So so bad!" You stuttered out between laboured breaths, hands struggling against their binding, itching to be let free and feel his cock in your hands, which you could see between you, almost as girthy as a coke can and with a few prominent veins leading up to his flushed red tip, that was leaking pre spend you would gladly pay money to clean up with your tongue. "O-oh fuck, Simon, please -"

"Sh, shh. Calm down, y'little crybaby." He chastised, leaning down to softly press kisses over the tears that had gathered on your flushed cheeks, chuckling at how desperate you looked under him. "I'll give you what you want. Gon' fuck you so well, yeah? You'll feel me f'weeks, lovie."

"Fuck, yes, please! Want your cock so badly, please!" You cried, legs immediately spreading for him as soon as his calloused hands landed on the pudge of your thighs, slightly digging his fingers into them as he took in the beautiful sight of your soaking wet pussy, having half the mind to shove his cock in you without a second thought. But no.

"Calm." He snapped, one of his hands dropping your thighs and slapping your face softly to get your attention. "Protection, baby. You got a condom?"

He frowned as you shook your head, gasping for breath as you pointed over to your nightstand, where he could faintly see the glint of a packet of tablets in the dark. "Pill. 'M on the pill, Si. Clean. I'm clean."

He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his lips at the thought of being able to cum inside, and how eager you were acting to get him to finally stick his cock inside, whines and whimpers pulling him from his thoughts as he stared down at you.

"You going to let me cum inside then, lovie?" He teased, pulling your other thigh back up so the underside of both of them were resting flush against his bare chest, twitching cock resting on your overstimulated core. "Don' think I'm gonna be able to pull out."

"Don't want you to, fuck! Please, Simon, please!! Inside, want you to cum inside!"

A shiver racked through his body at your words, carefully letting one of your legs go and making sure it would stay there, wrapping around it to grab his cock, slowly sliding the head around your puffy lips to collect the slick, wanting the intrusion to be as painless as possible.

"Fuck… Alright, baby, alright. Breathe f'me." He whispered, letting the head of his cock press against your hole, telling himself to go slow and calm down, but by the way you were pulsing and clenching around the head, almost like you were pulling him in, made it hard to stay sane. "God, slutty lil' cunt's just swallowing me in, huh? Want this cock that bad?"

Your hands shook against their restraint as he started to push himself into your sopping hole, wanting nothing more than to grab onto something for stability, but you didn't want to risk him getting annoyed at you for trying to.

"S'okay, almost there." He mumbled, lying straight through his teeth because with one look down to where he was connected to it would prove that he wasn't even halfway in, and it was already proving difficult for your hole to accommodate to his massive size.

"S'big, Si, you're so biiig." You whined, spreading your legs slightly and pushing your body onto him to help, shivering as you could feel him start throbbing inside of you, no doubt needing his own climax after having spent so much time focusing on you.

You could feel your eyes start to flutter close, mouth dropping open as he finally bottomed out, his heavy balls flush against your ass and cock throbbing inside of you, taking a breather and letting you adjust to his size before he would start on his ruthless pace.

"Fuck, lovie, you droolin'?" He panted, a hand coming up to rest against your face and pull you out of your sex-drunk haze (Despite only getting his cock inside you now.), your eyes drowning in his crystal ones, hypnotised by his gaze as he used his thumb to rub away some of the drool that had dribbled down your chin. "Pretty girl finally gets some cock and turns into a drooling slut, huh?"

You let out a noise of complaint as your hands continued to struggle, the few coarse hairs that were peeking out from under his mask enough to make you want to bury your fingers in them, pull at his strands and dig your nails into his scalp as he rocked your world.

He seemed to to understand what you wanted, a chuckle leaving his swollen lips as he leaned over you, legs folding along with him and allowing him to reach a deeper point in your cunt you didn't know that existed, a loud moan escaping you as his calloused hands start undoing the belt, finally letting your wrists free and throwing the piece of leather away, his hands going back to holding onto one of your thighs and another gripping your waist.

"All yours, baby. All fuckin' yours."

