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ilium-ilia · 3 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Eight: elephant in the room

tw: anxiety, vomit

You’re still terribly febrile when you wake up.

Stiff muscles and joints scream as you stir, bleary eyes hardly able to make sense of your surroundings. Faux darkness smothers the room as thick curtains forbid sunlight from raiding your vision with its unforgiving rays. Sediment builds between your bones where they crack and crumble into dust as you sit up, head protesting the movement with several throbs. A bottle jostles next to you on the mattress. A gift, you’re sure. You try to swallow the wooly dryness in your mouth before you greedily uncap it and take a rapacious swig.

It’s dreadful. Briny and falsely sweet; your lips pucker as your tongue shrivels at the nasty flavor. Sea water would have been more appetizing and refreshing, yet your mouth is so dry you drink until half of the bottle is gone anyway. When you’re finished, you cough and it’s wet. Mucus and snot plague your throat, too far back for you to do anything but swallow it—thick, like pudding.

Up your body urges. You sigh as you swing your legs over the side of the bed where sweet Pumpkin stares through you. Pursing your lips, you give her threaded nose a quick poke before standing. You’ve been stagnant for too long, thick blood pooling in your limbs, weighing them down like lead as you drag yourself out of the bedroom, blanket thrown over your shoulders like a hermit crab. You’re a walking mess—a zombie with half a brain.

Lovely aromatics waft through the house as you descend the stairs, and the kitchen is sweltering when you wander in. A heavy wall of heat emanates from the stove as John works away at a cutting board with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms. Carrots, onions, and celery dust the board as a pot of broth boils behind him on the stove. The knife glints in the light, and you will your stomach into submission as your mind begins to buzz. He greets you with a polite smile as you approach the kitchen island, hands fumbling with the barstool as you make room for yourself.

“Morning Chip,” he greets before glancing at his wristwatch. “Or, afternoon.”

Sniffing, you attempt a smile back at him, but your face feels too swollen for it to come across correctly. “You’re making me feel like a bum.”

“Well, considering the circumstances, you deserve to have a few days off,” he chuckles warmly.

John turns, cutting board in hand, where he dumps the contents into the broth. The liquid quells for only a short moment before it begins to boil once more, this time with a vengeance as steam billows from the liquid like mist upon a lake. The sink turns on where smooth water runs over dirty dishes as he works on cleaning up his mess. There’s a slight urge to get up and help—to give something back to the people who housed you for the night—but the very thought alone is enough to make your muscles scream.

Perhaps, just this once, you will allow someone to take care of you.

“Riley bought enough chicken broth to feed a damn army, but I figured I’d spruce it up with some veg. Give it some meat. Unless you fancy plain watered down bone juice,” John teases as he dries his hands.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say, voice cracking.

“Of course I did. This is you we’re talking about.”

Quiet feet tap against the beautiful, dark stained floor as Aelin enters the kitchen swaddled in a fluffy pink bathrobe, freshly showered. Her eyes light up when she catches sight of you curled over the counter, but there’s still that lingering glint of concern as she approaches with outstretched arms. Before you can protest, she envelops you in her arms. Half dried hair presses against your cheek as you’re smothered in the strong sillage of rosewater.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, holding your head tight against her chest. She’s warm—most likely thanks to her shower—and you can’t help but melt into her despite your illness.

“You’re gonna get sick,” you whine.

“Well, you’re feeling good enough to talk back, it seems,” she teases before releasing you.

Just as John turns the stove off, Aelin slides onto the stool next to you, elbow playfully bumping against your arm in the process. You bump her back and attempt to laugh—you’re brutally interrupted by another wet cough.

“Have you taken any medicine?” she questions.

“Row, I just woke up,” you respond with a huff.

“John?” she says as if calling a dog.

He chuckles. “On it.”

“You have to keep up on taking this stuff,” Aelin chastizes. “Remember what the doctors said? You’re going to get an ear infection again if the pressure and fluids build too much, and I don’t think you can afford to lose any more of your hearing. Really, we ought to get you to an audiologist…”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure. “Just… give me the stupid medicine.”

While the soup cools, John vanishes to retrieve whatever sort of medicine Aelin is going to force down your throat, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you look at her. She rests her head in her hand with a cheeky smile, utterly content with herself. She’s glowing, dewy skin illuminated by the bright kitchen light as she assesses you with careful eyes.

“You seem… happy,�� you say in an attempt to get the attention off of you and your ailment.

Aelin hums as her feet flutter with girlish glee. “Yeah, guess so. Maybe more excited than anything else.”

“What about?”

“John surprised me this morning with an early Christmas present. He’s got us tickets for a trip to The Maldives over the holiday,” she says, keeping her voice low as if it’s a secret.

It’s impossible to hide the way your eyes widen at her words. Sometimes, you forget exactly how… well off John and Aelin are. Even as a child, Aelin lived a somewhat privileged life due to the status of her father as a Chief Inspector. The man was virtually a pseudo politician, and with his dangerous job, he had a very generous life insurance policy that was paid out when he died. Couple that with John’s establishment in the city, you doubt either of them have known a moment of financial discomfort since they got married.

There is no envy in your realization. You’ve known from the very beginning that their type of life isn’t for you—not with your hands dried from sanitizer and body weak because you don’t know how to scream no loud enough.

“Sounds fancy,” you smile.

“Sounds warm,” Aelin corrects with a chuckle. “I’m tired of the cold. You should come with us. I’m sure I’ve got room in my bag. Think we can fold you up tight enough?”

“Sure, and John can drag me around like a third wheel,” you say with bitter humor. “Think if I shrink myself small enough we can trick them into thinking that I’m your child?”

Aelin’s laughter is stiff. Her smile doesn’t get her eyes to shine as bright as they normally do. “I’ll bring you a souvenir then.”

A pang echoes throughout your chest. “Good idea,” you murmur, gauche.

John returns shortly with cough syrup in hand and he slides it to you across the island countertop like a bartender. It goes down surprisingly easy; too smooth, albeit a tad bitter, you take it like a shot to quickly drown out the menthol burning the back of your nose. Somehow, it seems to clear your mind a little. Or, perhaps you have a proper night’s rest to thank for that.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas this year? And please, don’t say work.” The sweet melody of fresh soup pouring into a bowl accompanies Aelin’s question as John divides the meal before sliding it in front of you. You give him a quick appreciative smile before she continues. “I swear, if you say work I’m going to actually force you on this trip.”

“I’m not working,” you huff, swirling your spoon around your bowl. Thin wisps of steam tickle your chin and nose, melting the congestion that resides deep in your sinuses. “Bruce always takes off the days surrounding Christmas. Still gives us holiday pay, too.”

“Good,” Aelin hums, though she’s yet to be satiated. “Well, since John and I will be gone this year, maybe you can spend the holiday with Riley instead.”

As your eyes close in disbelief, you’re able to recall part of your conversation from last night. How you called Aelin out for her using Simon to keep an eye on you. Ever since that dinner party back in October, she’s been trying to hook you up with the guy, and she’s been less than tactful about it.

Simon isn’t… a bad person. Despite the tattoos, and how he broke Andrei’s nose like he was punching through warm butter, he’s someone you feel surprisingly comfortable around. You’re not sure why. It’s like there’s a lullaby written into his DNA—something to counteract the sheer size and nature of him. Maybe it’s because of the way he took care of you that night; hiding you away in the VIP room when you panicked and blacked out. You woke up not feeling violated or scared—just confused. Or maybe it’s because you’ve felt his heart. How it beats in his chest, steady and strong.

You swallow your embarrassment down with a spoonful of soup.

“I’m sure he’s got a family of his own. Taking a break from babysitting me would probably be lovely,” you say with unforgiving emphasis.

For a moment, Aelin turns her attention to John, who’s already halfway finished with his soup. “Does Riley have any family?”

He pauses. “In Manchester, yeah.”

“See?” you point out. “He’ll leave London far behind, and I’ll most likely watch The Grinch on repeat. Alone.”

A pout forms on Aelin’s rosy lips, but it’s not the playful childishness you’re used to. Legitimate annoyance crosses her features, and you feel something wash over you in a cold mist. You get the feeling this conversation isn’t going the way she wanted it to.

“I just… don’t like the idea of you being alone this time of year,” she finally concedes.

You try not to huff. There’s only true concern for you behind her tone, but that doesn’t make it any less smothering. Buying yourself time, you lift the bowl up to your lips with careful hands and drink the broth as you think of a response that doesn’t make you sound like a child. Or worse; ungrateful. You are appreciative of every kind action that anyone has ever shown you—but the sour taste it leaves on your tongue knowing that you don’t deserve it has become nearly unbearable.

“I’ll be fine,” you attempt to assure. “I’m a grown woman. It’s not like I’m a kid who’s going to be let down because there’s no tree or presents.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Despite the fresh soup in your stomach and the fever ravaging your nerves, everything goes cold. The chill even reaches John, whose attention flickers back and forth between you and his wife, cold eyes attempting to decode the oncoming mess. There’s a twitch in his lips that rustles his facial hair—he wants to speak, but stays silent as his eyes return to his bowl, completely emptied. His spoon still scrapes the bottom anyway.

“Aelin-” you start.

“You promised me on Halloween that you’d be kinder to yourself,” she interrupts. “But look at you. Sick, still trying to work yourself to death… Would you have even asked for help if I hadn’t called last night? You promised me you’d stop punishing yourself but the closer we get to the anniversary of his death, the worse you get.”

“Hey now,” John attempts to intervene—but this isn’t his fight.

“I know it’s not easy to- to talk about stuff like that, and I’m not saying you have to talk to me about it. I… I know why you don’t want to talk to me about it. I just wish you’d share this burden with someone. Chip, none of that was your fault, you were just a kid.”

Metal clinks against pristine china as you drop your spoon in your bowl, head shaking. The antithesis to her statement screeches in your head like nails on a chalkboard. It’s loud enough to cut through the tinnitus in your ears.

He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you.

She always says you were just a kid. A child. As if that absolves you from the hot sin that burns your skin. You might have been a child then, but it’s been twelve years and you haven’t repented. It’s why your hearing is marred and every flash of light seems like it’s reflecting off of the blade of a knife and-

“Please,” Aelin begs, “let me help you. Let someone help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Your feet hit the ground as you slide off the barstool and your vision begins to tunnel. Spots swirl in front of you in a dizzying dance, and you shake your head as you turn away from Aelin.

“I can’t,” you breathe. Your heart leaps into your throat, choking you, but you can’t swallow it. It pounds and writhes inside of you, twisting in ways that it shouldn’t as you stumble along the kitchen island. Despite your vision, you take note of the way John mirrors your movements as he follows you from the other side of the island. He says something, but it doesn’t reach you. “I can’t.”

John’s arm wraps around your front just before your knees collide with the ground. Plastic scrapes against the wood floor with an aching scratch as he lowers you, and you find your hands gripping the side of the bin just in time for your stomach to lurch. All of John’s hard work goes into the bin, and it burns on the way back up as soup mixes with cough syrup and salt. Aelin slides onto the floor next to you, robe pulled taut as she rubs your back with an anxious hand.

“Oh my god, Chip. Chip, I-I’m so sorry, I-”

“Easy now,” John whispers, his voice so deep you nearly can’t register it.

At first, you think he’s saying it to you. Some sort of comfort as you spit the remaining vomit in your mouth into the bin, trying to rid yourself of its rancid taste. When you finally catch your breath and your stomach ceases its unnecessary convulsions, you realize he’s saying it to Aelin. Hot tears mix with her trembling lip as she stares at you with wide, reddened eyes. Overcome with compunction, she mutters apologies between shaky breaths, hands pawing at your back.

Once more, your stomach lurches but you’re able to bite back the bile. You hate seeing her cry. You’d do anything to make her stop.

But you’ve never been good at comforting anyone—especially yourself.

Nothing feels real after that. Not the way John and Aelin help you back into the guest room to get some more rest. Not the way Aelin’s stifled sobs echo in the hallway as they leave. Not John’s attempt at comfort. It tears you apart in a way nothing else has. You don’t know why you’re like this; so broke that you hurt others on the pieces of you in the process. If you could just talk—share that darkness inside of you—do something… but you can’t. The only thing you’ve ever been good at is running away and escaping by the skin of your teeth.

Aelin takes you home later that night after the dust settles, but neither of you talk about the elephant in the room. Its weight sits so heavily on your chest that you can hardly breathe. Neither of you mention her father who’s been long dead and rotted in the ground in a cemetery you can’t bring yourself to visit. She doesn’t ask why you keep everything under tight lock, or why you’ve seemingly thrown away the key. Despite your efforts at hiding, you’re always afraid that you’ll be found out eventually.

Someone will come along and sniff out your secrets like a scavenger with carrion.

For now, you let the flesh rot inside of you and pray that Aelin can’t smell it as she embraces you in the car. If it weren’t for the center console, you’re certain she would pull you into her lap and cradle you against her chest as if you were a child again. She doesn’t whisper anything more than a farewell to you, but you can feel the apology exuding from her body.

You think that’s why—after all these years—you and Aelin are still as close as you are. Both of you are sorry for something, and neither of you know how to say it.

Over the next few days, your symptoms improve. You spend most of your days sleeping and resting in bed where you sip on cold medicine like it’s sugar water. It feels strange doing nothing, and you’re certain your paycheck will feel the effects too, but for once you can’t bring yourself to care.

Eventually, you can breathe unobstructed and you no longer choke every time you try to speak. Your mind clears, but lingering aches still ravage your muscles with vigorous hunger which only begins to worsen throughout the week. Radiating further than just your legs and stomach, you don’t realize until it’s too late that your period is the one to blame.

Out of the pan and into the fire, it hits you while you’re at work. You’ve nearly bled through your pants by the time you’re able to make it to the bathroom, and without any proper sanitary items, you’re stuck using cheap toilet paper for the rest of your shift. Clumped up paper, it feels disgusting shoved between your legs, but you’re unprepared. Still, nothing rivals the discomfort of the cramps that shred your muscles apart, insides twisting and writhing as it expels unwanted blood and tissue—it hurts more than usual.

Another unintended side effect from Marco’s lovely cold. Your body hardly had any time to recover from being sick, and now it’s expending even more energy. Your only saving grace is that you find a handful of pads when you get home. No more tampons. This month, your flow is heavier than usual, and you’re bleeding through them too quickly—you’ll run out by tomorrow. It’s a frustrating realization having just gotten home and knowing you’ll have to force yourself back out.

Tomorrow. You’ll brave the world with blood and endometrium tissue tomorrow, but for now you’re content in bed, curled around a heated rice pack. Its warmth seeps into you but only skin deep. Angry muscles still convulse inside of you, unthwarted by your attempts at satiating its anger. Huffing, you try to distract yourself, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, watching videos, anything to forget the pain.

A message buzzes on your phone, vibration tingling your fingers, and you don’t have to look at the ID to know that it’s Simon. Both of you have the worst sleep schedules due to the hours you work, and with it nearing one in the morning, you know it can’t be anyone else. Or, maybe you’ve just grown to know him too well.

How are you feeling?

Of course he’s checking in. It’s his job, isn’t it?

better thank you! been living off of the soups and drinks you bought.

It’s a slight lie. The soups are great. It’s that perfect canned broth that harbors just the right amount of brine, but you can’t stand those electrolyte drinks. Maybe you would be feeling better right now had you just toughed it out and drank them, but you quickly swapped them out for regular water instead. They’re currently rotting in the back of your fridge.

Glad to hear.

You stare at the message so long you feel your eyes cross and vision blur. Fatigue and pain is finally getting the better of you, and you can feel sleep calling for you, weighing your body down until you feel glued to the bed. It nearly takes you—forces you into the depths of dreams—but you’re jostled awake by another message from Simon:

Going Christmas shopping tomorrow. Wanna join?

It’s fairly easy to sniff out the fact that this is Aelin’s doing. You’re certain the guilt is still eating her alive from last week, and neither of you have really messaged one another beyond a hope you’re feeling better. She loves deeply and strangely; you’re not even sure she understands it herself, and still…

sure! i need to do some shopping anyway

Simon hums when your message pops up on his screen, happy with your answer. It’s frigid in the garage, so much so that he can see his breath. Usually he’s inside by this time, watching a show to put himself to sleep or making a late dinner, but not even that can satiate his insomnia. Instead, he finds himself cleaning his bike. There’s not really a need—he cleaned it last week—but he knows he has to. He has to keep his hands moving, otherwise his mind gets the best of him.

I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon.

As he shoves his phone back in his pocket, he thinks of you curled up in bed again. How warm you were against his hand, yet how you couldn’t seem to stop shivering. It was a painful reminder about how you were the day he found you in that alley, hardly able to stand on your own, overcome with terror. He hates that he can’t get that vision of you out of his head, but he hopes you’re telling the truth when you say you’re doing better than you were before.

Grunting, he gets back to work on his bike while his mind wanders. He still hasn’t forgotten about Andrei or the work Johnny has been putting in to figure out who the bastard really is. The most headway they’ve been able to gain has been thanks to Kyle, who saw him at some sort of political gala the other week. Shady enough to be found lurking in an alleyway, but important enough to be hanging with London’s top 1% is never a good sign.

It doesn’t matter. There’s not a skull in the world Simon Riley doesn’t know how to crack open. He doesn’t think he can rest until he knows you’re safe from whatever monsters are lurking in your shadow.

When his phone vibrates again, he thinks it’s a text back from you until it doesn’t cease. He quickly wipes his hands until they’re free of cleaner before retrieving it once more. The screen flashes brightly, alerting him that his mother is calling.

“Hello?” he answers. There’s slight worry in his tone as he wanders away from his bike, almost as if he’s getting ready to run on foot all the way to Manchester if his mother so requested it.

“Ah, I know you’d be awake. Still working late shifts, I take it?” she asks as if they’re talking over tea.

“There’s no mornin’ shifts at the club, mum,” He cheekily reminds her. “More concerned ‘bout you bein’ up this late.”

She chuckles, and it sounds different from when he was a kid. There’s gravel in her voice now, vocal chords changing with age, but it still fills him with the same warmth that it always has.

“Don’t worry about me, love. Got too carried away with the garden documentaries again,” she assures.

“Let me guess. France?” he asks.

“Italy this time. Their gardens are beautiful. Much more natural,” she explains.

Simon hums. “I’ll take you to see ‘em one day.”

Mrs. Riley laughs at her son, a silly cackle that has a smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, my sweet boy, I’d be plenty happy with just a simple visit. Speaking of, you’re still coming home for the holiday, yes? Little Joey’s excited to see his Uncle Simon again.”

It’s impossible for him not to smile at the thought of his nephew. Sweet tyke is about four years old and he can still envision his toothy grin perfectly. His idiot brother was able to do some sort of good in the world after all.

“Course I am. We’re goin’ Christmas shoppin’ tomorrow. Probably be headed down Christmas Eve, if that works?” he explains.

“We?” she repeats, the lilt of her words giving away her grin.

Simon blinks, Freudian slip having gotten the better of him. “A friend and I, yeah.”

“What kind of friend?” she prods.

“Just a friend.”

There’s no stopping the storm of words brewing up in his mother’s mouth. Even from over the phone he can see them swell with the curve of her lip and tilt of her head.

“Well, there is plenty of space in the guest room if this friend of yours wants to join us for the holiday. Just recently moved a queen sized mattress in there, too. I know how hard it was for you to fit on the twin sized bed…”

“Mum,” Simon sighs, cutting his mother off before she can continue. “It’ll just be me.”

“Oh, alright. Can’t blame an old crone for trying,” she titters. “But, Christmas Eve. Perfect. I’ll make sure to have everything set up.”

The conversation dwindles into small talk before Mrs. Riley eventually gets too tired to continue. Her documentary on European gardens can only entertain her for so long before the night gets the better of her. They wish one another goodnight, with promises of seeing each other soon before the line goes dead. Though the silence is benign, he can’t help but be grateful that he doesn’t have to explain to his mother—yet again—why he never brings any girls home for the holiday.

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Simon checks the time only to get distracted by a glowing notification. You had responded to his text while he was taking that call:

sounds good! see you tomorrow si (:

He stares at the message longer than he should. It’s… cute. The shortened use of his name coupled with the smiley face. Usually, he’s not a fan of nicknames. His last name, Riley, isn’t something he’s proud to carry either, but no one at work seems to call him anything else. Still, he imagines your voice as he rereads your message, and he has to shake his head before his thoughts devolve into a mess he can’t afford to entertain.

See you tomorrow, sweetheart.

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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winterwandersland · 5 months ago

Text

The Box Pt. 3 (18+)

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Pt. 1, Pt 2

tw/cw: fingering, dom/sub, humping, orgasm denial, spanking, choking, more that i’m probably forgetting (pls lmk) word count: 2.1k tag list: @lov3-ly, @foxintheferns, @deltasqueen, @msilwrites

You just couldn’t escape.

The ropes.

The pain.

The pleasure.

It had all started to become too much. You couldn’t tell how much time had passed. An hour? Maybe. If that.

You didn’t know how much more you could take. With every check-in Simon did, you told him “yellow”. At least you did the best you could through the panties that were still gagged in your mouth, making your jaw ache from being kept pried open for so long.

By this point, your legs shook uncontrollably. And while they did, Simon laughed.

You saw him from your peripheral, back against the headboard, somehow watching you and the TV across the room that he had put on half an hour in.

Each time you tried to turn your head to watch the TV in hopes of taking your mind off of your throbbing clit, you felt a painful smack on your ass, making you turn back to face your legs and arms that were bound together.

Once you had turned to face the TV too often, Simon had gotten up, annoyed at your lack of discipline. So, he did the only thing he could do.

Put a blindfold on you.

It made everything even more sensitive. You never knew what he was going to do. He had thankfully removed the wand, letting your clit catch a break.

He teased you to the point where you thought you would come just from listening to him and anticipating what he may do next. He used his thick fingers to spread your cum all over your pussy. It felt like he was drawing pictures on your thighs with your cum as you squirmed trying to get away from the sensitivity of his touch.

Every time you attempted to close your legs, you just felt the stickiness from the mess he made, then he would force your legs open again, a smack to your pussy following, making you whimper and jump back.

One time must not have been enough as you continued to try to cover yourself, so he smacked your pussy again.

And again.

Until you got the message to stop squirming around.

That sick bastard.

He removed your panties from your mouth, giving your jaw a break. You groaned as your jaw finally got to relax.

“Aw, baby. I’m sorry,” he cooed, massaging your jaw to relieve your pain. You couldn’t tell if he truly meant it.

You could feel the remnants of your cum sliding down onto the bed. If you hadn’t known better, you’d say that there was a large pool of your release on the hardwood ground, all from you squirting harder than you ever thought you could.

You didn’t say anything and let Simon do whatever he wanted because you knew he wasn’t done.

He loosened the ropes, letting your arms and wrists free, revealing the light ligature marks they had made. You thought he was just being a tease, but then he removed the thigh holster and then the bar, letting your legs finally rest.

“You alright, my love?”

No. You weren’t all right. Your body was shaking uncontrollably. It felt like you were having an orgasm without the orgasm.

Your stomach tightened, your chest heaved, and your legs were practically jelly, yet, you weren’t coming. Finally, your body had been released from its long torture and confinement.

You still hadn’t responded to him as you rolled over, trying to regain control of your body. Simon was sneaky. His hand slowly slid up your leg as if he was comforting you, but it quickly made its way to your cunt, but it didn’t linger there long as you swatted it away with the little strength you had left in your arms.

You wanted to remove the blindfold because you wanted it all to be over, but you knew not to remove anything unless instructed, or Simon did it himself. With every light touch, it was like your body was brought to the verge of another orgasm. The amount of overstimulation made every feeling more intense than they should be.

All you wanted was Simon’s touch, but at the same time, you worried it’d be too much. You wanted to prove to him, but mostly yourself, that you could take whatever he threw at you.

Somehow, Simon knew what was too much and too little better than you did. “It hurts?” he asked, stroking and massaging every part of your body that was kept taut in ropes and straps. You just nodded your head, the words you wanted to speak not coming to you fast enough. “But doesn’t it feel good?”

This was a question you couldn’t lie on. Not only because Simon would know and you’d be punished even more, but because if you lied, he’d put a stop to it all.

As much pain as you were in, the amount of pleasure you felt was so much more. You nodded your head again, still stuck on what else there was to say. You wanted it to be over just as much as you wanted to hurry up and continue so you could feel the waves of pleasure again. “Use your words, mamas,” he told you, lifting your chin up to face him.

Every time he spoke, you could feel that warm fuzzy feeling building up in your core. “Y-yes. It feels good,” you painfully admitted. You were tired, but not tired enough to call it quits. “Very good, then,” Simon said, pulling you back to the edge of the bed.

He was careful not to slip in the puddles you had created on the floors almost every time you came. There was a towel he had prepped on the headboard that he used to lie along the ground. He was more gentle with you this time around, knowing your body had just endured the number of orgasms within such a short period as one would within a week, if that.

He could see your abdominal muscles tightening and your legs still quivered. He stood in between your legs, lightly stroking them, making your body both ease and tense up at the same time.

You couldn’t read his facial expressions or his body language. The only thing you could go off of was his touch and the tone of his voice and grunts.

“Calm down, love. Take some breaths,” he said, caressing your thighs, trying to relieve the shaking of your legs. His fingers would occasionally linger over your belly, tracing your hips, and making their way between your breasts. You took deep breaths each time he came closer to a spot on your body that he knew would send a shiver up your spine.

Your body had finally stopped trembling, and you felt a sense of calm for the first time in a while, but you knew it wouldn’t last long. This was just another part of Simon’s plan. Nonetheless, you still took it all in.

You could feel his breath against your thigh, followed by his tongue, and then the softness of his lips. The smack of saliva filled the room along with your moans that you tried to keep to a minimum. “Let me hear you, mama,” he cooed, placing his lips around your clit right after.

Your hips immediately bucked before Simon could even flick his tongue along your sensitive bud. You gripped onto the sheets as he continued to suck on your clit, bringing uncontrollable moans out of you. It was like music to Simon’s ears.

He consistently lapped his tongue along your core, teasing you with each surprise of his tongue, lightly prying at your entrance, his saliva adding to your coats of slick. Simon used his strength to keep your legs from closing and trying to hide the pretty pussy that he claimed as his.

You could already feel the warmth and pressure building up in your pussy, it tightening around nothing, and your stomach started to tense so much that it hurt, but then it went away, along with the warmth of Simon’s mouth on your cunt.

“Hey!” you whined in annoyance, and Simon smiled. You may not have been able to see it, but you just knew he was. You could hear him chuckle ever so lightly. “What’s so funny?” you asked, your tone showing your level of displeasure.

He continued to kiss up your legs, along your hips, between your breasts, and then slowly made his way to your nipples, you feeling the weight of him grow heavier the higher he got. The warmth you once felt in between your legs was now on your breasts. Your nipples were hard and sensitive, so even Simon’s breath on them sent tingly feelings through your body, bringing you closer to your release.

Simon’s insatiable kisses moved from your breast, pulling you away from going over the edge once again. You had came so many times from the wand that the change of coming from the stimulation to your breasts excited you, but then it all went away. The first time may have been an accident, but after the second time, you knew Simon was doing it all on purpose.

You whined again, nearly kicking Simon as your heels were once digging into his back, instead going for a playful hit on his chest. Again, he chuckled, but you didn’t bother to ask anymore questions. With the blindfold on, you rolled your eyes to the best of your ability.

You tried to pull him closer as he kissed on your neck. All you wanted was his mouth on yours and the closer he got to your lips, the more of him you wanted. You grind your hips as close to his thigh as you could. His clothing provided more friction that you needed, every touch on your clit adding to the intensity of pleasure on your neck.

As you pushed yourself closer to your release, your walls fluttered and Simon’s pant leg became more coated in your slick. Just as you felt yourself about to reach your climax, Simon cupped your pussy, making his hand a barrier between you and his leg.

Before you could whine and groan with your complaints, you gasped as you felt two thick fingers intrude in your entrance and Simon’s breath against your ear as he spoke. “I find it funny that you thought you could lie and not be punished for it.”

You gulped, almost completely forgetting that the reason you were here was because of your lies. You had been so cummed out and focusing on getting in another orgasm that you forgot that this was a punishment.

And that was the issue.

Simon had always spoiled you. Your punishments in the beginning seemed like actual punishments, but now they were just fun. At first, the overstimulation was too much for you, but now you learned to enjoy it, and Simon simply couldn’t have that. You were having too good of a time for his liking.

You didn’t reply to him, instead, your breathing intensifies. You reached for him in every way that you could, but he pushed you away, bringing his hand to your throat, slowly pumping his fingers in and out of you, making you whimper, wet smacking sounds filling the room as your slick gathered on his hand and coated Simon’s fingers with each pump. “Did you think you could get out of this?” he growled.

You couldn’t respond or form any thoughts, so it all stopped.

The bed shifted, meaning that he was no longer on top of you. Instead, he was in between your legs, again. You didn’t know what to do. “Answer me,” he demanded, a loud smack echoing in the room as his palm met your ass. His grip on your neck tightened, but not enough for you to not be able to breathe.

You couldn’t see him. You could only feel and hear him. And what you heard was an anger in his voice that meant that it had to be taken out on something. But yet, you still didn’t respond.

You rocked your hips trying to find him. Trying to find anything to rub against. But he wouldn’t let you. You could hear him undoing the zipper on his pants, his belt hitting the ground.

This is it. This is what you had been waiting for. “I’m sorry,” was all you could muster out. “Sure you are,” he replied. He knew you didn’t mean it. If anything, you hadn’t learned your lesson because you were still lying.

He pulled your legs, making you slide along the bed, your legs wrapping around his waist. You were excited. And because of all of your excitement, you forgot to hide it as a smile spread across your face.

When you caught it, you were too late.

Pt. 4: Coming Jan. 1

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betweenstorms · 3 months ago

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Chapter 4/2 of Skin Of Thunder Petals Bite Back (previous chapter) (next chapter) (all SOT chapters) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“Soft things don’t always surrender. They bruise, they bleed, they bear thorns when forced into the hands of those who don’t know how to hold them.”

Grey sky stretched out above Ghost, endless and indifferent, clouds threatening rain but never quite delivering. Biting wind whistled through the motor pool, rattling loose tarps and kicking up the scent of damp concrete and petrol.

The air carried the sharpness of late afternoon.

Ghost barely felt the cold anymore.

It existed on the periphery of his senses, like an afterthought, only to be endured and ignored. He shifted his weight, thick boots scraping against gravel as he watched Soap checking the equipment list of a Husky TSV. Price and Gaz were off to the States, leaving them behind for what should have been an unremarkable few days.

Routine checks, maintenance, training, the kind of monotonous shit that usually allowed Ghost to slip into autopilot and to fill the hours between the weight of responsibility and the unbearable silence that always followed. Endless drills, the steady rhythm of shooting, the harsh repetition of routine, those were the things he understood, the pulse of purpose that kept him grounded—

—but his mind wouldn’t settle.

Not when you were around.

And worse? You were everywhere these days.

It wasn’t a coincidence, not in his mind. You were actively seeking him out, weaving yourself into the patterns of his days with a subtlety that should’ve been harmless, but wasn’t. It began innocently enough. A passing glance here, a brief exchange there. But then came the fleeting moments when he caught you watching him, your eyes darting away the instant his dark gaze met yours. It was quick and hesitant, it spoke of something fragile yet determined. You seemed to hover just close enough for him to notice, as though waiting for the right moment, waiting for him to see you clearly.

Waiting for him to act.

He should have felt something.

Satisfaction, maybe. Triumph, even.

The woman he’d long watched from afar seemed to mirror his desire, drawing his attention with freshly manicured nails, a touch bolder in the way she painted her lips, as if inviting him to notice. And yet, all he felt was annoyance. It was a strange bitterness, as if your awful taste in men was somehow a personal affront. You were young and beautiful, alive in a way he had never been. Full of potential, of dreams yet to be realized, while he was a faceless man made of regrets and scars, half-buried in the meaningless life he had chosen. Even with his rank, with the authority that came with it, his salary would only buy you a life of mediocrity. He was just a middle-aged soldier who had fought for nothing and gained even less.

What could he offer you, truly?

A relationship built on borrowed time and fleeting moments between missions, each second reminding him that he was nothing more than a passing shadow in your world. All he had left was this sick devotion for you, a dingy copy of what real love should be. He wasn’t even sure it was worthy of the name. And you deserved fucking more than that.

More than him.

His thoughts dulled his senses, made him slow, because it wasn’t him who noticed you first. Johnny, ever the perceptive bastard, was the first to clock you as you approached them across the open lot, bundled up in that long olive coat like a cocoon against the biting wind.

The Scot’s grin was immediate, like he’d just stumbled upon something far more entertaining than the endless equipment list in his hands.

“Would you look at that,” Soap drawled, stuffing the tablet under his arm. “What’s this, then? Did you finally break and send her one of those nasty wee letters in the suggestion box?”

Ghost grunted, unimpressed, keeping his gaze fixed on you.

He should’ve looked away. Should’ve gone back to checking the TSV like this was nothing, like you were nothing. However, even now, he felt that familiar pull, the tightness in his ribs, the way his breath came just a little too slow, a little too deep, as if he were trying to drag you into his lungs along with the cold. It was unbearable. Infuriating. You shouldn’t be out here. You shouldn’t be anywhere near him. Moreover, your coat did fuck all to shield you from the cold, and it irritated him—properly irritated him—that you hadn’t worn something warmer. It was November, for Christ’s sake.

Your breath curled in the air, white wisps unraveling into nothing as you neared, your voice as uncertain as your steps against the cracked tarmac.

“Afternoon, Sergeant… Lieutenant.”

The latter said nothing.

Soap, however, was grinning like a right bastard.

“HR takin’ field trips now, aye?”

Ghost exhaled through his nose. His patience was already thinning, stretched tight like a wire, and you were the knife poised to snap it clean in half.

“What d’you want?”

His rough voice came out sharper than he meant, more bark than question, slicing through the air. You blinked, your lips parting in surprise, as if your very soul had momentarily stilled. A fleeting shadow passed over your face, a hesitation so quick it could have been a trick of the light, but Ghost saw it, he felt it even. He saw the subtle drop of your lashes, the shift of your weight, the flush that colored your cheeks as your gaze turned—

—not to him, but to Soap.

“I was actually looking for you, Sergeant.”

That got both men’s attention.

Johnny’s brows shot up, his smirk curling even further as he leaned against the Husky, arms folding over his broad chest. His gaze flicked between you and Ghost, amusement glinting in his bright blue eyes.

“Me?” He pressed a hand to his chest, mockingly affronted. “Christ, lass, you just made my whole bloody week.”

Ghost’s fingers twitched.

The cold bit into his skin, but it was nothing compared to the slow burn beneath his ribs.

You shifted again, the movement small but telling, hands curling into the sleeves of your coat as if seeking refuge. “There’s been an issue, sir,” you started, voice even thinner than usual. “With—uhm, Sergeant Garrick’s deployment files. The system flagged an… inconsistency in the reports, and I, you know, need confirmation before I can finalize them.”

Ghost’s gaze dragged over you slowly, taking in the way your chin lifted just a little too high, as if trying to overcompensate for the uncertainty that bled into your voice.

He had known a lie when he heard one.

Soap, the smug weasel, knew it too.

Johnny let the silence stretch just a second too long, watching you with the sharp amusement of a predator toying with its prey. His grin deepened, teeth flashing like a wolf about to sink them into something soft.

“That so?” He hummed, tapping his fingers against the metal hull of the Husky. “Funny, that. Cause I reckon you could’ve just sent an email to Gaz, yeah?”

“He’s in the States, sir.”

“Still knows how to send an email, doesn’t he?”

You shifted on your feet.

“I thought it best to sort it out in person, given the circumstances.”

The Scot exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head.

“C’mon, Dizzy girl. If you're gonna lie, at least make it interestin’.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, your blush deepening as you stared resolutely at the ground, looking like you wished it would swallow you whole. Ghost knew that feeling. The crushing weight of being seen too clearly. And right now, Soap was seeing through you like a fucking pane of glass. After a seemingly endless moment, you exhaled sharply, hands burying deeper into the pockets of your coat as your shoulders bunched.

“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll just call Sergeant Garrick, then.”

Johnny barely managed to stifle his laugh, choking on it before hastily clearing his throat in a poor attempt to muffle the sound. Ghost, however, didn’t bother hiding his exhale, the weight of the moment making him feel older somehow, like a decade had been carved into him with every excruciating second. With a grunt, he turned his focus back to the half-checked vehicle, trying to shake off the absurdity of the exchange. Yet, just before you could retreat entirely, as the blush creeped past your collar and up the slope of your jaw, Soap shot out one last parting jab because of course he did.

“Or,” he drawled, deliberately dragging it out for his own entertainment, “you could just ask Lt., y’know. Like you meant to—” He let the words hang in the air as he watched you stiffen. “Before you chickened out.”

Your breath hitched audibly, and Ghost felt it more than he heard it—that sharp inhale, heavy with the sting of embarrassment, and it twisted something deep within him. He hated how it made his chest tighten, hated the way his mind latched onto the tiny details, how the wind blew your hair across your face, how your nose scrunched ever so slightly, how you narrowed your eyes against the harsh air.

You were always too close. Even when you weren’t touching him, weren’t looking at him, you were too close.

Inside his goddamn head.

And despite everything, despite his own resolve, despite the way he had spent weeks, months trying to bury whatever this was—

He fucking thrived in it.

You swallowed. “I didn’t—” You hesitated, glancing toward Ghost, and he could already see the panic pooling in your eyes. ��It’s not—” You grunted, turning sharply on your heel. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll handle it myself.”

Ghost watched you pivot sharply, the wind catching the ends of your coat as you turned away. He should’ve let you go. Because that was the right thing to do. Because if he had any ounce of sense left, he wouldn’t follow you. He should let you walk off with your pride barely intact, let you slip away from his sight and leave whatever the hell this was to settle back into the murky waters of things better left unsaid.

But Johnny had already fucked that up.

And now? Now the damage was done.

Ghost sighed through his nose, slow and measured, before he muttered, low and gravelly—

“Hold up.”

You froze.