He gave you a moment to react as he bottomed out, leaving you empty for a split moment before he slammed back in, cock head almost instantly hitting that sweet spot deep inside you, your hands immediately finding refuge on his shoulders, nails digging into the scarred skin as he repeated his ruthless thrusts, your body shaking beneath his as he pushed down onto your body, forcing you both into a mating press, your cunt tightening around his cock at the sight of his eyes rolling into the back of his head, tummy fluttering at the thought that he was enjoying this as much as you were.

"Fuck, so good, Simon! So fucking good!" Your hands trailed up to the nape of his neck and pulled at the few short hairs there, urging a growl out of him and causing him to slightly speed up, the head of his cock at this point abusing your g-spot, urging you to near your third orgasm. "Wan- Wanna cum, fuck, gonna cum, Simon!"

"Already, baby?" He spoke through bated breath, his stamina allowing him to keep a good and consistent pace, enough to please both of you and almost bring you to tears again. "That's okay, cum for me, lovie. Cum on my fucking cock, show me how much of a fucking whore you are f'me."

Your back arched, pressing your breasts to his sweaty chest, the extra stimulation from your nipples rubbing against his coarse skin finally pushing you over the edge, your cunt clamping down on his cock and making it near impossible for him to continue thrusting, but as the good soldier Simon was, he persisted, rutting into you with bared teeth and a clenched jaw, fucking you through your orgasm until your slick covered his balls and upper thighs.

"Good girl, good fucking girl." He rasped, hand moving from your waist up to your neck, giving an experimental squeeze and moaning as you clenched around him, a breathless chuckle leaving him. "Fuck, you're still clenchin' around me so nicely, love. Feel so fuckin' good, perfect lil' pussy all f'me..."

Simon was saying nonsense at this point, becoming near pussy drunk as his cock hammered into your puffy cunt, nearing his own peak after all the foreplay.

"Si- Simon-!" You keened, hands running under his mask to grasp at his hair properly, pulling at it to coax another guttural moan from him and leading him back down to engage in a messy kiss, teeth clanking together and spit being shared, feeling the desperation he was in as he continued to batter your pussy searching for his own orgasm. "Cum, please, please, cum inside!"

Simon's eyes rolled into the back of his head at your begging, eyelashes fluttering as his pace stuttered inside of you, cockhead pressing against the entrance to your cervix and finally going over the edge, his spend gushing into you and almost immediately filling you, his cock acting like a plug inside you.

"O-oh, fuuck…" He moaned out, voice going slightly high pitched as he relished in the euphoria of finishing inside of you, his nails leaving ten moon shaped indents on your hips, the pain nothing compared to the feeling of him finally fucking his spend into you, you'd have to worry about the inevitable bruises and marks in the morning before work. "Fuck, you're… fuck."

Simon lowered himself down, resting his sweaty balaclava-clad face on your shoulder as you both caught your breaths, his cock twitching inside of you as he rode the waves of his orgasm.

Your eyes were blown out, staring up at the ceiling as you were hit with a sudden wave of realisation, your brain finally catching up with your body and taking in everything that had just happened, especially the fact that you had allowed some masked man you'd met at a pub on a tinder date to ravage you like a starved animal.

"Oh my god." You said, voice wavering as you shivered beneath the mountain of a man, who's sweaty body was pressed flush to yours, his cock softening inside of you as you both started to sober up. "O-Oh my god, Simon."

He let out a moan against your skin, languidly thrusting one final time into you before slowly pulling out, peeling himself off of you and letting the cold air envelop your now-shivering body, the feeling of his warm cum dripping down your puffy cunt pulling out another broken whine from your lips.

"Look at that…" You tried moving away as Simon ran a finger down your spent hole, gathering his cum best he could before slowly shoving it back into you, clicking his tongue at your reaction before leaning down and pressing a final kiss to your clit, the loud cry that left you making him smile almost predatorily. "So, so pretty, baby."

Your eyelids fluttered closed as you felt the bed shift beneath Simon's moving weight, allowing you time to set your head on straight and think about the next words that were going to come out of your mouth (That weren't strangled moans of the blond's name and jumbled cries about how good he felt.) while he moved around, no doubt getting his discarded clothes so he could slip away into the night.

"...leavin'?" You finally mustered out, letting your head fall to a side so you could watch him pick up his boxers and slip them on, his balaclava fixed into place like it had been when you met him, leaving you to stare into his mysterious blue eyes, the only gateway into the man who had just finished ravishing you.