Your shoulders tensed, your back stiff, as if you were contemplating whether to shamefully pretend you hadn’t heard him, whether you could just keep walking and ignore the command of your superior entirely. Ghost almost wished you would. It would’ve made this easier.

But you turned.

Slowly, hesitantly, like you were afraid of what would happen if you faced him now.

“Meet me in my office in an hour.”

Soap let out a low whistle, rocking back on his heels.

Ghost ignored him.

“An hour,” he repeated, firmer this time.

No room for argument.

You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip like you were waging a silent war within yourself. He could see it, the way your neatly manicured fingers clenched tighter into the fabric of your coat, like you were anchoring yourself. The way your brows knit together, the smallest crease forming between them as you considered whatever was twisting around in that pretty little head of yours.

But in the end, you nodded.

A small, stiff movement—uncertain, but accepting.

Ghost only gave a curt nod in return, dismissing you without another word. He turned away, as if the conversation had already been buried, done and dusted, filed away in some locked compartment in his mind where things went to fester in silence.

He refused to watch you leave.

But he couldn’t resist.

The wind teased at your hair as you hurried back inside, and in that fleeting moment, he knew that he had made a huge mistake. His gaze fixed on you, laced with a quiet annoyance that ran deeper than words, a storm of frustration rooted in something far more ancient. It was the anger of every man who had tasted love but could never grasp it. The fury of a thousand souls who had stood where he stood, yearning for a woman’s love, all the while feeling the hollow ache of being a stranger to his own heart, incapable of offering anything gentle, anything soft.

No fate so cruel would ignite a desire so fierce within him without concealing some terrible price in the shadows of its gift. No, it could never have meant for him to possess you—never intended for him to hold something so pure, so untouched by the scars he carried. Perhaps it had allowed him to crave you, not as a blessing, but as a punishment, a reminder of all that he lacked, of all he was unworthy to claim. His devotion, in its aching intensity, was a curse—a wound he could not stop himself from inflicting upon you.

As the painful realization settled within him, he could almost feel the familiar stir of Soap about to open his bloody mouth, ready to speak something daft once more.

Ghost snapped. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

“Didn’t say anythin’.”

“Didn’t need to.”

An hour passed like molasses dripping from a spoon, slow and thick, pooling into the empty space of his mind, stretching too long for comfort. The single overhead light in his office hummed faintly, casting sharp shadows across the desk where Ghost sat, forearms braced against the surface.

You were late.

Only by a few minutes, but still.

Not that he was counting, no. He wasn’t sure why that irritated him. Maybe because it meant you had thought about ignoring him. Maybe because the idea of you deciding not to show up made something cold settle in his gut. He shouldn’t have expected you to be on time. Hell, he shouldn’t have expected you to come at all. Part of him had even dared to hope you wouldn’t, that you’d take the out he’d given you and leave this whole damn thing alone. But he knew better than to expect the easy way out of anything.

Then came the knock.

Soft and hesitant.

Ghost inhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before responding.

“Come in.”

The door cracked open, and there you were, framed by the dim corridor light. You didn't meet his eyes straight away, instead looking around the office as if seeing it for the first time, gaze flickering over the spartan desk, the shelves lined with monochrome folders, the neat, clinical order of it all. Ghost stayed silent, watching you. You made him so fucking restless, like he had an itch buried beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch.

That already pissed him off more than it should.

Then, clearing your throat, you spoke.

“Apologies for the delay, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant.

Always so fucking formal. Like you were trying to keep this professional. Like you weren’t the same person who had fidgeted under his gaze just an hour ago, who had all but chickened out before Soap had forced your hand. Like you were trying to level the playing field, keep things contained. Ghost let the silence stretch, let it settle thick between you before he finally leaned forward, dark eyes locking onto yours.

“You wanted somethin’,” he said, voice even, controlled. “You’ve got my attention.”

A pause.

He nodded toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

You did as told, perching on the edge of the seat like you weren’t sure if you were welcome, baby blue nails lacing together in your lap. You seemed unsure whether to clench them into fists or hide them away. Ghost let the silence stretch, let you sit in it, watch it settle into the space between you. You swallowed, shoulders straightening ever so slightly, though he could see the tension coiling in your muscles.

“Yes,” you murmured, lifting your chin a fraction. “Sergeant Garrick’s files. I told you there was a flagged inconsistency, and I—”

He tilted his head slightly.

“—I wanted you to see it, sir.”

Ghost felt the anger stir within him, a tightening in his chest as his gaze fell to the folder you had tucked behind your back. If it was truly that important, why had you lied, claiming you wanted a sergeant to see it rather than a lieutenant?

Something in him hardened at the thought. It was unprofessional, so fucking unprofessional, and you seemed to know it too, for the flush that crept across your cheeks was impossible to hide beneath the harsh glow of the fluorescent light.

But he didn’t press you on it, not yet.

Instead, he leaned back, arms folding across his chest. “Go on, then.”

You paused for a heartbeat before placing the clipped file on his desk, the edges of the manila folder worn and creased, filled with hastily scribbled notes and redacted lines. It was clear you had tried to untangle the inconsistency yourself. He reached for it with a steady hand, flipping it open, his dark eyes tracing each detail with the same cold, methodical precision he applied to everything else.

Deployment logs. Operation dates. Standard signatures.

And there it was—buried between the neatly typed lines.

An approval code that didn’t match.

Ghost dragged his thumb across the inked page, the edge of his touch grazing the error. It wasn’t a glaring mistake, nothing that would set off alarms, but it was sloppy. Too sloppy. He was certain Gaz wouldn’t have made such an oversight. No, everyone in the task force was meticulous of their reports, especially given the heightened scrutiny since General Shepherd’s disappearance, since the betrayal of Las Almas. A discrepancy like this could only mean one thing—either someone had grown careless, or someone had intentionally altered the facts.

Neither option sat well with him.

He glanced up at you. “Where’d you pull this from?”

“Central records,” you answered promptly, straightening under the weight of his gaze. “It was flagged automatically when I cross-checked the report against previous submissions.”

Ghost grunted. “You tell anyone else?”

You hesitated just slightly before shaking your head. “No.”

His gloved fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the desk, weighing that. If you’d gone to anyone else it would’ve kicked off an internal review, maybe even an inquiry. But you hadn’t. You’d brought it here, to him. Suspicion lingered in him like a shadow, ingrained in his very nature, and so he had no choice but to test one of his theories in action—to see if he could trust you with something like this.

Ghost flicked the folder shut before pinning you with a sharp look.

“What d’you want me to do about it?”

You blinked, thrown for a second.

“I—I thought you’d want to handle it, sir.”

“Didn’t ask what you thought, sweetheart,” he replied evenly, tone edged with something forceful. “Asked what you wanted.”

Your jaw tightened, a flash of tension running through you.

Was he too blunt? It was a challenge, and you were intelligent enough to recognize it for what it was. He could see the subtle shift in you, the way you bristled at his words, the sharp inhale as if you were gathering yourself before responding.

“I want to know if it’s something I should be worried about,” you admitted, voice quieter this time. “I don’t deal with classified ops, but I know enough to tell when something isn’t right, okay? If this is nothing, just… tell me, and I’ll clear the flag in the system.” You hesitated, fingers curling against the fabric of your trousers. “But if it is something… I need to know.”

You weren’t like him.

Not in the least.

The flush on your cheeks and the soft tremor in your voice spoke of a truthfulness so pure, you couldn’t weave a lie if your life depended on it. You weren’t made for deception, for the tangled web of half-truths and the murky grey that lay between duty and betrayal. You were born for a world of order and safety, where every rule and every order had its place, where paperwork and policy kept everything neat and contained. No, you weren’t meant to wade through this mess, his mess. You weren’t meant to know about the blood that stained his past or the violence that carved its mark on his pathetic soul.

That world wasn’t yours, and it never would be.

He wouldn’t drag you beneath the surface, wouldn’t drown you in the black water that held Las Almas, Shepherd, his father, his family, his past—everything—captive in its suffocating depths. No, he wouldn’t let it poison your breath, wouldn’t let it stain your lungs, even if it meant wounding you to keep you safe from this darkness.

From this fucking filth.

He would protect you from it, no matter the cost.

Ghost exhaled sharply, pushing the folder back across the desk toward you. “Clear the flag.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “But—”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “It’s above your pay grade, love.”

You stared at him, your mouth pressing into a tight line.

This was the longest you had held his gaze, however, not out of warmth, but out of defiance. He could see the thoughts churning behind your eyes, the quiet stubbornness taking root, the way your nails dug into your palms as though you longed to push back—but you didn’t.

Slowly, you reached forward, taking the file back.

Ghost let his gaze flicker over you once more, then leaned forward, lowering his voice just slightly to match yours. “This never happened. Understood?”

Something unreadable crossed your face—frustration, maybe.

Then, finally, you nodded.

“…Understood. Sir.”

Ghost hummed, watching you stand.

There was no mistaking it now—your temper, usually something delicate and restrained, had sharpened into something heavier, something closer to disappointment. However, you weren’t built for spite or cruelty. No, he’d seen you flustered before, had seen you uncertain, nervous even, but never this. And yet, even now, your anger was soft. No biting words, no disrespect, no accusations. Just quiet, simmering restraint, held back like water against a dam.

You really weren’t like him.

You were on the verge of saying something—something you probably shouldn’t. Ghost could see it in the way your lips parted slightly, how your breath hitched just before you swallowed it down. So before you could find the words, before you could dig yourself even deeper into something neither of you could afford, he spoke.

“You ever lie to me again—” his voice was low, a rough warning, “—it’ll be the last time.”

“I didn’t—”

Ghost’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, the slow, deliberate motion filling the tense quiet.

“Go. Don’t waste my fuckin’ time.”

“But Simon—”

The name hit him like a live round.

Simon.

It rolled off your tongue like a plea, raw and unguarded, slicing through the air between you. The way you said it stoked something deep and ugly inside him. He had turned his back to it, to the boy who once answered to it. Yet, there it was, dragged out of the grave and onto your lips like it had any right to still exist.

Before he could think, he moved.

Ghost rounded the desk in two strides, closing the distance between you. He didn’t touch you, oh he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough, the sheer force of him, the weight of his massive frame towering over you, swallowing you whole. You shrank back instinctively, your breath stuttering, eyes flashing with something between fear and defiance.

He hated it.

Hated the way you looked at him.

Like his mother had looked at his father.

He could still see it—his mum, trapped in the corner, trembling, while that pathetic excuse of a husband, of a father, of a man, loomed over her, rage spilling from him like the sour stench of beer. The sting of a slap. The pain in her eyes. The desperate tears of fear. The shouting. And the gut-wrenching cries that shattered everything inside him.

Ghost felt sick.

His stomach twisted, bile rising, his pulse hammering like the pounding of boots in an empty street. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t. But the way you looked at him right now, like he was someone who could hurt you, made him feel like he was.

He took a step back.

A breath.

He dragged a hand over his face, the fabric of the balaclava scratching his skin, pushing away the suffocating heat curling in his chest. “Get the fuck out.”

For a second, you paused, caught in the weight of something in his eyes, something unspoken that held you for just an instant. But whatever it was, it passed, and you turned away. Your lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line, and without another word, you reached for the door. Your movements were stiff, deliberate, like you were holding yourself together by sheer force of will. As if, in front of him, you couldn’t afford to let yourself break.

The door creaked open.

You were a breath away from leaving.

And this time, Ghost didn’t stop you.

“You looked at him like a bloom trembling in the wind, and he was the storm that crushed beauty beneath its weight. Petals bite back, he thought, but they never survive the winter.” Skin of Thunder Chapters

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manicrouge · 1 month ago

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I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 1)

CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

I AM MERELY MAN — he read the words scribbled down into the back of his tan-paged notebook, bound by the talented hand of the bookmaker of his hometown. Holding a pen in his hand, it shook, beady eyes peering down at, what to many, should not have been considered a staggering revelation.

Yes, he was what his form commanded him to be: brooding, bold, and busy.

And still in the flesh he resided in, he understood there was more to him, much more as he pressed the tip of the pen against the page, swallowing a mouthful of saliva.

He started with the first letter of his next intended word, the first line, while bold, weak in its form as the shaking of his hand worsened the foundation. Beneath the nib of the pen, the paper snagged, the ink pooling into the new found crevices, filling the lines of the page like water in a river. The richness of the colour in the candle light marred him and his soul, chewed him down to his bones as he matched the blackness of this inky portrayal of his indescribable truth to the blood he had seen on his excursion — the blood that had been shed by his hand and his hand alone.

In that way, yes, he was a mere man, nothing more, nothing less.

Although, the line in the paper existed in the paper demonstrated a truer meaning to what he was or, rather, what he had become.

His hand was not relieved of the tension attempting to escape him as he lifted his head from the page momentarily to look around the dirt walls he had since called his home.

There were a few bodies, supposedly still alive.

He waited to hear anything, a grunt, a groan, or even the shift of their mud-caked uniform; something that breathed out in the silence of the summer night: ‘I am here, go on with what you must.’

And it was from the mouth of his Captain that he heard a sound — the smacking of chapped lips and a croaked out groan. He’d gotten sick, as most were during the summer months of war (most likely from the abundance of pollen in spite of the blatant lack of flowers) and, for a week or so, had taken to breathing only through his mouth as the congestion had built up to the point where, on occasion, he would raise from his seat and press his fingers against the side of his neck all to feel the thudding of his heartbeat.

Never had he woke when he done so, in fact, he was quite sure that he had no idea that he was taking such considerable care towards him.

Duty called him, however, it was everything that was needed to make sure that they would, eventually, see the light of spring break through the hounding darkness, chasing the wolves and their hunger away, rebuilding what had been destroyed with whatever fruits nature would craft from the blood of their fallen. And, he intended to be there for when that spring day came — and he was certainly not going to be alone in the field.

Turning his eyes back to his page, his eyesight warped, weary with the curving of the flame resting on the wooden plank he’d called a desk, breath fogging in the air, knocking the flame in the other direction. It flickered, casting his shadow against the back wall as he placed his pen back down against the page.

In spite of the coldness, his body was consumed by a feverish heat, insufferable in its determination to capture the fury he had felt every day since he had been placed, seemingly, with the intent of being buried, in the muddy hole he called home. In fact, his nose scrunched up, dried mud stuck in his beard as his hold on his pen grew to become a vice-like grip, the paper of his journal breaking as he stabbed the page with his pen. His brain throbbed and he was unable to tell which organ was leading him.

Was he his brain or heart at that moment?

Really, he had never had quite so much time to himself to think.

For, had it not been for the clamouring conversation of his squad-mates, the void of his existence would be filled with the sound of gunfire echoing across the fields. In his time there, he noticed how everything mimicked nature for, whenever there was an explosion, if you listened carefully enough, the mud and debris disturbed would hit the nearby ground with a sound akin to rain hitting pavement.

Could it be that they had tired nature out to the point where her cries could only be heard in the depths of their destruction?

She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time for the fields, where flowers would have otherwise bloomed, were left muddied sludge.

There were no daisies, only the dead.

Blinking, he breathed out as he finished his work with a full-stop. This time, the paper tore as he circled the pen over and over and over and over and over. Again and again.

It was a trance-like state, watching as the ink pooled, how the paper sucked up all it could before it became too full, taking to sit on top of the page. Then, he set the pen down beside it as though he had not committed a murder, hands resting against the edge of the make-shift desk, casting his eyes down to bare witness to what his body had forced out of him.

Blasphemy!

He thought such to himself, not daring to exclaim it out loud for he had no idea how long he would have carried the guilt of waking his squad-mates all for the sake of cursing himself for such sin.

Slipping his calloused fingers beneath the cover of the journal, he closed it with a firm yet gentle hand, pressing his hand flat against the cover, gritting his teeth. For a brief moment, it felt similar to the throat of a human being, his grip only tightening, fingers curling around the edge with the intent of neutralising himself and his thoughts. And the journal permitted it without a wretch, a gasp, without clawing at his arms.

It was peaceful. Everything he wasn’t.

A dull ache radiated through his jaw and his hold softened as he lifted his hand up to brush his fingers against the course flesh of his face, fingertips pressing into the lumped flesh which branded the bridge of his nose.

There were many horrors; he had seen too much for one life, perhaps even enough to fuel a thousand lives. To live further and past the body he was living in there and then was too much for him, however, and he settled back against the wooden chair he was perched in, the arms of it sinking between the makeshift floorboards and into the mud below.

There wasn’t much to do at night, sometimes, a graceful rarity it was for a soldier to sit and just… be.

Snatching the journal, he took it and rested it against his lap, bleary eyes closing, the chair creaking as it took more of his weight. Mere was the man who existed in the pages of that journal, although he was anything but with his towering frame, enough to engulf even the tallest men in his field — a position of power seemed feasible for him and, he often humoured himself with the idea that it was his height and size that got him his position as opposed to the skill he exerted since joining the cadets in his early teens.

Beneath his journal, splayed out on the table was the Captain’s map, stained and muck filled. It made no sound when he folded it anymore, folding into itself like a shirt, the paper soft and malleable. It was handy, of course, for silence was a benefit, although the paper had began to wilt, the map of France subsequently fading with each use of it. In fact, when he cast his eyes on it, he realised that most of the original image that had been printed was non-existent, and it had been the work of his Sergeant and his skilled hand that had breathed new life into it, consequently breathing new life into their brigade.

He began to doze off, sitting in the chair in spite of the discomfort.

It would have been better, maybe, if he moved into one of the makeshift cots; at least then he wouldn’t be burdened by the feeling of the wooden spine digging into his own.

Only, discomfort had become a new home to him, so familiar and so firm that he hadn't the mouth to complain about his situation; he was alive and he was lucky to feel the dull ache in his spine.

Even the rumbling of his stomach was a privilege; some men were left rotting in the field, destined to spend out the rest of their days without ever feeling the pleasures of a full stomach or hearing the chirp of a songbird amongst the rustling of trees moving in the wind.

‘Captain Price, come in.’

He startled awake at the sound of the radio, noting that the snoring which almost rattled their makeshift abode came to an end with a choke gargle. Lifting his head, he eyed the radio sitting on the edge of the desk, taking it in his paw-like hand. Pressing down on the slim black button on the front of it, he brought it to his mouth.

‘Lieutenant Riley speaking. Over.’

It took a moment, the grumbling of static filling the dead space before a voice appeared on the other side of the radio. ‘Where’s the Captain?’

He hadn’t the opportunity to respond as there was the squelch of booted feet behind him, a snort rumbling the chest of the bearded man who collected a mouthful of phlegm, spitting it out onto the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, snatching the radio off his Lieutenant.

‘Here,’ he confirmed, glancing at his Lieutenant.

‘There’s been a change of plans, Troops have been ordered to evacuate.’

He watched as the Captain’s brows furrowed, calloused fingers tugging at his beard. He said nothing for a moment, clearing his throat before saying, ‘pardon?’

‘Jerry’s have us backed into the corners — per the request of General Gort, you are to fall back to Dunkirk.’

Momentarily, the Captain seemed troubled by the request of the man on the radio. He knew he had never been one who who had desired to be backed into a corner, even if death was certain, he would have sooner accepted his fate whilst wielding a pistol in his hand than running from the threat he had swore he would destroy.

And they were unruly — the German forces.

This was not the surprise he had thought it to be by the look on the Captain’s face for the ache in his bones was enough to tell him that things were going wrong.

Eventually, he said, ‘roger that.’

‘Get your men and make it there as quickly as possible, Captain.’

With that, the line went dead, leaving the pair of them standing, staring at the map on the table. From behind the pair of them, there was the shifting of clothes, a groggy voice calling out into the darkness. ‘We’re leavin’?’

‘Per the request of the General,’ said the Captain, hooking the radio on his belt, rubbing his face with his hands.

‘Fuck me, it’s really that bad, ay?’ said the Scot, sitting up from where he had been lying, grabbing the helmet he had rested by his bedside, ‘never thought we’d be the one’s retreating — that ain’t our job.’

‘Nothing we can do about it, Sergeant,’ Price said grimly, ‘pack up; we’re leaving in ten.’

They didn’t argue with the request of their Captain, knowing that, if they wished to survive, then they would have to keep their reservations to themselves and listen to what they were told; they were soldiers after all.

He readied himself with haste, tucking his journal into his rucksack, fingertips hovering over the leather cover of it before pulling the drawstrings of his bag together, and closing the flap. Pushing himself off the ground, we watched as the other men worked expertly — his brothers in arms, the mumbled conversation between both the sergeants filling the quiet of the night.

The dugout they’d found themselves in was right in toe with Luxembourg having been left to time ever since the first World War. It was a convenient hiding spot, one they had stumbled upon by accident whilst trekking through the French Countryside. Although it was a ghost of its former self as grass had grown over the majority of it, the people in the City of Nancy hadn’t cared to cover it. He imagined children had made good fun out of the space as it was tucked away from the mainland of the city itself.

He was the first to step outside, peering up the slight hill to see the moonlight illuminating the land before him. Crickets chimed, the occasional buzzing of an insect passing his ears.

It was a peculiar peacefulness, knowing that the enemy was advancing and, yet, all was quiet.

His hand drifted to his belt, finger grazing the Mauser he had snatched from the corpse of a German Officer. It was much heavier, clearly more expensive than the revolver he had been carrying with himself, although, he didn’t need a gun.

It was a commodity, a trophy and proof he reigned victorious over a man who was the equivalent of a savage dog.

He barked and barked, spitting at him as he waved the gun in his face, all for it to be the bullet he had threatened him with that eventually killed him.

Someone might have thought that he was trying to push his ranks, to mirror that he was better than he believed, but all that was nonsense to the Lieutenant — he just wanted to survive.

The Captain and his Sergeants soon appeared outside the dugout, the map in the hands of the Captain whilst the youngest of their squad held a lantern to it. With a thick finger, he moved it across the map as he schemed. ‘We’ll fall back and follow the rivers, it’ll be a straight line until we hit Dunkirk, and we’ll have plenty drinking water.’

‘Aye, sounds like a plan.’

And thus, they started their journey, climbing up from the dugout with a grunt as their bones were weary, Johnny barking out a laugh as he watched the Captain in particular huff and puff.

Really, the man, whether or not he’d want to admit it to them, was still half asleep, so his sluggish movement, while humorous, were not a cause for concern. In fact, when he made it back on his feet, a firm slap was delivered to the back of MacTavish’s head before he handed him the map, the man taking it whilst also grumbling out an insult as he dipped his hands into the pocket of his jacket, retrieving a tin of cigars.

Similar to how the Lieutenant had uncovered the Mauser his hand was stationed over, the Captain had also part-took in robbing the deserving dead. He reacted like a child on Christmas when he uncovered the tin of cigars the man had kept in his pocket, taking them for his own with a grin, continuing to pat the man down until he uncovered a box of matches. Everything else on the man: his watch, his canteen, cutlery — everything — was ignored as he pulled away from the corpse, mustered a mouthful of phlegm and spat on the corpse with a sneer, waving the box of matches about in the air.

He’d kept the tin since the day he killed that soldier, and as they began their journey, he opened the tin and put one in his mouth. The match sparked with a sizzling hiss, and the man puffed at the cigar as he held the match to the tip of it, awaiting for it to catch fire.

When it did, smoke billowed from the tip of it as it glowed red, acting almost as a guide in the darkness, rivalling the dim lamp Sergeant Garrick was holding. As they tread through the land, he realised that it was much later than he had thought, knowing that his sleepless nights were sure to catch up with him. A faint smile formed on his face. He could see his death certificate right there.

Cause of death: journaling.

Ironically, he’d never thought of himself to be much of a writer, his handwriting equivalent to that of a primary school child’s, although, he had never been given much of a chance to see if he even had a knack for it due to the firm hand of his father; That’s girl stuff.

Since the war had begun, however, he found his late nights were spent sitting and staring at the sky, whether or not he could see the moon and stars varied depending on their location, and all he would do was think.

‘You not sleep again, Lt?’

MacTavish’s voice tore through the darkness and, when he turned his head, he saw the man looking at him with beady eyes and a smile. ‘I got a little shut eye.’

‘Pfft,’ scoffed the Scot, ‘sure ya did… that book I give you helpin’?’

He thought about the journal in his rucksack, the one he’d massacred with his pen, scrawling words into it with a closed fist and gritted teeth.

It brought out a derangement in him, something he hoped would be smothered and discarded sooner rather than later. Instead, it crawled onto the pages, curled up like a cat and made its home in the rivulets he created from his fury.

‘It’s alright,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Just a book, after all.’

‘Ye a terrible sceptic, Lt,’ said the man with a shake of his head.

For a moment, he felt compelled to repeat what he had been taught when he was a child, his father’s words on the tip of his tongue. Yet, he quelled the rage that man had planted in him, chewing on the inside of his mouth until he was sure every single piece of that sentence was on its way to burn in the acid of his stomach.

‘Nothing wrong with it, Johnny.’

The other man hummed, nodding his head in disbelief, ‘there’s everything wrong with it, Lt. You written any letters to home, yet?’

‘Not got the handwriting for that.’

‘Sure they’d be able to decipher whatever code you’d write down for them — hell, ye could probably send your mam a letter which just had a scribble on it and she’d be relieved to know that you’re still alive and kickin’.’

‘Have you written home?’

‘Once at the start,’ said the man, ‘got a letter back off my mam, though, tellin’ me I ought to keep in touch cause she’s worried sick. Never did get the chance to write to her after that, so I can only imagine the beating that’s waiting for me when I finally get back home.’ His mouth curled upwards and he chuckled, glancing down at his boots as his hands settled against his hips. ‘Part of me hopes I don’t make it home; my mam’s scarier than all the Jerry’s combined.’

Lieutenant Riley didn’t so much as smile at his remark of him willing his own death.

Instead, he looked beyond the pair of them, noting the Captain and Garrick were but a few paces in front of them, seeming to be having a conversation of their own.

They had set off in such a hurry that, when he turned his head to glance behind him, the dugout they had called home for that night had been consumed entirely by a mixture of the dark and shrubbery.

He knew Price was keen on getting ahead of other squads who had definitely gotten the same call as they had; he always had to be certain that they would be okay.

The smoke from the Captain’s cigar occasionally wafted past both himself and Johnny.

Again, MacTavish laughed and said, ‘that’s how mam’s are though.’

The man walking beside him nodded. ‘I suppose.’

They walked until the sun rose, taking a brief water break at the River Meuse (according to the directions of the map they were following).

His hands trembled as he unscrewed the lid of his canteen, holding it beneath the rushing water, whilst Garrick stood guard, having discarded the lantern he had been carrying during the early hours of the morning, instead, holding a revolver in his hand, surveying the surrounding woodland.

Johnny had his canteen and was filling it up for him. The water break lasted all of five minutes because Price was ordering that they continue onwards, to get further into the countryside.

Their conversation died soon after, all of them walking silently with one another. Already, in spite of the war merely existing for a year, there had been plenty things that had stuck in his head which seemed determined to rot him from the inside out.

One thing in particular had been when he had been searching through, what he believed to be at the time, an abandoned house, looking for supplies.

The house was in the middle of nowhere and they were hungry.

The house was cold when they’d entered, having been sometime back in December and the smell was blatant the moment they stepped inside the house.

It reeked of death.

Something had died, it was just a matter of discovering what it was.

Suddenly, in that moment, the thought of food left all their minds and, as they wondered through the house, they searched each room, finding the remnants of a family dinner on the table, three of the four chairs pulled out. Flies festered on the rotting food and, for a moment, Garrick had attempted to reassure all of them by stating that it must have been the food which was causing such a stench. Still, their search persisted to the upstairs of the home and, when he opened the first door, he uncovered a tragedy.

In bed, tucked away were the bodies of two children — they couldn’t have been much older than four, maybe five years old, and they were lying there, perfectly still. But, rather than holding the typical rosiness shown in the cheeks of a child, their skin was green, discoloured, ruined by a rot which had began to devour their bodies.

He’d noticed that, on both of the girls, there had been a rosary settled against their chests, their small hands moved as though to clasp them.

None of them had a reaction, turning pale faced out of the room, focusing their attention on the other room in the hall. Johnny left back downstairs, deeming that he had seen all he had needed to seen.

Simon was not surprised to see a pool of vomit in the grass outside of the small countryside home when they did eventually leave.

And, really, he had made the right choice for, when he ventured into the other room, he found the body of an older woman.

A shotgun rested in her lap, congealed blood pooling in the fabric of her apron, what remained of her head from the shotgun blast gathered down against her lap. Garrick couldn’t keep himself from gasping, slapping his hand over his mouth. It was a blood bath. It was brutal, and it had only been three months since the war had started.

Neither of them saw the merit of remaining in the house — Price and Garrick — and they followed after Johnny, all while Simon stayed, stating that he wished to see if the shotgun had any ammunition remaining in it.

He was left to his own devices, and when he moved towards the body, he stilled at the sight of an envelope resting against the dresser with the name ‘Louis’ scrawled neatly on the front of it. He took it in his hands and opened it. A letter was on the inside of it, detailing the reasoning to her actions. Of course, it being written in French meant that he hadn’t a single chance of understanding it, but he knew enough to know that she was very sorry for what she had done to, not only herself, but the children in the bed as the word ‘désolée’ appeared on multiple occasions, hell, the letter even ended with words that he thought of often.

Désolée, je vous aime

Charlotte

He put the letter back on the nightstand, inside the envelope he had taken it from. The shotgun, in the end, had no ammunition left in it, so he left it in the lap of the dead woman, and walked out of the house without telling them of the letter he had found. None of them spoke of that house, even after stepping outside, he was not questioned on why he had not taken the shotgun. Instead, they continued on their endeavour, heading further and further into the French countryside.

A similar horror faced him at that moment as he noticed Garrick had stopped in his tracks, eyes trained on something in the distance.

It had been a while since the lake as the sun had moved from being in the centre of the sky and, when he looked down at the watch around his wrist, he read the time as being 6 pm. Truly, the time had moved quickly, quicker than he had realised, but it seemed to still when he caught the tension on his squad-mates brow.

He stared without a word and, when Simon’s eyes followed his path, he found that he was staring at a lonesome tree a couple feet in front of them. They were at the end of a dense woodland, the placement of the trees being fewer and further between, and, when he cast his eyes, he found something hanging.

Not rope, not a body, not an animal, but something.

It was Garrick who said exactly what it was through a pained breath. ‘It’s an arm — a human arm.’

Simon squinted slightly, the shape of the pasty limb finally connecting with his eyes.

It was an arm, hooked on a branch of a tree.

They stood far enough for there to be no blatant sign of gore, had they not been in the middle of a war, he would’ve been inclined to believe that it was the arm of a mannequin.

The hand was tilted downwards, fingers hanging limply with no intention of bracing itself to keep it from falling, and with the size of the hand, the assumption of it belonging to a child would not have been unjust. His eyes fell from the limb in the tree back onto Garrick, watching as he clamoured for the canteen sitting at his waist. He unscrewed the lid with haste, lapping water from it as though he had been starved of the privilege for an eternity. Simon knew he was doing it to keep himself from vomiting, but left his observation to himself. Mactavish patted the man on his back, kick starting him once more and they continued with haste on their journey.

There were tracks in the mud when they passed the tree bearing human flesh, although, he’d believed it to have been the tracks of an animal as opposed to that of a human’s. Price stopped a few paces beyond the tree.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Garrick.

‘It’s gonna get dark soon, we needa find somewhere to stay,’ said the Captain, looking down at the map he’d kept bunched in his hands.

‘I’d be shocked if there’s anywhere round here that hasn’t been blown to pieces, Cap,’ said the Sergeant, brown eyes peering back at the tree. ‘We might have to camp out.’

‘Suppose so,’ said the man, sucking up a breath.

‘Aye,’ said Johnny, ‘you never know though, Gaz, might be something round here. These farm folk are tough.’

Price handed the map to Johnny and lit another cigar, wordlessly marching on. The three of them followed after him without so much as a peep, a warm breeze worsening the dampness of the Lieutenants uniform.

Nothing had changed in their dynamic, falling into the routine without a complaint even when they had first been group together, granted, when they had first been matched, he had looked upon John MacTavish with a slight contempt having experienced him and his humour during his time as a Cadet.

The news that he had been paired with him was met with a resounding sigh, a puff of air so loud that the Scotsman laughed allowed as he bumped Simon’s shoulder with his fist, remarking, ‘it’s a pleasure, Lt. Truly.’

He responded with something sarcastic, something he couldn’t remember for the sake of him for Johnny and his reactions absorbed all space in his mind concerning his memories of their meeting. His words were too loud, too boisterous — his quiet dig wouldn’t have stood a chance.

No way in hell.

Price and Gaz had been different for they seemed to be well acquainted and, when they’d been asked about it by Johnny (of course), Price said, ‘Saw him first day, shitting himself, figured he was a little young, all for him to tell me he had been in the military for ten years.’ Even then, that hadn’t stopped him from taking him under his wing as he said, ‘no one questioned it considering the rank — thought he was a good addition.’

Gaz then chimed in and said, ‘they reckon I mellow him out.’

His words were met with the rolling of the Captain’s eyes as he was asked, ‘you mockin’ me?’

They asked Simon questions too, but he shot them down with a mumbled response.

Simply, he was there to do his job, and his job was not telling stories.

It was to kill Jerry’s and make it home knowing that his Country was safe thanks to his efforts.

As they moved further up the slight hill they had found themselves at, the sky grew to develop an orange tint, signalling that night would be upon them soon and the ought to have picked up the pace if they wanted to uncover some sort of shelter for the night. It was then, on the horizon, that the group spotted a white picket fence, behind it, a red barn.

Shelter.

The greenery rose and dipped like waves in the ocean, this supposed farm located on one of the higher peaks, golden beams of sunlight illuminating it as though nature, or maybe even the hand of God, was attempting to pivot them in the direction of it.

Confirmation that they would try their luck with it was found as they all gave each other a firm nod, moving with a particular spring in their step, bounding down the grassy hill and towards the farm. They rounded random shrubbery and trees, treading on the occasional shotgun shell. The mud was different from the marsh they’d encountered as it had been relatively dry during their time in the City of Nancy, this pattern continuing on the further they got into the countryside.

As they ebbed closer and closer to the farm yard, the Lieutenant tracked the sound of a child’s laughter from behind a few of the trees by the property.

Soon, they arrived to the first row of fences they had seen when on the hill, spying a little girl who was being chased by a dog. It was black and white, yapping excitedly as it leaped around her excitedly, tail wagging as it snagged at the skirt of her dress.

The girl squealed, flapping her hands about, small hand swatting the dog on its head as she pouted, spouting something in French.

Facing the barn, where the girl was playing, was a small cottage. The door to which was opened, and out stepped an older looking woman. Her features were still notably older — old enough to be the young girls mother, he’d thought to himself.

Dressed in a black frock with a brown apron tied around her waist, a look of frustration marked her face as she shooed the dog away with a few harsh words.

It did as demanded, leaping away from her, all for the little girl to go chasing after it. The woman then stood and just stared, shaking her head at they continued to play together. It was when the young girl turned and saw the four men at the fence that her laughter stopped and she returned to the woman, exclaiming out panicked words as she sprinted up to her, acting as though she had seen a monster. The woman turned her head, seemingly skeptical, until she followed the little girls hand and saw the four of them approaching the fence.

She, unlike her young counterpart, was not fearful as she approached the four of them, shaking her head.

’No, no, no,’ she said, her accent thick, waving her hands about.

Price was the first to speak since he knew more of the language than any of them, saying something along the lines of 'we need somewhere to stay for the night.'

It was clear that he was adamant on not taking no for an answer. He spoke to the woman again in French, this time much more insistent. His accent was still very much gruff, Northern, but the woman seemed to understand what he said as she responded with a resounding ‘No.’

Again, he responded to her, mentioning something about France.

She continued her refusal as she shook her head like a maniac. The Captain seemed taken aback by her response as he took a step back from the fence. He then warned her about the impending threat of the Germans.

A smile formed on her wrinkled face as she shook her head, her laughter unsettling as she continued to speak to the man. Price, in response to the woman, climbed the fence and they followed suit.

The dog, that had been yapping, betrayed the cause as it stopped right beside Johnny, rolling over on its stomach. With delight, the man crouched down into the grass, rubbing its belly. It wriggled in the grass as the man continued, a gleeful chuckle leaving his mouth. He was knocked by his Lieutenants boot, and when he lifted his head, he was greeted with his narrow eyes. In an instant, he was up off the ground, all while the dog remained on the ground, panting.

Price only continued with his pleads.

The woman’s mouth formed a straight line as she looked upon the four of them and then over her shoulder at the barn.

Simon said, ‘Please; if you don’t help us, we’ll get it for ourselves.’

The woman huffed as though she understood what he had said to her, turning her back to the four of them stating words fuelled by venom. It sounded like a threat, he thought, and he took it to be such.

Surprisingly, in spite of her presumed hostility, she lead proceeded to lead them to the barn. It was a small distance from the house and, when she made it to the entrance, she removed the wooden plank which kept the doors to the barn closed, shoving the door open with a huff.

‘I’ll talk to your husband,’ Price said to the woman as he walked into the barn.

The woman chuckled, saying something briefly, waving her hand about in the direction of the Captain. She left it at that, turning with such force that her skirt moved outwards, curling at her ankles as she headed back towards the quaint cottage in the distance. \

Simon watched her as she left, all while Johnny and Garrick were quick to situate themselves in a pile of hay, arms and legs spread as though they were laying in the comfort of a bed in an expensive hotel. Price, on the other hand, made a table out of hay bales, setting an old gate which had been discarded to against on of them empty stables.

Simon didn’t move from the door to the barn, noticing a small face in the window of the cottage. It wasn’t the face of the child, nor was it the face of her alleged mother, rather, someone else. He narrowed his eyes upon catching sight of the face, the hairs on his neck standing when his eyes locked with hers. In an instance, like a phantom, they disappeared, the only proof of their existence being the gentle swaying of the laced, white curtains.

‘Seriously, Cap’n?’

Johnny’s voice beckoned him out of his trance and he looked over his shoulder, seeing the man observing the makeshift table Price had made up. The older man shrugged his rucksack off, dropping it on the ground.