"..." He turned to look at you over his shoulder, eyes trailing over your shivering frame as he fought internally over your words.

Ghost knew that it would be dangerous to stay, to indulge in your touch and show himself to you in one of his most vulnerable states. He didn't know you outside of the few hours he had spent with you, and even with that, it wasn't enough for Ghost to let his guard down around you.

Simon wanted to stay, he wanted to climb back into bed and let you curl into his side, let his warm hands run up and down your warm skin like he had done while pleasuring you, listen to your snores and even breathing. And despite probably not being able to fall asleep himself, Simon knew that it would be one of the few tranquil nights of his life.

So despite Ghost's alarming protests ringing in his head, Simon slowly made his way into the empty spot of your bed next to you, the covers soft and cool against his heated skin, soothing the raging fire that seemed to boil inside of him at the mere sight of you, his large arms wrapping around you and pulling you towards his side of the bed.

As soon as your bare body made contact with his, you melted like ice cream on a hot day, curling into his side and allowing him to wrap his tattooed arm around you, calloused hands running up and down your sides, taking his sweet time memorising every curve and dip of your body as you rested your head onto his chest, ear pressed right above his rapidly beating heart.

Not one word was exchanged between you both the whole time you lied together, his fingers tracing every little nook and cranny of your skin he could find, stopping every once in a while to rub on a tense muscle or over a scar, the soft ministrations swiftly lulling you to sleep.

The hand that you had splayed on his chest was mimicking his movements, fingers running over the blond hair that adorned his chest, playing with the small cross that dangled from the small chain necklace around his neck. Every time his hand would come up to rub at your shoulders, you caught a peak at the many tattoos that sleeved his arm, and as much as you wanted to turn around and commit all of them to memory, every time you tried to move, he'd press you closer, as if he knew that if he did allow you to, you'd only put off sleeping for longer.

As your eyelids started drooping, you felt his other hand come up to rest over your smaller one, toughened fingers intertwining with your own softer ones, a tired smile forming at your lips before finally clocking out, his heartbeat a firm rhythm that pulled you further and further into the soft grasp of Hypnos.

As expected, Simon didn't sleep a wink.

He had tried to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth you radiated, trying his best to let your soft snores and murmurs lull him to sleep, but it was impossible.

Despite not having slept for more than two days, he was unable to fall asleep, on edge after the catastrophe that was his last mission.

That was one of the reasons he had decided to step out of his comfort zone and allow himself a night of indulgence with you, a night of letting himself go and take out all his anger on you, but he had been impuissant to hurt you or even come close to actually wound you, instead taking it as slow as he knew how to and muttering soft praises and sweet nicknames into your ear along with the degradation that he'd mixed in.

And even after tiring himself out, he still couldn't let himself fully relax.

But as he turned his head to look down at your sleeping face, he thought that maybe this wasn't so bad. He felt… at ease, for the first time in a while. No strident alarms to wake him up at the crack of dawn, no ringing in his ears as a grenade went off near him, no desperately patching up a wound and drenching his hands in blood, no screams and pleas of mercy reverberating around his head as he disposed of the enemy.

None of that. It was just you. With your body curled into his side and your soft skin beneath a killer's hands.

Which is why he wished he could stay there forever. Lock the door and have you in his arms for the rest of his life, without the paranoia and the horrors that followed him everywhere he went, only focus on you and how mushy you made him feel with only a few hours of knowing him.

Which is why he wished he could have just fallen asleep and ignored the vibrations that came from beneath his discarded clothes, that he didn't leave your side and pick up the phone, that he hadn't followed orders like he always did and hadn't left you alone.

He carefully tucked you in, making his side of the bed before hesitantly brushing his scarred knuckles against your flushed cheeks, an alternative to the kiss he oh-so wanted to press down onto you until you woke up, until you asked him to stay, until he caved in and left the 141 to fend for themselves.

But he didn't.

He closed the door to your bedroom, slipped his phone and keys back into his pockets and headed towards the front door, ready to leave you behind and go back to being Ghost.