‘Might as well be comfy while we’re here,’ he said, rubbing his hands against his beard. It had grown significantly, as had all of their facial hair i the time they had been away, and he read Simon’s mind when he said, ‘what I’d do for a razor and basin of hot water.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Kyle, sinking further and further into the pile of hay with his eyes closed, massaging his temple, ‘used to hate having to share the bathroom back home but I’d do anything to be in the bath hearing my mum pounding on the door tellin’ me to hurry up,’ he deflated, and under his breath, he mumbled, ‘I miss her.’

His hand settled against his stomach as it grumbled loud enough for all the men in the barn to hear. ‘You know, she used to make the best toast in the world. I used to tell her she was costin’ us a fortunate cause of how much strawberry jam she’d put on it,’ he explained, keeping his eyes closed, hands settled against his stomach as it gurgled at the description. A death by his own hands, yet, he couldn’t stop himself. ‘One whole shilling for a jar of that jam, and she’d go through it in three days… she must be going crazy without it.’

Johnny frowned and said, ‘she’ll get a jar of it soon enough,’ nodding to himself, ‘cause we’re gonna win this.’

‘Unless we get murdered by the owner of this farm,’ Simon said, immediately earning a groan from both the Sergeants. 'What? You heard the lady, she wasn't happy at all.'

‘Can tell you’ve never been happy a single day in your life, Lt,’ remarked Garrick.

‘And you’d be right in saying that, Serg,’ he confirmed.

Their dry mouths were no more as, thanks to the mention of Garrick’s mother’s famous toast, all four of them settled on the ground, gathered around the makeshift table that Johnny had initially mocked.

In the time between the woman disappearing and their nostalgia, the Captain had even went through the trouble of placing the half burnt candle Simon had been using earlier that day whilst he’d been writing in the dugout, using one of his matches to light it. He extinguished the flame by blowing it out, setting the match against the table. Price filled the space by mentioning to them just how adamant the woman had been concerning them leaving.

‘Knowing our look, they’ll end up being on the side of the Jerry’s — wouldn’t put it past them. They don’t know better, living out here and all,’ said Johnny, getting a cheap laugh at the possibility that they were going to end up being the meal served around their family table that night.

‘Keep your weapons handy,’ was all Simon said, choosing to leave it at that.

Price didn’t try to pitch in, instead, he settled his hand against his revolver, patting it like the head of a loyal steed.

‘I hope she brings us food,’ said Gaz.

As though he had summoned it, there was a quaint, quiet knock on the door, and they all turned to face the door. For a moment, there was no one, until the door was cautiously pushed open.

A young woman stepped in dressed in a white frock, peering at the four men with a white sheen across her face.

The face in the window, thought Simon, it was you.

You came bearing gifts as you held in your hands a basket covered by a towel, slowly moving towards the four men, setting it down on the table. Upon doing so, you too knelt down onto the ground, dirtying your frock as you brought your finger to your mouth. It was clear, in spite of the barriers, that you wished for them to keep your act of kindness between them, a mischievous smile causing the apples of your cheeks to perk up as you pulled the cloth from off of the basket revealing a bottle of wine, five glasses, two loaves of bread, cheese, and two apples.

Johnny happily took the bottle of wine, ‘merci.’

You nodded happily, holding out a wine glass to him. You did so for all the men, until you reached Simon. Your hand was shaking, he noticed, when you extended it out to him, and, when he took the glass off you, briefly, his fingers brushed against yours.

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ghostybaby000 · 1 year ago

Text

Never Yours | Part 2

Part 1 Part 3

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x reader

Summary: He had seen blood hundreds of times before, but never from you. He didn’t know what to expect while listening to your cry’s on the phone praying you wouldn’t lose consciousness.

Part one posted above to start this read!

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: violent theme, weaponry use, blood, symptoms of panic

Tag List: @yyiikes @talooolaaloolla (not fully edited, apologies for any inconsistencies!)

He wanted so badly to look at you more thoroughly, but knew that the hospital would be able to help you faster. He felt as if his heart had entirely stopped, and that the world was moving at speeds beyond light. The car screeched to a halt outside the emergency room as he tore the door open to the car, again picking you up as gently as he could, trying his best to ignore the wetness of your blood covering his hands and in your hair. Leaving the car and the prying eyes outside the building he shut the door with his foot and turned to head inside. He couldn’t hear anyone around him, as he pushed through people in beds and wheelchairs yelling out for help, making it to the front desk.

‘I-I need someone to help her.’ He was out of breath now from yelling, the adrenaline not letting his brain calm in the slightest.

The woman at the desk stood up immediately and upon seeing the blood coming from the shirt and the person he was holding and called for help.

‘Put her down here-‘ The woman pulled a bed out of a room nearby and rolled it to his side.

He couldn’t let you go. He looked over your eye lids and watched your lips, those delicate pink lips-his jaw clenched as he looked down to the bed. He had told himself to put you down and let them take you, to help you to make you better. His muscles wouldn’t let the weight of you go, he didn’t want to be away from you again-

‘Sir, please we can get her into an OR. Put her down.’ The woman’s gentle but stern voice breaking his thoughts as he forced himself to gently set you down. He heard the air come from your lungs as he entirely let go, you were being rushed away from him and there was nothing more he could do.

It had felt like the minutes were taking hours to pass by as he waited, his panic never leaving him. After 3 or so hours his mind forced him to think about the events and what he could do. He knew that something had gone bad from the start with the markings on the door and the bathroom being beaten in, and called the only people he knew to call in a moment like this.

‘She’s getting help now mate, that’s what matters.’ Prices voice rang through the phone, not that Simon was listening much. He was pacing the small waiting room on the trauma floor while rubbing his hands over his face only to wipe them on his pants to rid of his sweat.

‘I-I should of been there.’ His breathing stammering, his voice hoarse from yelling through the house and the emergency room.

‘You got her there and now she’s getting help, you have to focus on that.’

Simon took a moment to sit in the chair in the room, only to stand again and resume his pacing. He had tried to explain what he had seen to Price, although the thoughts were fading and blurring as he tried to recall the details. He walked into the bathroom and saw you laying in a small pool of blood, a blade handle coming out of your abdomen. Your eyes shut as you lay motionless, unresponsive to him picking you up or yelling your name. The phone near the tub with your blood smeared on it, and your fragile face cut and bruised down and across the neck.

He now looked down to his free hand at the blood that had stained it, quickly looking away and pushing his hand in his pocket. A spark of rage had been ignited inside of him at the thought of someone doing this. Rage that was unlike any other he had known for himself, though for now it was tamed by the feeling of panic and concern for you-which came above all else. Recalling it made him feel sick again as he heard the voice in the phone once more speaking to him.

‘We’re going to do all that we can from our end, and I promise you-you will hear anything that we get over here. You need to stay put and wait for-‘ The line went dead as Simon ended the call. The doctor was headed to the waiting room and as he stopped pacing to face him, he spoke.

‘Are you Simon Riley?’ Simon was trying to read his expression for any indicator to your wellbeing before remembering to respond.

‘Yes that’s me- how is she. How is Y/N?’ His breath was caught in his chest with anticipation as he stared daggers into the doctor’s eyes.

The man in the white recognized Simons panic and lowered his clip board, to look and speak to him directly.

‘She’s stable.’ Simons entire body felt a surge of momentary relief as he sat down into a nearby chair, letting the breath he had been holding escape. The doctor gave him a moment to breathe before continuing to speak.

‘It wasn’t an easy surgery by any means.’ Simons eyes shot up to meet the mans-he had never been so focused, the concern again rising in his mind as the doctor continued.

‘She’s going to need quite some time to recover after this, were you injured at all?’ The doctor looked over his blood stained shirt and hands. Simon protested that he was fine and that he had found you and not been involved in the incident. He accepted this response for the time being and began to talk about the procedure using terms that Simon didn’t entirely understand. He wasn’t listening to all of the details and complexions of the things they were doing to you, it had only made himself feel worse.

The doctor tried to ask about the situation that caused it or how it had happened- questions that he couldn’t think to answer. As he had seen it many times before, the doctor gave Simon time, telling him that she would hopefully be able to have visitors in a few hours.

Before leaving, the doctor added that if he wanted to, Simon could leave a phone number to contact him for when she was ready, and he had the option to leave until then. He wouldn’t move. He didn’t go to the bathroom, he didn’t eat, he didn’t drink until he was able to see you. He found himself staring at a movie playing, not taking in anything that was happening but distracting himself from the situation. The movie had ended and begun another as he felt his eyes begin to close, he heard the distant voice of a man that awoke him instantly.

‘Simon?’ He shot up out of the chair he had been in trying to locate who was talking to him, his heart jumping to an alarming rate. He spun around to find that same doctor as before was again coming towards him, his breath was caught in his throat.

‘I found it important to update you myself on Y/N. There was a complication with one of her sutures after we had gotten her closed up, she’s lost quite a bit of blood tonight and we-‘

‘Is she alright?’ Simon’s body had gone practically numb, his low gruff voice almost yelling out of his chest. He wasn’t able to be patient anymore, he wasn’t able to give the time to wait even to finish a sentence to hear if you were okay. His eyes again staring into the doctors, flickering between the two.

‘She’s just about stable again, but she won’t be seeing anyone for a few more hours at least. Whatever it was that happened put a lot of stress on her body, more than we anticipated.’ The doctor paused for Simon to add any input he had on the situation to the conversation, but to no avail.

Simon had been standing to speak to the doctor and when told it would be a longer wait, again planted himself in the chair. This time his arms sitting on his legs he let his head fall between his knees, his adrenaline coming back to him. Listening to the beat of his heart pound in his head, moments later he felt a light tap on his shoulder breaking his trance, looking up to see a white cone cup the doctor was handing him. He looked past the man at first to the water machine, then taking it into his own hands.

He thanked the doctor for updating him as he nestled again into the chair that held him up as he waited through the night. He didn’t care how long it took, as long as he would be able to see you. He finished another movie, not bothering with anything that was happening as people came in and out of the waiting room, or as people scurried by to get to another wing of the hospital. Spending most of the night pacing the small room or sitting and bouncing his leg, thanking the passing nurses who came to check on him seeing his blood ridden shirt. Although not by his choice, exhaustion forced his body to slip into a light sleep, one that he was fond of when on duty. The next morning he jolted awake as a nurse tapped lightly on his arm.

‘Y/N is asking to see you in room 412, you are Simon Riley aren’t you?’ She stepped back from the large man that had made such sudden movements, only to point down the hall to where the room was.

Without another word he got up and practically sprinted to room 412 leaving any bit of exhaustion in the chair, only slowing to move past doctors and other patients being transported.

He didn’t want anything to keep you from him-yet, he found himself still as stone when trying to move for the door handle to your room. His heart was beating faster than he thought possible as he pulled in a shaking breath and felt the cold metal of the handle. He pushed open the door and walked in the room where he saw you again. This time bandaged and wrapped in blankets, but alive.

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thewriterg · 2 months ago

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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧’ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 chp.5

pairing(s); simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem!reader, johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x fem!reader, kyle ‘gaz’ garrick x fem!reader, john ‘bravo six’ price, werewolf!soap, harp crow hybrid!gaz, dragon hybrid!price, wraith!hybrid (?) ghost, phoenix!hybrid (?) reader

summary; debriefs, makeups, and a cockatrice.

word count; 3.0k+ | chasin’ chaos masterlist

warning(s); monster au, dark twisted themes, normal cod violence, firearms, knives, combat, pinning (?), poly themes, death, r call sign is flatline, blood consumption, eventual smut, kissin, and language

A/n: Daddy’s home 🌝

“Preliminary recon?” Gaz notes, reading over the files that were passed around sitting in the window seal of the meeting room. He appreciates this room the most, the open bay window gives him a break from all the artificial lighting of base. The drift he gets against his wings that slightly ruffle his oak colored feathers against the radius lifts his spirits a little. —something to do with the nature of harpies, he's sure—. The crow hybrid has one leg underneath the other, talon clawed foot poking out along with the few stray feathers that lay against his calves in patches: unflexed, delicate, and soft since no threat was present.

“For the international corps. They’ll be sending us three of their best soon.” Price answers, arms crossed over his broad chest, stray wing spread strong, thick hairless pear green tail still behind his knees, horns mirroring the sight. He has the small quirk of his lips that he usually does, his form screams power and it wouldn’t take a wolf or vampire to smell the authority on the captain.

“Whew… really making us earn our keep, Captain” The rich skinned sergeant whistles combined with a slight chirp.

“Kyle will take point, Ghost and Deity on support, and Soap on clean up if it calls for it.” You sit in front of Gaz, your chin resting on your propped up knee staring boredly at the Mohawked sergeant across from you that immediately went to protest at his position.

“Clean up duty? What I do to you Price, shit in your coffee?” The wolf’s sarcastic remark doesn’t go unrecognized and his deadpan expression makes it all the obvious he’s not impressed.

“With the full moon in a few days you’re lucky I’m letting you leave homebase at all lad” The dragon matches the man’s tone, gaze pointing at him directly as to say: ‘don’t dig a hole for yourself’. You lean back in your chair, backside pressing against the wall and can feel Gaz’s calf feathers puff up against your shoulder there ghosting over his skin. It could bring a smirk to your face, that he still flaunted himself towards you way after the courting process. You throw your arm out on the edge of the window as you would on the back of the couch and the harpy wants to chur at the open initiation of touch. The hand that wasn’t balled in a fist propping up his cheek goes to brush against your forearm. The strokes are precise and broad like a paintbrush and if you weren’t immune to it goosebumps would’ve risen atop of your skin at the slight drag of his claws.

Kyle wasn’t stupid he knew you were reaching out about the night previous. You barely affectionately reached out to any of them but he didn’t take it to heart after a while. ‘Emotionally constipated’ he liked to joke to the team. Yet you had more than enough reason to reach out when night terrors plagued his mind.

💌💌💌💌

Gaz was painfully aware of this situation he was in being a dream and he didn’t know if that was worse. Dressed head to toe in tac gear bullets punctured through his shoulder and thigh. The sight around him makes him sick, his homebase rained hell upon. The 141 all lie in a pool of their own cold blood, dead before they have a chance to hit the floor.

The sergeant's wings were totaled and if he didn’t have more to worry about he would sob at the connection dying from them. Pitifully, he drags himself to cover behind a base issued truck. His ears are ringing and his body is overheated. When he settles and finally stops turning his head over his shoulder, the feeling of burning bile rises up in throat. Price lied unmoving, staring right back at him with lifeless eyes. One side of the dragon was completely burned and the other battered with bruises and knicks. Calm shore crashing blue eyes turned to nothing but still cold waters.

The harpy is not sure how exactly a phone made its way to his palm, if he’d taken it off the captain or got it off himself, all he knows is he’s dialing that number so familiar to his finger tips.

He fully come to terms that he’s in a dream now if he hadn’t before, somethings are just physically impossible to happen in real life —Yet it still hurts all the same.— The world almost fades to black and just before the tine fails he hears a click on the other side. A scene begins to draw itself out in real time as the hybrid begins to see you standing outside somewhere dressed in your usual all black attire.

“Y/n?! Y/n are you there I need you?!” He opens his mouth and it has yet to register to his shaken brain.

“Kyle?” You questioned, having only called him his real name on occasion and he missed the way he sounded on your lips.

“Oh thank god-, thank god y/n, you’re gonna save me right? I-I called you and you're comin’ to get me?” He tries to suppress his broken whimpers at the end of his rushed rant yet they escaped, neither of you cared to comment on it.

“Kyle, why did you call me? I work for another task force now, I can’t save you.” His brown eyes look at you on the other line, phone pressed against your ear, lips pressed into a line, and brows furrowed. The reality settles on him.

“You didn’t pick up…”

“Right.”

“It went to voicemail.”

“Yeah.”

“..So, this is where it ends.” The words were automated, he wouldn’t say that! He could fix it, he would fix it!

“It’s too late, what’s done is done…” He looks at you again and you of course can’t see him there. The way he painfully reaches out for you, his dead wings weighing his weak body back. You're picking at a loose thread of your jacket, staring off into the abyss.

“There’s nothing I can do Kyle, I’m not real. None of this is…” He knows, he truly knows it deep down yet… he hates to hear you say it.

“So what do I do now?”

“Kyle… it doesn’t matter”

“Well if it doesn’t matter… Can I stay on the phone with you at least?” He hums lying on his good side as the adrenaline wears down and out of his body.

“Okay…” You hum, sitting on the curb of some sort.

“How was your day?” The toffee skinned sergeant sighed gently, rattling his lungs.

“Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, my day was good.”

💌💌💌💌

“The op’s meant to be covert, Mactavish. A giant dog scream that to you?” Ghosts gruff voice falls over the conference room and the mutt ‘tsks’ underneath his breath before responding with a curt

“No sir”

You watch the interaction intensely, always the one to observe. Another moment passes and you hum standing from your chair, eyes advert towards your form. Gaz ignores the yearning in his chest and the urge to feel your skin underneath his fingers.

“Pups on clean up, got it. Mind if we wrap this up? I'm hungry.” Price looks at you wearily, before muttering a gruff ‘dismissed’ underneath his breath. You turn expectantly at the harpy crow pulling him with your eyes before you move towards the exit. The hybrid doesn't miss a beat hoping down from his position in the window. Soap irritably follows you both out, parting ways from the debrief room with a stiff tail.

“I was thinking, we could go to the abandoned dock… If you didn't have anything to do.” Gaz watched as you uncertainly inquired with an unusual bashfulness to you that lied underneath the surface of your mask. The harpy fights the calling to puff out the feathers on his chest in response to the rare display.

“Is the sky blue?” He teases and you can't stop yourself from rolling your eyes while the sergeant laughs at the display. You sigh as you both reach the outdoors the wind ruffles the feathers on the crows wings and sends slight chills up your spine at the quick change in temperature. The walk to the dock isn't too far from base somewhere close, yet scheduled and soon enough you're both stepping on the boardwalk. The wood doest croak beneath the pressure while making a way to the ledge Gaz takes a seat his leg dangling above the lake and you follow in suit. The silence is comfortable, the environment around you says what you don't. The current of the water, the leaves rustling in the trees, the bees humming and buzzing further away.

“ Did you sleep any better last night?” The sergeant’s gaze adverts while you stare out onto the water. He couldn't help to stare at your form, your eyes soft and your posture laxed. It was nice to see you so… domesticated. When he doesn't respond your eyes pierce him expectantly waiting for a response and he hums.

“Always sleep better with you” He grins and it isn't short of beautiful. You nudge his shoulder with yours in mock annoyance, the warm skinned harpy leans into you and you allow it. The silence falls over the both of you once more while the sun begins to set against the horizon. He feels you shift above him but doesn't move to look.

“Kyle, I'd never leave you for dead. No matter what happens or how things end… I'll always care for you” As the sergeant moves his line of sight to you his eyes slightly widen at your bare face. Youve shown your face to him a handful of times, usually in the small group setting you always preferred and his breath always seemed to slip away from him despite the fact. The color of your irises, the curve of your nose, the plump of your lips, stray scars from years of battle, the way your curls roll down your shoulders falling loose from the bun you had them in. He could never tire from any of it.

“I know you wouldn't.” He nods his head in response, never averting his eyes from you. The sergeant begins to sit up right and you meet him halfway; the kiss is gentle and soft; it says everything and nothing. Kyle defines himself as a selfish man because the thought of having to break away from you and eventually go back to base is almost worse than the night terror that plagued his mind the night before. You eventually break away from one another and Gaz chases your lips. You huff and nudge him away with your cheek trying to retreat from his over exaggerated puckered lips, you both tip backwards falling back on the boardwalk. The harpy rolls atop of you prepping kisses all over the surface of your face: The plumpness of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the curve of your lips, the skin on your neck. You grunt at the affection and once you had enough you flip yourselves over taking position on top of the harpy. Your hips position on top of his and you take hold of his wrists.

“I’d live in this position if I could Lt.” The toffee skinned sergeant grins up at you while you roll your eyes at his remark.

“You're hangin’ around Soap too much” He hums in response, not moving to deny, it makes you sigh all the more. Gaz grins mischievously and before you could raise a brow he flaps his wings forcing you down to press against his chest.

“If you wanted me closer, all you had to do was ask.” You can't stop the quirk of your lip at the way he looks at you and you're suddenly aware of proximity as well as your position. Your crotch is positioned atop of his, your chests are pressed against one another, and you could feel his breath against your skin. He hums in reply before his lips part.

“I always want you close, Luietantiet.” He practically growls and it isn't hard to give in to his succumbs as your lips smash together and your hips start to rock at a steady pace.

💌💌💌💌

“A fucking cockatrice, so much for a covert OP.” Soap chimes arrogantly into his mic, the Scott wasn't fully transitioned but he did double in size, ears pointed, and more hair adorning his body. He just sounded like he had a smirk on his face and it took everything in Ghots’s being to not wipe it off.

“Hey- silver lining! You're not just cleaning up anymore.” Gaz grunts between words he's perched on the hybrid's shoulders, wrestling a cloth on its eyes as it struggles beneath him. Out of all the bird hybrids he probably hated cockatrice the most and this one wasnt giving them a better track record at all.

“Hell of a recon mission Price.” The harpy chirps into his own mic, as soon as he thought he had a good grip the bird opened his mouth with a screech. The warm skinned sergeant lost his balance falling to the ground and the opposing bird didn't let up, grabbing hold of his wings and pinning them to his hips, applying much more pressure on one over the other. He curses openly twisting in the rabid animals' hold, freeing one wing and unsuccessful in granting freedom to the other. The cockatrice hisses, eyes an uncanny, piercing, red. Soap jumps on the back of the threat, tearing his claws into the hybrid's back, pasts his feathers and into his flesh.

“Chicken..” The two lock eyes and the cockatrice doesn't take a second before flinging the wolf off his back with the flap of his wing. The white feathered being began to panic when Ghost's shadows wrap around his wrists. The skull masked lieutenant pulls the rope like smoke down as the bird struggles underneath him.

“How long are you two gonna keep catching your breath?” He questions gruffly into his mic the hybrid slipping his shadows after twisting and turning from every which direction. The hybrid settles before opening his mouth to let out that wretched screech, but before he could fully project your orange and red sparks of energy wrap around his body and beak.

“Shut the fuck up.” You hiss before throwing its mass form into the tree with the swipe of your wrist. There's littered cracks up your skin like a cracked glass doll that shines a glowing orange underneath the surface. You take a few strides to stand at the side of Gaz and Ghost.

“You broken? The Phoenix and Wraith look at him wearlily and the harpy notes the thin sheet of worry underneath the glare of both of his lieutenants' eyes. Your face is free of your mask the hybrids doing, he was sure; your face matches your hands –the only skin not covered by your gear– cracks kissing your cheeks and your eyes glowing a faint orange.

“Fucker got my wing.” The sergeant huffs rolling his shoulder and attempting to stretch his cramped wing.

“Pay him back for the favor.” Ghost remarks gently raking his gruff fingers through the twisted feathers as gently as he could.

“Planning on it.” He mumbles, handing you your mask that he kept tucked away since he found it. You nod at him in thanks before slipping it back over your head, slipping your gloves back on in suit from your pockect. Before you could part your lips your attention directed towards the stray tail that came at you. Gaz expands his good wing stretching it behind your backs acting as a wall of protection. You and Ghost Interlock shadows and energy to rope around the cockatrice's tail. You all come to see Soap tearing a chunk out of the hybrid's neck as its squeaks and screeches die out. He’d tripled in size and shifted completely.

“..Fucking hell…” Ghost mutters

“So much for keeping it together ‘till the full moon. Guess we're lucky he's getting his energy out now, Soaps a handful when his wolf takes over.” Gaz hums knowingly at the scene.

“Less of a chatterbox at least.” You muse watching as the wolf digs into the white feather bird way past his time of death.

“Sure, but harder to wrangle. Can understand orders well enough, doesn't mean he’ll follow them and he’s… got a lot less inhibitions.” The wolf lands in front of you all, tail swiftly thumping behind, him panting softly.

“Menace in all forms, Huh?” You chide rubbing up and down the wolf's snout while his tongue darts to lick at your hand. Ghost fights the quirk of his lips at the sight, as the scott rubs himself against his body, stealing chin scratches from Gaz.

“He stuck like this until the end of the full moon?” The skull masked lieutenant questioned taking the thought from your mind.

“Or when the wolf gets bored. Whichever comes first.” The harpy replied not taking his eyes off the thick furred sergeant. He eventually hums and nudges you both with his eyes for help. You begin to lead the way, quickly turning around at the sound of the wolf whining and whimpering. Ghosts has his shadows around his neck as a makeshift leash yet that doesn't seem to be the reason for his protest. His animalistic brown eyes don't seem to leave your form as he approaches you. The Scott’s snout nudges your shoulder and you lift your hand up to see what he wants and with sharp teeth he tugs your glove off.

“You serious?” You huff at him as he licks your hand before nuzzling his neck on the same spot, whining when you didn't seem to comply.

“Alright, Alright.” You roll your eyes as you take part in Ghosts' shadows, red and orange sparks littering the black smoke around the wolf's neck. You both have hold of the wolf while Gaz lied perched on his furry back. You could imagine the facepalm and deep sigh Price would give you all when you returned to base.

💌💌💌💌

Not the post you were expecting on your feed 😭

it’s been a hell of a year and it’s only march hello?

trying to form a posting schedule, mind you.

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i-am-hungry-24-7 · 1 year ago

Note

Hi HalloHello! I just discovered your blog and is enjoying your writings! I’m curious about if you have any cod x reader fics you recommend? thanks 🌹

Hello! it's funny to see someone calling my full name lol, and ty for liking my contents!

here are some x reader fics I like very much: (sorry for tagging)

On the same page... (series)(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader Bookshop! AU) - by @thetravelingtyper

no words to say, just read it, please, you won't regret

Are you really ok? (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader)(tw: self harm) - by @cntloup

comforting, for those who feel like drifting, and yes sleep token

The Pool bet (Simon ' Ghost' Riley x GN!Reader) - by @coffeemakerwriter

fucking delicious

Porpuse? (Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x reader) - by @triplewdotgay

I'm crazy for this

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Disabled!Reader - by @gluttonybiscuits

I'm crying, this is comforting, and I hope op is doing great now

Futile Effort (Simon Riley x GN!Reader)(angst) - by @sinkovia

satisfying angst

Crinkled Polaroids (Ex-boyfriend!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)(angst) - by @aethelwyneleigh27

beautiful, I feel like I'm reading a poetic fic

TF141+König x tall afab!reader - by @chamomiletealeaf

especially for tall girls, I fucking devour this

mic work (John ' Soap' MacTavish) - by @glossysoap

sexiest soap writer imo

Perfect imperfection (John Price + Simon Riley)(mum!reader, dad!price, dad!ghost, fluff, baby with a disability/sickness) - by @blingblong55

no words just tears (happy tears btw)

Simon*Reader (tw: self harm, scars) - by @witchthewriter

we will be fine

Sadistic!Reader x Masochist!Ghost (tw: Blood/knife kink, name calling, bondage (?)) - by @tfmerc

Masochist!Ghost my beloved

"The stars?" "Yeah, the stars." (Soap*GN!Reader)(tw: Mentions of death/death, no mention of Y/N (Hurt/no comfort)) - by @internallyscreamings

beautiful angst my beloved

Just What I Needed (Soap x fem!reader)(tw: Fluff, mutual pining, best friends to lovers, suggestive language, mentions of feeling insecure) - by @keegansshark

GO READ IT PLEASE YOU WILL BE HAPPY

Lovers to Strangers (series)(Ghost x reader, Ghost x Soap, Ghoap x reader)(tw: Angst no comfort yet) - by @lordlydragon

extremely underrated, heart-wrenching, waiting for the update

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angelrissa · 5 months ago

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"Savior" Simon Riley x F!Reader

Previous (prompt) next "Savior" Masterlist

CW : noncon/dubcon, dark fic, smut, descriptions of wounds and injuries, kidnapping kinda

Things just seemed too peaceful. Surely there should be more noise than the guttural moans of pain escaping your cracked lips. Yet, there was nothing, no sounds of the excessive nature surrounding you, no wildlife chirping with life, nothing, just the exhausted heaving of your chest as you desperately try to catch your breath, limping to find anyone that could possibly help you.

You can't recall how long it's been since you were separated from your team, but it was long enough to know they weren't searching any longer, but you doubt they searched in the first place, you were somebody people didn't mind losing, deadweight as they'd call it. While the fading sounds of your surroundings echoed in your mind, a sudden sharp pain snapped you back to reality. Blood gushed out of your leg, a deep red color that seemed to somehow look delectable to the raw hunger aching in your stomach. Thank goodness you saw the thick berry jam oozing from your body inviting your fingers to shove themselves into the jar and stuff the two digits down your desperate mouth. You let out a wicked scream of pain when two fingers greedily dug into your wound realizing you had further mutilated yourself, causing your feeble body to collapse to the ground. It's too bad you were oh so close to what looked like an isolated cabin standing solitary in the woods, only just a few feet away from your blurred vision.

Your senses were dulled, each breath more labored than the last, but somehow, the sight of the cabin ignited a flicker of hope within you. Clenching your jaw against the pain that radiated from your leg, you pulled yourself up with weak determination. The wound was ghastly. Hot blood pooled beneath you, staining the dry leaves and soil underneath like a gruesome work of art. But the cabin stood resolute, a solitary figure against the contamination of the forest, a chance that someone lived there.

You dragged yourself forward, each movement sending daggers of agony through your leg. You could barely focus, the world shifted in and out of clarity as you stumbled toward the door before collapsing on the dirty excuse of a front porch. The world twisted and warped around you like a reflection of your child self in a fun house mirror at the state fair. Gasping for air, each inhale felt like swallowing shards of glass that clawed at your throat. Shadows clouded your vision, thick and eerie, covering the world in a muted, dark hue. But something was wrong, completely, irrevocably wrong. One shadow seemed to stand out darker than the rest, it was the shadow oddly shaped like a man. A man so unsettling it was probably best you died here before he got his hands on you. He loomed over you, taking pleasure in your agony. Knowing nobody would ever find you out here, he's not even quite sure how you managed to get here, but oh is he thrilled you did.

His large hands quickly reach down to grab onto your body, calloused fingers roughly grazing over your breasts where your bulletproof vest previously clung to your skin, but now pathetically hung off your frame. You immediately recoil at his touch, wincing from the ache of your wounds. You may have been delirious but you just knew you weren't safe.

How sick of him to stare at you like a piece of meat while you desperately clung to life, praying you won't die like this. But he just couldn't help himself. How could he? You just weakly lay in his arms, so afraid, such a tragic girl. He needed to save you. He would be your savior whether you wanted him to be or not.

wc : 628

taglist - @ang3lc

a/n : sorry this literally took forever, I'll try my hardest to stay consistent with this but please let me know if you have any feedback, or comments

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whiskeynwriting · 1 year ago

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When You Say My Name

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

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Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI)

Size kink, mask kink, dirty talk, open-ish relationship, kinda cheating?, very brief mention of oral sex (f receiving), semi-public sex, unprotected vaginal sex, alcohol consumption

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A/N: Disclaimer - this is written at the point in time before Graves’ betrayal of 141. Also, I hate that bastard. Also also, Ty to @thesleepingmusicneek for beta reading 🥰

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Simon “Ghost” Riley Masterlist

Join My Taglist!

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There once was a time where you were treated that way, like the center of attention, the only girl in the world. He’d keep you close, take you out, buy you drinks and gifts and truly, whatever you wanted. His attention was yours and there was no other woman in the world that could compete with it. Everything you could hope to hear, he’d tell you - you’re perfect, I love you, you’re mine. That was, until about a month ago. Now, all of those privileges have been handed off to whatever woman he deems fit for the night. But that was only supposed to be while he was on leave, not while he was home, and most certainly not in front of your goddamn face.

Easily, tears sting your eyes and a jealous lump forms heavily in your throat. Your veins feel like ice and unpleasant embarrassment creeps through your bones. Out of mere spite, you watch them, heart pounding when you hear Graves greet her with, hey doll, alongside a hug and kiss on the cheek. You thought that was only your nickname; he’d never called another woman that, not in the year you’ve been together. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

Phil told you he’d met this woman on his last deployment, and that told you everything you needed to know. You’d assumed with him coming home, you’d spend the evening together, not out at some shitty bar. Still, you came to see him, even though he was acting like he’d rather do anything else than see you. Even off the plane, he greeted you with a simple smile, a half-hug. The only man that approached you with genuine excitement, was Simon.

The hug Ghost gave you lifted your feet from the ground, tight and firm and full of happiness. He’s become a rather close friend as of late; for some reason, you find him easy to talk to. You met when Shadow Company joined 141 on their latest missions, no more than a few months ago now. And since then, you’ve managed to greet each other after every mission, making sure to send the other off when the next trip came around, too. And in between those occasions, Phil would often find the two of you on base together, usually in one of the common rooms. You’d be eating together, or playing pool, sometimes cards. Friendship was the word you often used, but Graves never fully bought it. Slowly but surely, jealousy crept up inside him, and you were more than aware of it.

Right now, though, that nasty, green emotion is consuming you. Your blood boils while you watch him continue to flirt, keeping an arm around her back and a hand securely on her hip. Graves buys her a shot, and then a drink, things he didn’t do for you when you joined him at the bar all but fifteen minutes ago. But then they’re sitting down together and she’s running her hand up his thigh and Christ, you feel like you’re going to be sick. As soon as he approached her, you retreated to the back of the pub, finding the farthest, darkest booth to sulk in. And still, you watch them, torturing yourself.

“All by yourself back here?”

“Fuck,” Jolting, your head snaps up, eyes falling on the bulky figure that is Simon Riley. “Hey, I… yeah.”

“Why’s that?” Casually, he makes himself comfortable, taking the seat across from you with a light sigh. It was something you bonded over, being loners. This type of scene wasn’t his thing, so of course, he came and found you.

Lifting both hands, he sets two glasses on the table, pushing one toward you. “For me?” You ask with a humorous smile, and he nods.

“That fruity thing you like.” Ghost responds before pulling up the edge of his mask to nurse his bourbon. And although you’re in no mood for company, his presence is comforting. Honestly, there’s no one else you’d rather have join you. “Why’re you alone, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart, a name that fell from his lips often. But only for you. Something Graves never liked.

The sentiment behind the name fills you with warmth, alongside the fact that he remembered your drink order. His entire presence prompts a new brew of emotions to swirl inside of you, clashing incredibly with the negativity brought on by Phil.

“Didn’t wanna see any more of that.” Jerking your head in Phil’s direction, you sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah, I, uh…” Ghost looks over as well, taking in the situation. “I’d consider that cheating, if it were me.” He’s honest, he always is.

A huff of annoyance leaves your lips; his comment only stirs the embers that were once settling in your gut. “Yeah, well, lucky for him it’s not.”

“What?” Simon scoffs, turning back toward you. You’re not able to see his expressions, not with that balaclava in the way. In fact, you can hardly see any of his features. With his black hood pulled up, that mask on and even those boney gloves covering his fingers, he’s quite hidden. Something you’ve always found alluring about him.

“Yeah…”

“Pardon my prodding, but…” Leaning in, Simon scoffs once again, a type of chuckle bouncing from his lips. “What kind of sense is that?”

Since the very first day you met, Simon had an interest in you. He thought you were gorgeous; a cute, sexy little thing that he wanted to keep close to him. That, on top of his general dislike for Graves, made it easy for him to disapprove of your relationship. And he wasn’t ever too subtle about it, either.

One big, dramatic sigh leaves your mouth, your head tilting back against the booth. “It’s complicated.”

He just shrugs. “Fill me in.” Leaning back, he takes another sip from his glass, watching the way your eyes follow his movements. Ghost allows you to take in this small sight, his scarred skin, his growing stubble, the view not many are given. Intriguing. “Unless, you’d rather I just go…”

“No.” Your response is instant. “No, I don’t want you to go. I just… I don’t want you to think badly of him.”

“By the looks of it, he doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of him.” And you figure, he’s right. Phil isn’t exactly being secretive about this.

“He, well… he asked me for a, um… an open… relationship.” Ghost simply hums, a thoughtful noise as he nods. “He asked for it about a month ago.”

An open relationship, he thinks. Does that mean… she can sleep with other people, too?

“And you agreed to that?”

Another big sigh. “Yeah.”

“But you didn’t want to?” It’s almost like Simon is laying this out for you, trying to get you to see that Graves is just using you. Clearly, this arrangement isn’t fair.

“I… ugh. Yeah. I just didn’t want to cut things off completely, but… it looks like I should’ve just taken the hit. Would’ve been a hell of a lot easier than this.”

“He’s been with other women?” Ghost clarifies, trying to get the full picture. It baffles him, honestly. How could one man be so disloyal? And to you, of all people?

“Yep, quite a few. He tells me almost every time. Claims the honesty is good.”

Simon laughs at this. “Or he’s just clearing his conscience.”

“Exactly.”

A small lull wafts through your conversation, and in this pause, Simon knows what he wants to say. He knows what he wants to ask and absolutely has the balls to ask it. But is it the right time? Would you find his prodding offensive? Genuinely, he does cherish your friendship, but he’s wondering if this is his chance to make it something more.

“And have you?” Simon finally asks, the words coming out gently.

“Hm?”

“Been with anyone?”

The question isn’t exactly shocking. It’s no secret that Simon is interested in you, and with the way the conversation is going, it was only a matter of time before he asked.

“No, it didn’t interest me. I mean, not at first, anyway.” You’re speaking so openly that you don’t even register that you’ve said it before it leaves your mouth. And when it does, your face runs hot, wondering if he caught on to your wording.

“At first?” Of course he caught onto it. Would she be open to it? He wonders enthusiastically, Do I really have a chance of this going my way?

“Yeah, but I’m starting to think…” Fuck it. “Why not?” A dry laugh comes from your throat, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I should just start moving on.”

With excitement stirring inside him, Simon tries his best to suppress the expression on his still-exposed lips, which are now tilting upward into a mischievous grin. This is just what he wants to hear. And now that you’ve given him somewhat of an opening, he thinks he’ll shoot his shot. “Well… you know I’m always here for you.”

“Yeah?” Laughing at his comment, you look up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Would he… would he really do this?

With a wicked smile, Simon squints his eyes at you. Hand wrapped firmly around his glass, those thick fingers slide over the condensation, gaze never parting from your own. “I think you know what it means.”