But as his hand reached for the doorknob, his eyes caught onto a stack of fluorescent yellow sticky notes on the kitchen counter, and in a stroke of not so genius, he grabbed the nearest pen and scribbled down his number onto the piece of paper, signing it with a simple "S .", hoping that you'd deduce it was from him, and not from some random person whose name started with the letter S that had broken into your apartment just to give you their number.

He stuck it a bit too aggressively to the almost bare fridge, making sure it was in a visible spot that you wouldn't be able to miss before finally stepping out of your flat, adjusting his mask in the elevator's mirror and going back to the cold hearted killer his fellow soldiers knew as Ghost.

He'd expected it to be a short mission.

One that they'd be able to finish within two weeks at best so he could go back to his cramped flat in Manchester and hopefully get back to you.

He'd spent almost every day of the first week of his departure wondering if you'd found the note, if when he'd retrieve his phone back from his locker back at base, he'd find a few messages from an unknown number he hoped was yours, asking him how he was, asking him to meet up again, wondering if he was okay…

That's what mostly kept him going for the first few days.

Until it all went haywire.

The mission escalated quickly into a mess of soldiers and betrayals, flying from place to place and taking more lives with his bare hands than he had ever before.

Blood soaked his hands in a way it never had, the toll of deaths on his name increasing with every passing day, week, month, year.

When the mission that had started off as something simple, something Ghost couldn't even remember, ended after a year, the 141 couldn't be more relieved. And exhausted.

They'd fought for many months straight, barely finding places to get a wink of sleep, and sometimes even running out of food while they camped out in one of the dingy safe houses of whatever city they were currently stranded in.

But it was finally over. Their target had been disposed of and any enemy that remained had either been eliminated or had scurried off.

As the chopper brought them back to base, none of them said a word, even Johnny refrained from making any jokes, knowing that it would only piss off both of his superiors and maybe get a tired chuckle out of Gaz.

Price uttered a "Good job." to all of them before patting them on the shoulder and going to his office, no doubt ready to go back home and have the sleep of his life.

The two sergeants withheld from talking too much to their lieutenant, murmuring a goodbye to him before going their own way, Ghost not even bothering to answer, too mentally and physically exhausted to even open his mouth to speak.

The first thing he did once he reached his locker was throw the goddamn mask off, letting the plastic skull clatter against the tiles as he rummaged through his belongings, wanting nothing more than to get into some clean clothes and go back home, where he would drink away the horrors that would no doubt follow him and probably pass out watching reruns of football games he had missed.

The clothes he had worn the day before the mission were tighter, accentuating the change in his physique after putting his muscles to work for a whole year, the seams of his trousers digging uncomfortably into his legs, his pockets full of random junk he had left in there.

He fished for whatever was currently pressing against his backside, pulling out his small phone from the pocket, frowning down at the gadget, which was no doubt out of battery after being left for so long.

Simon was pleasantly surprised when the screen brightened, showing his black lock screen and the time, the battery hanging onto dear life with a 1%. He moved to grab his charger, his eyes still trained on the incoming notifications that would soon flood his home screen, not really expecting much aside from the emails entailing rubbish deals or the occasional spam from a porn site he'd signed up to as a teen and hadn't been able to delete.

Instead, he was bombarded with over a thousand notifications at once, all from the same unknown number, the messages going too quickly for his tired eyes, focusing on the random words he was able to take from the rapidly passing texts.

‍

Answer.

Ignoring.

Asshole.

Appointment.

Doctor.

Pub.

Baby.

Pregnancy.

‍‍

His mind blocked itself off as he processed the last word, trying to make sense of all the confusing messages that had been sent to his phone.

Had it been by accident? Was he the recipient of some prank? Had he unknowingly given out his number to someo-

You.

Simon's throat went dry as the realisation dawned on him. Without sparing another second, he unlocked his phone, clicking onto the notifications and scrolling down as fast he could while still intaking information, afraid that his phone would die out at any point in time and render him utterly confused and terrified.

His body went on autopilot the more he read, brain fuzzy as if he had just drank a whole bottle of hard-hitting liquor, his eyes fixed on the bright screen of his phone in terror.

He was in shock. His mind wasn't in the right state to process any of this, he wasn't able to properly begin to fathom the meaning behind your words, as simple as they were.

‍

— I'm pregnant.

— I'm fucking pregnant, Simon.