All too often, all too much, these sinful thoughts have crossed his mind. He’s indulged in them, fantasizing about you every time he got the chance. Thinking about how your perfect ass would look bouncing back against him, lubed up with your velvety heat swallowing him whole. Those pretty lips, what would they look like with your cheeks bulging, throat desperately trying to accommodate him? The way you sway your hips makes him want to pin you down, shove himself inside just to watch his dick press against your belly.

Ghost’s offer, or what seems to be an offer, is shocking to you. Finally, you think; a blatant display of his interest. You were starting to think he’d never make a move.

With one last glance over at Phil, you make an easy decision. Seeing him so blatantly disregard not only you, but your entire relationship, has you fuming. And feeling this much pain makes you want to hurt him back. What better way to do that than with Simon? The same man Graves has been jealous of, the same man you’ve wanted for months.

With a flirtatious smirk, you rest your elbows on the table, leaning your weight onto them. The circumstance has butterflies swarming your stomach, but there isn’t a single ounce of hesitancy inside. Just pure, simple excitement.

“Why don’t you spell it out for me?” Now, you need to get the full picture. The last thing you want is to make an even bigger fool of yourself tonight by assuming things.

“I want you.” Simon returns easily. “And you know it, too.”

Playing coy, you shrug, sitting back in your seat. “I don’t know anything. You’ve never made a move.” And your teasing prompts a deep breath from him.

“Well, if I knew about this situation a little sooner, I might’ve.” Eyeing you up and down, Simon’s gaze is slow, saturating your body with his attention. “The late nights we’ve had, those moments on the couch, those sweet hugs every time I come home…”

“I like seeing you come home.” It’s hard to play dumb when you so desperately want him too.

“I wanna come home to you.”

Finally, he’s won, he’s gotten in the last word. Because now, you’re simply stunned. Words escape you, your lips parting in shock. From the way he’s phrasing it, Simon isn’t looking for a simple hookup. He’s interested in you.

“I’ll tell you what,” Ghost then offers, downing the rest of his drink. “I’m gonna head out for a smoke. Whether or not you choose to follow me, is your choice.”

Standing, he steps toward the door, only a few feet from where you’re both seated in the back. But before he leaves, he glances down at you, gently tapping your chin with his thumb. “You know what I want.”

He’s giving you a chance to think this over, to really decide what you want. Because to him, this means more than sex, and you know that.

“Didn’t even have a chance to light a cig.” Simon chuckles, watching you approach him through the dark.

When you find him, he’s leaning up against the bar’s outer wall, cigarette in hand. And when he leans upright, standing to his full height again, you’re mesmerized. Alluring doesn’t do this man justice.

With a small sigh, Ghost watches you step into his space, one gloved hand lifting to your face. He cups it then, swipes his thumb over the bone of your cheek. And his touch feels invigorating on your skin.

“You gonna tell me what you want?”

Offering a small nod, you keep his gaze, something he likes. “You.”

And this time, it’s a gravely sigh, a firm breath as he holds your face with both hands. Easily, smoothly, he’s bringing himself down to you, watching as you rise to the tips of your toes to meet him. You grab onto his forearms, feeling his breath against your face, his lips against your own. And it’s everything you imagined it would be. His kiss is firm and determined; he tastes like betrayal and excitement, like an antidote mixed with poison.

Already, he’s shoving his tongue past your lips and into your mouth, moaning quietly when you reciprocate the action. He doesn’t have an ounce of restraint in him, not anymore, not when you’re acting like this. The eagerness he exudes is so easily returned, like the two of you have been waiting for this moment. And honestly, you don’t know why you haven’t thought about this before. You’re in an open relationship and you haven’t even considered fucking Ghost?

Soft groans vibrate against your mouth before he’s whispering, “C’mere.”

To your delight, he pulls you further in, dropping his hands from your face to your waist. Your height difference prompts him to dive even further down, mouthing at you with an unexpected amount of desire. It fills your insides with excitement, with lust, your nerves sizzling as you continue to chase his touch. And on his end, Simon can barely catch his fucking breath. He’s been waiting for this, fucking dreaming of this. Being this close to you has his heart pounding, his adrenaline rushing.

Naturally, your hands move from his arms to his neck, holding him in the way you’ve been wanting to for so many months. And you think now, Graves finally has something to be jealous of.

“You want me?” Simon asks again, smile growing against your lips. Boldly, those broad palms find your ass, squeezing harshly.

There hasn’t been a single goddamn day in your relationship with Graves where you felt this good, this desired, this genuinely wanted. The way Simon kisses you is dizzying and he tastes like fucking nirvana. Everything about this man is a turn on, from his strength and power to the raw masculinity you so obviously drool over. You’ve longed for this, dreamt about this, what it would feel like to kiss him, touch him, fuck him.

“Yes, yeah.” Your nod is rapid, fingers petting along that sharp jawline.

“I want you; I want you, sweetheart.” He’s mumbling against your lips, moaning wantonly when your tongue makes its way into his mouth. Eagerly, he returns the sentiment, running the wet muscle over your own in slow, heated strokes. “I want you now.”

Regardless of his wording, you don’t expect him to pull you back the way he does, yanking you into the bar’s side alley. Pushing you into the cold, brick wall, Simon presses himself to your back, whispering gruffly into your ear, “That too rough for you?”

Already, he’s rubbing himself against your ass, grinding himself over your taught jeans and wrapping both arms around your belly. Those sinfully sweet lips then find a home on your neck, along your jaw. Everything is moving so fast that it has your heart racing, blood rushing, arousal flooding your system and burning hot between your legs.

Before you can respond, he’s reaching up with both hands, fondling you over your shirt. And the unexpected action has a shiver running throughout the entirety of your body, feeling those broad palms fist your breasts, running his thumbs over the nipples, groping them with overt enthusiasm.

“Perfect fucking tits…”

“No,” Meeting his actions, you soon form a rhythm, swaying your hips back against him. “I like, like when you’re rough.” It’s almost embarrassing, the way you stutter. But you can’t find it in you to care, not when he groans with approval against the base of your neck.

Even through his jeans, you can feel him, hanging thick and heavy between his legs. Continually, he ruts his crotch against your ass, holding you close while breathing humid breaths down your neck and back.

“Fuck… you already feel so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” Ghost chuckles, grabbing onto your hips. “I can make you feel better.”

“Please.” It’s taking everything in you to not reach behind and pull off his mask, to not run your fingers through his hair and tug on the strands.

“Here?” He clarifies, more than willing. And you’ve never done anything close to this but you’ve also never been more excited in your entire goddamn life.

“Yeah,” Nodding, you gulp, feeling dizzy from his affection. “Yes, baby.”

Drunk on him and maybe your few drinks, you’re still sober enough to know you won’t regret any of this. Whether it’s a one-time thing or the start of something more, you won’t regret this.

“Mm…” Using both hands, he cups you, kneading the covered flesh of your backside with slow, firm grabs. He’s eyed you up and down so many times before tonight, imagining what it’d be like to grab you like this. But even through his unwavering lust, he has to be honest. “Haven’t got a condom, love.” It comes out as a mumble, the only time you’ve ever heard Ghost become hesitant.

“I didn’t want one.” It comes alongside a small laugh, a cheeky grin he can just barely see.

Instantly, he’s releasing a breath, moving spit-slick lips to your cheek for a quick kiss. “Perfect girl.” With a pleasant smile of his own, he drops his chin to your shoulder, fingers moving to undo your jeans. And the small ounce of praise has your insides flaming. “My girl.”

His, his.

Keeping his chin against your shoulder, he glances down, sighing when he pushes your jeans past the swell of your backside. Another squeeze, eyes glued to the sight of your bare skin, just as soft and smooth as he’d always imagined. Briefly, he wants to drop to his knees, kiss the sweet flesh he’s only gotten small teases of, bite into it, mark it. But he doesn’t have time for that, not when you’re out in public like this.

Unzipping his fly and popping the button on his pants is quick work, and though the lull is brief, your anticipation continues to grow evermore. You can feel the moment he’s free, resting himself between your cheeks. He’s hot to the touch, and noticeably throbbing.

“Baby…” Slowly, he slides, up and down between your cheeks. A wet trail quickly forms, his prespend smearing across your lower back.

“You want me?” He says it while slithering a hand around to your front, hooking two fingers into your panties so he can pull them down. Forgoing his aggressive nature for this moment, for you, two fingers then find your throbbing nerves, his touch sweet and delicate.

“Yes.”

“Need you to say it, love.” His entire body is pressed against your back, keeping you warm and safe. “Need you to tell me.”

Thick fingers toy with your entrance, dipping inside to get a small taste of your wetness, and it feels like fireworks are going off inside your stomach. He then drags both digits up to your clit, circling it while kissing your neck.

“I want you,” Lolling your head back onto his shoulder, you’re surprised at how quickly he then moves. Instantly, he’s retracting his hand and pumping himself against your ass, using the other to spread you open.

“Say it again.” Ghost requests, pressing himself against your thin skin, your pink lips.

“I want you.”

With his swollen tip spreading you open from behind, he pushes forward, groaning openly at your welcoming warmth. Every inch is intimidating, the push of his hips forcing you to accommodate him. Which is easy, especially when he licks up your neck, kissing your jawline and cheek. It’s sloppy, the way he mouths at you, the passion he gives you.

“Simon,” Both palms help to steady yourself against the wall as he continues, shoving himself inside inch by devastating inch. Christ, you can’t even imagine what it’d be like to have him in your mouth.

“Fucking hell,” A forced breath, like the wind had just been knocked from his lungs. It’s only released when he’s entirely inside, pelvis flush with your ass. “Christ, love when you say my name.”

Both of those strong arms then wrap themselves around your center, keeping you entirely against him. Almost naturally, you’re dropping a hand, cupping the space between your legs. You can’t help it, you just want to feel him, your fingertips caressing his base, his scrotum. And that has him losing his goddamn mind, throbbing against your walls in return. Nosing gently over your head, he groans - hums, the simple action showing him just how much you adore this.

Running a hand down your outer thigh, Ghost begins to move, his actions slow but firm. And every drag lights your insides on fire; it’s such an adrenaline rush to finally have him inside.

“How can that bastard ignore you like that?” Simon mumbles, more so to himself than anything else. “Look so fucking sexy in this… perfect body, in these tight little jeans.”

“Baby…” His thrusts are becoming quicker, harder, working himself up to the breaking point that’s soon to come. But not too fast, he wants to make this last.

“Been wanting to feel you since Graves brought you to base.” Ghost suddenly admits, the smack of his pelvis against your skin beginning to radiate into the night.

The words he’s using are truly a force to be reckoned with, every single syllable melting you to absolute putty at his feet. He sounds so serious and genuine, so dominant, so possessive. This is everything you’ve wanted.

Breathless, you look back at him, an adoring smirk crossing your face. “Really?”

“Fuck, yes.” Nipping aggressively at your neck, he moans, Ghost fucking moans.

“You should’ve said something earlier then.”

And at that comment, you think back to Phil. Should you really be doing this? You know it will upset him; but whether or not he has a right to be upset has yet to be determined.

“Yeah? Would you have chosen me instead?” Bringing you back to the present is that gravelly voice, deep and beautifully accented.

Yeah… fuck Graves, and fuck that relationship.

“Yes.”

“Yeah?” Simon asks again, pleasantly surprised by your answer.

“Fuck yes.” Reaching back, you find his head, hand sliding down the nape of his neck. You need to hold onto him, somehow, you need to feel more of him.

Honestly, you would have. And you don’t care if that makes you a shitty person or a shitty girlfriend; you gave your all to Phil and he took it for granted.

“You really mean that, sweetheart?”

“Yes, baby. I’m so happy you want me.” Forcing yourself back against him, you bounce off his pelvis, driving him deeper inside.

“Christ,” Dropping his head, his face falls to your bare shoulder, mouthing at you again and again.

Laughing, you chastise him gently. “You’re gonna leave a mark.”

“Want to.” Comes his returned mumble, hands securing themselves to your hips. “Fuck.”

It’s like he can’t even see straight; feeling the gorgeous woman that you are rolling your hips back against him. Asking for more, pulling him in for more.

In the middle of the night, half naked in a fucking backalley, you feel so incredibly exposed; but Ghost makes it feel like you’ve been doing this together all your lives. He touches you like he knows you, like he’s done it a million times. It’s comforting, his presence exuding a warm sense of safety.

Rolling your hips backward, your brows furrow, soft moans continuing to escape you. Images of Simon’s fully naked body suddenly begin to run rampant in your mind, wishing so desperately to experience more of him. His muscles and scars, the light blonde hair leading down to his pelvis, his broad back and wide hands. You want to touch every inch of him, hold him, feel him.

Christ, did you pick the wrong man when you met them. Simon feels so incredibly different than Graves; veinier, thicker. Every inch forces you open, spreads your legs just a bit wider, makes your whines just a little bit higher. It hurts so good and you can’t help but cry out for him.

“Oh… I love that.” Simon admits, slowing to a harsh grind against your ass.

“Baby,”

“You like how that feels?” Pulling out only about an inch or so, he shoves himself back in, harsh but not aggressive.

Simon’s body reacts so openly to your own, his lungs shivering with every breath just from the feeling, the sensation of your warmth. And every movement creates a delicious force of friction between your bodies, heat building, arousal peaking.

“Give me control,” He rumbles deeply into your ear, lips briefly brushing by. “Let me show you how good it can be.”

You can smell the bourbon on his breath, can feel the way he grabs for your hips and ass. And at that moment, you fully give in, halting your sultry motions and letting him do whatever the fuck he wants.

“Keep holding onto me like that,” He requests, feeling your nails dig into the skin of his neck.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, it turns me on.”

“Simon, fuck I, I can’t…”

“Can't what, sweetheart?” He’s kissing all over your face, your cheek and chin and jaw, sloppy movements to match his increasingly erratic thrusts.

“Can’t believe I didn’t choose you.”

And that shoots a surge of energy through his bones, his thrusts now the product of his unwavering strength. It forces you to shriek, to cry out for him and release the most beautifully whorish sound Simon’s ever heard in his entire life. He fucks into you relentlessly, one arm sliding up to grope your chest again.

“We’re not being very subtle.” Choking out the words, you huff, feeling him punch against your most delicate spot.

“Don’t give a damn.” Comes his mumbled response, mouthing at your neck. “You’re mine, and I want Graves to see.”

“Really, baby?” Your breaths are rapid and heavy, lightheaded from everything you’re experiencing.

“Unless you tell me no, unless I hear otherwise, you’re mine.”

Dipping a hand down, he finds your precious little bud, rubbing firm circles into it. Immediately, your hips jerk beneath his touch, gasps floating from your throat.

“Look how responsive you are,” Nuzzling into your cheek, he kisses it. “Pretty little lover.”

“Baby,” Said alongside a breathless smile, you open your eyes, wishing to see his. “You’re so fucking perfect, baby.”

He feels so warm around you, inside you, keeping you beneath the sturdy barricade of his arms. You want to be his, more than anything in this moment.

“How could any man stray away from you?” He wonders aloud. “Perfect fucking cunt, gorgeous goddamn face.”

Repeatedly, he sinks in to the hilt, bouncing his hips back and forth with easy sways, slapping himself against the seam of your slippery cunt. He wants more than anything to feel your body, your bare skin, have you completely exposed to him. And he’s promising himself that he’ll make that happen.

“Christ, babe,” Huffing out a flurry of rapid breaths, he admits, “I’m close.”

“Baby, fuck.” A whimper slips from your mouth, eyes shutting firmly. You can feel the way he pulses against your walls, can feel the stutter in his hips.

The heat of euphoria curls tightly in his abdomen, the combination of arousal and possession pushing him over the edge. It’s fierce, powerful, legs shaking and breath punching from his chest. But still, he remembers to pull out, free hand shoving your jacket up while the other fists himself. Hot spurts shoot over your lower back, trickling down your ass. It’s sticky and wet but it turns you on more than anything, feeling him cum on you like this.

“Simon,” Arching your back for him, you listen to his ragged breaths, feeling how rapidly he pumps his shaft.

“Fuck me,” Ghost finally speaks, slowing his movements and taking a look at the mess he’s made. “Fuck me…”

Leaning further in, he sighs, kissing the back of your neck while tucking himself away. He’s careful to not get any of his own spend on his hoodie, but when he pulls away, realizes he got some on your jacket by accident.

“Shit, sorry about that.”

“Huh?” Turning around, you finally face him, blissed out expressions taking in the other’s. Briefly, he smiles, until he explains, “Got a little bit on your jacket.”

Surprisingly, you huff a sarcastic laugh, slipping your arms from the material and dropping it to the ground. “It was Phil’s, anyways.”

“Well shit,” Ghost exclaims, picking it up again. “Would've gotten a lot more on it if I’d known that.” All you do is roll your eyes, with the slightest smirk. “Turn around.”

He nods in your direction, watching you follow his request. Using the jacket he cleans his cum off your back, wiping it away before discarding the clothing once again. And then Ghost is pressing himself against your back, kissing your neck while pulling up your pants. He zips them, buttons them, feeling your cheeks plump with a grin.

“Si?”

“Yeah, love?”

Turning around in his hold, you release a wavering breath, hands sliding up his forearms. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Your voice is soft and quiet, hesitant. “I know it’s difficult, when you’re on leave…”

“Not for me.” Instantly, you give him a look of apprehension. But he just shrugs. “Don’t really fancy the barracks bunnies we get. And with the looks of you…” Reaching out, he cups your chin, fingers pressing lightly into your cheeks. “Pretty thing you are… I won’t have a problem being loyal.”

Suddenly, he’s removing himself from you, sliding his arms from the confines of his black hoodie. “Wanna head back to the bar?” He asks while shuffling out of the sleeves, finally taking it off his body. “Or back to base?”

“I don’t really wanna go back in there…” Your response is incredibly timid, not wanting to disappoint him if he wants to stay out.

“Perfect.” If he hasn’t made it clear, Simon isn’t exactly a people person. And then, to your dismay, he pulls down his mask, hiding that gorgeous grin. “Here, love. It’s chilly out.”

He’s handing you his hoodie, the black one he was just wearing. And when you take it in your hands, you realize it has his rank and last name on the back.

“Really?” You’ve never had anything like this, Graves never wanted you to wear anything with his name on it.

“Put it on, babe.” He nods once, cupping your jaw and giving your cheek a kiss through the cloth of his mask. “Keep it.”

#Simon Riley #babyyyyy take me #please #Simon Riley x you #Simon Riley x reader #Simon Riley x female reader #Simon Riley smut #Simon Riley cod #Simon “Ghost” Riley

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the-whispers-of-death · 1 year ago

Note

(nonbinary) reader with tokophobia x Simon "Ghost" Riley?

I've never seen any fics where reader has tokophobia, and I have been getting FAR too many pregnant!reader fics on my dash to be comfortable😭😭

don't need to write anything abt this if you dont want to, by the way! :)

It's fine, I just hope I write this as best as I can to properly represent tokophobia! Gender neutral Reader who has a uterus, coming right up!

For as long as you could remember, you felt sick at the thought of childbirth and being pregnant. There were people around you who didn't want kids, but they didn't have the same fear about childbirth as you did. You knew how risky pregnancy could be, how there were so many ways things could go wrong. And it all terrified you, every single detail about childbirth.