— I don't know how it happened, the chances of the pill failing are so fucking low, and of course it happened to us.

‍

— Please pick up.

— I know you're getting the messages.

‍

— The doctor told me it's too dangerous to perform the abortion.

— I have to keep it or risk my life.

‍

— I need you to answer, Simon. Please, I just need to know that you're there.

— I'm scared.

‍

— You're such an asshole, you know that, right?! Fucking gave me your number only to disappear? Left me pregnant with your bloody kid!? And you can't even bother to pick up the goddamn phone.

‍

— Fuck you.

‍

— …

— It's a boy. Thought you'd want to know.

‍

— My due date is in a month. Please… call me, if you're even reading these. I don't want to be alone.

‍

The phone flashed the low power message in hopes that Simon would take mercy on it and finally plug it in, but Simon paid it no mind, clear eyes staring down at the picture you'd attached during one of the first months of your pregnancy.

The blurry picture of an ecography staring back at him disproved any doubts that might have formed in his mind, your full name displayed at the bottom along with the date it was taken, solidifying the fact even more.

It was real. This was real. You'd been carrying his son for 9 months, sending him frantic and terrified messages all throughout the three trimesters in hopes that he'd answer, all the while he had forgotten all about you in the midst of his mission, while you probably didn't spend a single day of that year not thinking about him.

His phone went dark once it finally had enough, leaving him standing there with a dry throat and shaky hands.

It was rare for Ghost to feel fear, but not for Simon. His throat would contract with every breath, his nose would sting as tears threatened to form on his waterline, his hands would get shaky until he balled them up and threw a punch into whatever item was closest.

This time wasn't any different. He punched his locker door, denting the metal effortlessly as he tried to wash away the fear and guilt creeping up to him with the pain that bloomed at his knuckles, that ran up his arms like electric shocks until they went numb.

He was an asshole.

Simon knew that it wasn't his fault that the mission had been extended for way too long, but he kept thinking back to the moment he'd placed his number on your fridge, wondering what would have happened if he'd done the smart thing and added that he'd be unavailable for a while, but that he'd get back to you. Maybe you would have been less scared while going through the pregnancy, comforted by the thought that he hadn't been ignoring you, but he knew that even then, you would have gone through it alone and terrified.

"I'm an asshole."

He rested his head against the dented locker, the cool metal soothing the headache that had quickly formed after all the conflicting feelings that had rushed through him in the matter of a minute.

All he had wanted was to go back home and rest, but fuck him if he was going to be able to even close his eyes after learning he was a father.

He packed everything up as quickly as he could, not bothering to say goodbye or join the other three for a drink at a pub, heading to his car so he could get the fuck out of London and back to Manchester, where he prayed you still lived, in that tiny flat near that dingy pub where he had first laid eyes on you in.

As his gloved hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, a terrifying thought struck him.

Who's to say you had even kept the baby?

Who's to say you couldn't bear to look at the baby, that you'd given him away to a way more functional family?

The thought inflicted fear in him, a type of fear he didn't know if he should be feeling or not, confused with all the unpleasant emotions swirling inside of him.

"God, fuck!" He slammed his hands onto the steering wheel, the roar he had let out no doubt scaring any civilian that had been walking near his car at the time, but he couldn't care less.

All that was important now was getting back to you, to what he hoped was still the mother of his son.

Happy giggles and gurgles filled the living room, your tiny baby outstretching his arms out as you cycled his legs slowly, making silly faces down at him to keep him distracted.

Your doctor had recommended small exercises like these, some that would help develop his future motor skills, but you'd found that Tommy was a curious baby, one that couldn't stay still for longer than five minutes before he was whining and huffing in a futile attempt to get your attention and hopefully release him from his tiny prison; and so, in order to keep him focused, you resorted to having leisured conversations with him, your small son hanging onto your every word with wide blue eyes and a gaping mouth, as if he could understand your frustrations with the man who had blocked your car off and the girl from the bakery that had gotten your order wrong, or making silly faces at him to hear him giggle with glee.

You placed his small feet down and went back to your resting face, his eyes instantly going from your face to the closest toy, small chubby arm reaching out to grab it, your fingers running over his tummy and getting out a few giggles out of him before he finally grasped the toy, pressing it into his side.

As he distracted himself, you let yourself sit down properly, back hitting the edge of the sofa as you watched your son roll around on the blanket you'd laid down, letting yourself look up at the TV for a moment to have a small break, the news reporter standing in front of Big Ben ranting about some resolved political dispute or something.

Your eyes trailed back down to your son, who was wriggling around with a new toy in his grasp, cooing and drooling as he stared up at the ceiling, blue eyes fixed on one of the many cracks in the ceiling.

You winced at the not so friendly reminder of the state your flat was in. Going through a pregnancy on your own without any help and barely any money to take care of yourself left your home in a condition you were not proud of. You'd tried your best to clean and make the nursery as cosy as possible, but at the end of your third trimester you could barely lean down to pick up the hoover. Once you had been allowed back home, you'd cleaned up, but you couldn't really do much to fix the poor way your building had been constructed.

A sigh left your lips, leaning down to rest your head against your knees with closed eyes, giving yourself a few moments of sacred rest, something you seldom got anymore those days.

Sometimes, you thought as you wrapped your arms around your legs, you wished you weren't alone. As much hate you had harboured for your son's father across the year, you couldn't help the longing that still filled you every time you thought about him, wondering if you'd ever see him again, if he'd ever hold his son in his arms.

Frustrated tears filled the corners of your eyes, wiping them away with your sleeves before turning your attention back to your son, who was now squirming in his spot making grabby hands at you.

"I've got you, duck, don't worry." You cooed, picking him up and pressing a few kisses to his chubby cheeks, cradling him to your chest as you got up from the floor, careful to not drop him or bump him into anything.

As you took him back to his room, routinely changing his diaper and clothes, you thought back to the small breakdown you almost had had a few minutes ago, letting out an exhausted sigh. There was no use in imagining a future where Simon fit in, you'd given him enough time to answer, to show any signs of life at all. You were alone.

You were on the verge of tears as you placed Tommy in his tiny crib, handing him the small duck plushie your grandma had knitted a few months back when she had come to visit, watching him cling onto it in his sleep for a few moments, his soft breaths and coos tranquillising the waves of anxiety threatening to drown you.

"Good night, Tom." You whispered, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek before flicking on the night light, carefully closing the door and resting your body against it, a shaky sigh leaving your chapped lips.

God, you were pathetic. Hung up over a man who you'd only known for a few hours, who'd left you with a baby (unknowingly or not, didn't matter), who still haunted your dreams every time you tried to get some rest. Why couldn't he have just picked up the phone? Why had he just given you his fucking number if he wasn't bothering on answering? Why had he gotten into your head so easily, with his sweet nicknames and soft kisses? Why couldn't you just fucking mov-

Your whole body jumped as the shrill doorbell rang, the sound reverberating around the flat and no doubt reaching Tommy's sensitive ears.

"God, yeah, I hear it!" You cried out as the sound didn't stop, starting to get worried that it would wake your baby up and then you'd have to deal with putting him to sleep all over again. "Fuck! I know, I'm coming!"

You looked through the peephole, eyebrows furrowing as you gazed upon a man's tacky army jacket instead of the normal face, so either this guy was incredibly fucking tall or he was standing on a stool.

Knowing that the area you lived in wasn't the safest, you unlocked the door but kept the chain latch on, a gap big enough so you could see the guy outside but not big enough for him to attack you.

"What?" You snapped, a bit harsher than how you'd normally answer the door, but this guy didn't really deserve any respect after how he'd basically abused your doorbell to the point of the sound still ringing in your ears. "What do you-"

Your gaze had been fixed onto his chest, scanning the army jacket you had spied through the peephole, cringing internally at the Union Jack plastered on his left bicep, hoping to God that he wasn't some type of Tory propagandist going door to door. But as your eyes trailed up to meet his, your mouth went dry.

Crystal blue eyes framed by pretty blonde eyelashes (identical to the blue eyes your son had been staring up at you with for the past three months), contrasting with the black face paint that was smeared around his eyes, the rest of his face obscured by that damn skull balaclava that haunted you.

It was him. It was fucking him.

"Simon." You said his name breathlessly, not missing the way his body stiffened at your shaky tone.

"Yeah. It's me."

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