So whenever you were asked about kids and pregnancy, you said you never wanted kids. And the response you got were people telling you that you'd change your mind or, and this was the real kicker, that your partner was going to want kids—expect kids from you.

As the years went by, your dating pool was limited. You only dated guys who didn't want kids, but the thing was that some of those good guys eventually talked about the possibility of having kids. So you came to a period of your life where you cut off dating completely, your previous experiences suggesting that every guy who said they never wanted kids would eventually want kids.

Until you met Simon.

Simon at first scared you, not because he seemed unapproachable, but because he was a military man. Military men weren't known for not wanting kids. Even if they weren't planning on having kids, they ended up doing so because they were more likely to be risky with sex and using protection. So you were afraid he'd want kids or would accidentally knock you up.

Still, you let him take you out on dates and you soon found yourself falling in love with him. You two had sex, always with a condom, and you always took the morning pill. You weren't taking any chances.

One day, Simon asked you why you were so hell-bent on not having kids. He wasn't judging, he was just curious. And it was his gentleness about the subject, the way he was just so genuinely curious, that it made you pour your heart out and talk to him about your fear of childbirth and pregnancy.

After you did so, Simon frowned and you were worried he was going to brush off your fear or worse, try and convince you to bear his child. Instead, he told you to he was going to get a vasectomy, just so there was another extra layer of precaution in case your plan b pills didn't work and/or the condom broke.

You thought he was just saying it to make you feel better but lo and behold, the next day, he came back after having a vasectomy. And he didn't even try and tell you that you should stop taking the plan b pills or that you two should do it without the condoms, no, this was purely just another way to ease your mind.

Because he didn't want kids, definitely not, and he much preferred helping your fears be at ease.

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thirstydemisexual · 2 years ago

Note

2, 10, 23 with ghost pleasee

anon!!! I love this combo so much thanks for requesting it! I had so much fun writing this.

COMING HOME|| Simon "Ghost" Riley X reader

Warnings: smut, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex

no beta we die like Soap

It had been a long three months, not only Simon was deployed but their comms and connection were compromised and thus he had not being able to neither call or text you. Which very much worried you lots, but you had faith that Simon would come home to you so you tried your best to keep yourself occupied and not to think about the whole that was digging in your chest every time you thought about how long it had been since you last heard of him.

You where just getting out of the shower, towel wrapped tight around your body and hair damp when you heard rustling of keys at the front door.

You froze like a deer in headlight until you heard the familiar sound of combat boots being dropped next the entrance and recognizing the voice of your boyfriend greeting your cat, Phantom.

You rushed through the house almost slipping a couple times because of the water that was still dripping from your body.

And there he was Simon Riley, your dear boyfriend, duffle bag in hand and staring right back at you.

You literally drew yourself at him, towel falling behind you. Simon catching you by the hips keeping you steady while you straddled his torso.

"You're back!" You couldn't help but shed a few tears as you hid your face in the crook of his neck, the fear of loosing him finally subsiding.

"Not that I'm unhappy with you trowing yourself at me naked but you're going to catch a cold darling" he said chuckling

But you couldn't care less if you got sick. You finally removed your head from the crook of his neck and went in to kiss him, Simon meeting you half-way.

The kiss started sweet but soon turned intense, all tongue and teeth.

"I missed you so much darling" he mumbled before starting to trail kisses down your throat, soon finding that sweet spot that always turned you a moaning mess. His hands groping your ass and bringing you closer if even possible.

"S-Simon please" you said, trowing your head back to give him more access to your neck.

"Tell me what you want" he said, voice low while he kept the attack on your throat going, leaving marks behind every harsh kiss. At your lack of response he left a harsh bite on your shoulder which made a small yelp leave your trembling lips.

"Speak, princess" he continued

"I want your dick!" you finally let out, desperate to feel him after being away for so long " ' missed you so much! I need you inside me Si"

That was all he needed to hear as he started heading for your shared bedroom, unceremoniously trowing you on the king sized bed before he began stripping. You rested on your forearms as you admired him undressing, a pool of arousal forming in your stomach seeing his chiseled figure for the first time after many months. Even tho admittedly he ALWAYS had that effect on you.

As he was done stripping he crawled the bed and positioned himself above you, hand exploring and caressing your figure, his warm brown eyes were still surrounded by smudges of the black paint he put under his mask and with the darkened gaze he gave you they looked like they were going to suck you in like a black hole does with matter.

"Missed seeing you like this princess" he said giving you a tender kiss before positioning himself at your glistening entrance

"Already so wet for me, huh?" he chuckled as he finally entered you with a deep pleasured groan. Your hands reached out and grasped as his shoulders while you jaw went slack. The stretch was just so good, the feeling of being finally being filled by your love being almost too much for you to take in.

As he started to set the pace your mind went blank as it often did in times like this. Pleasure taking over your body as you turned into a mess of moans and mentions of your boyfriend's name. It had been so long since you had been intimate that your peak was being reached way too fast.

"Simon- I'm coming" you saying breathlessly before correcting yourself under his harsh gaze "Can I come? Please Simon"

"Beg for it" he responded, thrust becoming impossibly harder and faster, which made you head spin like you were on a rollercoaster.

"Please Simon! I need it so bad" You almost screamed gasping for air "Please, please, please"

His thrusts started becoming sloppy as he also was coming close to his pending release. "Come for me love" he groaned "Now"

And you did. The knot inside you finally snapping at the same time as he reached his peak. Your cunt spasming and milky every single drop he was painting your gummy walls with.

"so perfect for me, love" finally said Simon, breathless as he pulled out and admired his essence oozing out of you before collapsing next to you and drawing you in by your waist.

And in this moments as you both rested in each others arms he finally felt at home.

#simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #simon ghost x you #simon riley ghost #simon riley #simon riley call of duty #simon ghost riley x female reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut

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certifiedlovergirlsstuff · 2 years ago

Note

hey!! happy celebration time bestie :) sorry this took forever, i got sick but i'm here now!

i was thinking it would be cute to do a blurb for steve based off these grumpy x sunshine prompts: (i love sassy steve, he's my fav)

having the habit of hugging them randomly

^ and when u forget to hug then, they just stand there like an npc, too cool to ask for that hug.

or they pull you into a hug without any words and wouldn't show u their face after

i feel like steve would get this attitude probably bc you're in front of the kids or something and he doesn't wanna beg for your hello hug but he also doesn't want to go without it. you can decide if they're in an established relationship or not <3 congrats again on 500!!

riley i hope you enjoy this cause i wrote this in two days. both times while at work. completely forgot the grumpy x sunshine part, but i feel you could see hints (let me know if you want a rewrite)

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader wc: 969😏

masterlist / steve harrington

you and steve are friends who’ve kissed a few times. twice while drunk, one at a house party and another while at a surprisingly packed hideout where eddie’s band played. there were three other times where you kissed but both of you were sober and it was broad daylight hours. however, the two of you weren’t a couple. haven’t really chosen when to have a proper discussion or just blatantly ignoring how both of you are just waiting for the next time a kiss could happen.

yet, when it comes to hugging, you and steve are a gross couple in love. always holding onto each other for a time that isn’t considered a friendly passing hug. sometimes you’ll hug steve from behind as a ‘sneak attack’, other times it’ll be a side hug with your arms around his waist and one of his thrown over your shoulder while waiting in a long line. or it’s where you crash into steve chest seeking his warmth as a safety blanket, even could be where the two of you are full on cuddling while taking a nap on his king bed.

hugs are something steve fully expects to receive whenever the two of you are in the same room, within reach or quick steps. so when steve sees you walk into his backyard for this pool party the kids forced him to have, he’s completely frozen when you walk past him and throw your open arms around dustin first. dustin doesn’t deserve to be in your arms first, that’s a steve harrington only privilege. but he allows it since it’s the twerps birthday.

steve just stands back by the loungers, watching as you sway the boy side to side, almost throwing the both of you to the ground. the two of you laugh and steve swears he gets a bit tipsy from the high pitched lilt.

you pull away from dustin and turn on a 180 to then pull bright cheeked max into a sisterly embrace.

“what the fuck?” steve grumbled to himself. his eyes never leaving as you pull each kid, one by one into a firm hug. and when you’ve given will the last one of the group, steve expects you to come find him next, but no. you see nancy and bounce over to her.

“mad your girlfriend ignoring you?” steve startles at the voice of robin appearing beside him. she was unbothered while picking chips off her paper plate. “jesus, gotta put a bell on you.” hand over his heart while side eyeing her.

“i’m not a fucking cat, drill bit. you're just lost in that smooth brain of yours while creepily staring at y/n. might finally put that restraining order on you.” sentence punctuated with her loud chewing.

steve rolled his eyes, “she wouldn’t do that. and she’s not my girlfriend. she’s a girl who’s a friend.” his quiet tone showing his real emotions on that claim.

robin hummed, “yeah. a girl who’s a friend that you’ve kissed five times and been to chicken to do shit about.” he glared at the accusation. she then pointed a salty finger across the pool, “who’s also giving eddie a nice hug and you're over here standing like a tree waiting for her to take the initiative.”

steve whipped his head at robin’s pointed location to see eddie with his right arm casually holding your waist as your left is over his shoulder. steve could only see the mesmerized grin of eddie and it’s making his head fuzzy.

there was a slight shove at his shoulder and it forced him to once again glare at robin. “dude!” she rolled her eyes, “stop being wuss and get your girl. it’s not that hard, you both like each other already. act grossly coupley in public, that’s why you’re always ‘oh, not dating’ bullshitting to strangers.”

“robs, it’s just… i’m- im scared…” steve trailed off while turning his eyes to the ground. robin’s hand touched his shoulder and she asked, “of what? there just needs to be proper communication and everything will come together.” robin squeezed his shoulder before boldly stating, “she loves you. and you love her. be in love together.” and she walks away leaving steve by his porch door.

that is until there’s two arms sliding around his waist from behind and something laying along his spine. he automatically raises his hands to fold over yours, ruffling your arm hair from his back and forth motions.

“was wondering where you were?” your voice is muffled by the way you're pushing your left cheek into steve’s skin.

he turns his chin over his shoulder, “i’ve been here the whole time. thought you were ignoring me.” trying to play the last part off as a joke, but he really did think you were ignoring him.

you gasped and moved to stand in front of him, “never. just wanted to save the best for last. and also i wouldn’t have to let you go after i got to everyone else first.” making your point while rewrapping yourself into steve. his own arms resting over your shoulders with his cheek laying on your head.

“i love you.” he blurted with such an ease that steve was a bit shocked that it was such an easy and true statement.

a dreamy smile on your lips as you replied, “i love you too, stevie.”

and his heart jumped a little faster, both from your silky voice and you possibly saying it in a different meaning, “no, not as a friend.”

“i know, stevie. i love you both as a friend and more.”

steve lifted his head away from your skull and you tilted your head up. the two of you stay held together as infectious smiles grasped at your lips and childish giggles spilled free.

#erin’s 500 special #steve harrington #steve harrington reader insert #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington blurb #stranger things x reader #stranger things fluff #stranger things reader insert #stranger things fic #joe keery imagine #joe keery #mutuals in the box

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nyx22-blogs · 2 years ago

Text

Riley Poole Taking Care Of Sick Reader

{For my friend @captainannamerica I tried to make it similar to your situation 😂 feel better ❤️}

Warnings: Couple of swear words, fluff

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

You woke up this morning feeling miserable. You were dizzy and seeing shapes moving all over the room. And the worst part was the power in your area had gone out, meaning no electricity.

How great

You pulled the blanket down and reached for your phone.

No Wi-Fi

"Ugh shit." You threw your head back on your pillow and groaned at the pain in your head. You needed medicine and you could barely move. Maybe you could just go to your grandma's old people home and stay there until you get better.

You heard faint knocking at your door and that's when it hit you.

You had a date planned out with Riley today and he was going to pick you up... and now you're sick.

Shit

You heard Riley open the door and he walked in the house.

"Y/n? Are you home?"

"Yeah, I'm upstairs!" You yelled and you started coughing.

He walked up the stairs and opened your door, you could only imagine what the hell he was thinking as he came in to your room. You were sure you looked sick.

"Hey honey.. are you feeling sick?" He cooed as he put his hand on your forehead.

"Mhm." You snuggled into his touch and pouted.

"Oh my sweet baby come here." He had his arms out for a hug which you gladly accepted.

"You know what...why don't you try and get some rest while I go out and see if I can get you some medicine." He said tucking you back into bed and giving you a kiss on the cheek.

"Hmm ok." You said sleepily.

About 8 minutes later he came back to you all sleep and sound. He gently shook you and called your name.

"Y/n.. lovey you gotta wake up and take your medicine." He crooned and you got up and braced yourself in his chest.

He poured the medicine in the little cup and put it against your lips. You drank it and it tasted god awful.

"Riley.. what is this-?"

"Tylenol, cold and flu."

"Ugh, it tastes awful."

"Last time I checked grape medicine doesn't taste well hun. Now c'mon, I brought some snacks. You pick out the snack you want and I'll go get a cloth."

"Why the cloth?"

"Well I'm assuming you don't want to take a cold shower right now, right?

"Yeah.."

"Good, I'll just wipe your skin down with it to keep you cool, ok?"

"M'kay."

He left the room and you tried your best to peel off the hoodie you went to sleep with, but the damn thing was too tight. Or you were just too weak to take it off.

"Hey lovey, you ready?" He came in the room with a mildly wet cloth and sat on the bed.

"Can't get it off." You pouted.

"M'kay come here." He helped you get the sweater off and he started to gently rub you down with the cloth. You felt a lot better from the cool cloth and when he finished he brought you one of his loose t-shirts that you had kept to wear.

After that you picked out a snack and munched on it while he brushed out your dampened hair and braided it loosely.

"Wanna get some sleep love?" He said.

"Yeah, can you cuddle me?"

"Of course sweetheart, c'mere let me hold you." He stretched out his arms and you snuggled into your boyfriend. His embrace made you feel so much better and right about now the power outage and the sickness didn't really bother you as much as it did before.

"Love you baby.." you said as you drifted off to sleep.

"Love you too my sunshine." He said and he planted a sweet kiss on your forehead before he fell asleep himself.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

@sierraaf11

@captainannamerica

@where-dreamers-go

@ashlaieblobfish

@executethyself35

@aceaoki1316

@why-must-i-be-like-this

@beetears

@donut-rambles

@naturalswifty89

@riley-poole27

@ash-theart-witch

#nyx22 blogs #rileypoole #rileypooleimagine #riley poole x reader #riley poole #Riley poole x sick reader #sick reader #riley poole taking care of sick reader #boyfriend riley poole #Bf!Riley Poole x reader #riley poole x fluff #riley poole fluff #riley poole fanfic #fluff

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yeyinde · 2 years ago

Text

SEA, SWALLOW ME | Simon Riley x GN!Reader

No one wrenches you open, leaving you raw and exposed, like Simon. A wound that never heals. A sickness that never dissipates. You carry the weight of him between your ribs and thundering heart. A place of safekeeping, protecting this precious knot that gnarls inside of you from everything else out there that might want to hurt it. It thrums now, dizzy with the feeling of him so close to you.

》 WARNINGS: 18+ – MATURE, SMUT | GN!Reader: no use of pronouns, gendered language or anatomy; very soft smut; light breath play/choking but. It serves a narrative purpose.

》 WORD COUNT: 9,4k (of pure, unadulterated nonsense)

》 NOTES: UM. This was meant to subvert standard D/s | Predator/Prey dynamics for Ghost but became a mess of nonsensical metaphors instead.

As far as missions went, this was slated to be amongst the easiest assigned out to your group—a standard hostage rescue of a foreign diplomat.

It's a sequence you've played out many times over in basic training. The steps, drills, are already ingrained in your memory with minor changes to suit the situation unfolding in a place you'd never been before, and probably will never see again. Rudimentary. Boring, almost.

The chance of injury was minimal. The probability of death is even infinitesimal.

And yet—

He pulls you into an alcove in the safe house you've been holed up in for the last twelve hours, alternating between bouts of sleep, and pouring over each minute detail of your roles.

Price's voice cracked an hour ago.

It was Gaz who called it with a soft chuff. "Guess that means we're good to go, eh, cap?"

"Off with you, then," he groused, reaching for a bottle of water. "We'll head out in an hour. Be ready."

You meant to sneak away to the gym and exercise some of the anticipation pooling inside your veins—a physical outlet to exert the antsy feeling that made your fingers tap a soundless beat against your shaking thigh; a post-mission ritual to saturate your brain in those feel-good chemicals caused by the rush of adrenaline.

But you were stopped by a hand on your wrist. One that snaked through the tenebrous of the storage closet that housed the guns, weapons, and ammunition, all spread out on the walls with a bench in the middle.

Simon leans back against it, guns spread out on the surface behind him. The hand not curled around your wrist is pressed flat, bare, to the granite top, only inches away from the collection of knives he meticulously tends to before each assignment.

His sleeves are rolled up to his forearm, ink coloured in a hazy smear of yellow from the lamp spilling across the table in the corner. Your eyes are drawn there first—the shadows cast over the thick veins running along his forearms, hidden beneath the charcoal.

The other flexes around your wrist, rough skin scorching when it presses against yours. Seeing the bulk of his palm swallowing the entirety of your wrist and half of your hand has your mouth running dry.

There's something about him, about the fold of his massive frame condensing itself into a nook much too small for him to fit, that feeds into a part of your head that aches to fly. To scale mountains, to reach the summit. To be the first person to stand on top of the highest peak, and gaze down at the world shaded in blues, greens, and greys below.

Staring at Simon fills you with summit fever.

"Did I scare you?"

It's hard to rip your gaze away from him with so much of his flesh bared to you. He's usually dressed by now in his jacket and vest. Always prepared for the next slaughter. This—

This is new. Unusual.

You huff, rolling your eyes toward the domed ceiling, and struggle to stave off the influx of anxiety that gnarls inside of you. A break in the routine. It unsettles you. "Hardly."

He makes a low, starchy noise in his throat, muffled partially by the balaclava covering his mouth. "That so?"

He runs his thumb over your pulse, drawing your attention to the rapid thud of your heartbeat under his finger. It's a slow, meticulous circle, and his eyes dance with derision when you scoff, a touch embarrassed, and curl your fingers into a fist as if that would somehow stop the thundering in your chest.

"Whatever," you murmur, defensive. "I drank an espresso. It's just a natural, bodily reaction—"

His hand twitches again, fingers lifting from your skin as he slowly peels away from you. The chill against your flesh makes you shiver, already missing the intensity of his heat.

"If you say so," he volleys, settling his hand back on the table, palm cupping the thick ledge, fingers tucked under the surface. The motion makes his muscles quiver.

Goosebumps prickle along your flesh. Your throat runs dry.

"Got somethin' for you."

It's standard, benign—the words are flat considering the weight behind them, the potency. They're all he'll allow in this brief window of privacy when everyone else is busying themselves with their pre-mission rituals.

Price leans against the wall in the corner of the room, fingers curled into the straps of his tac-vest. His chin is dipped low, eyes fixed on the table a metre away where the files lay open, floorplans exposed. Despite the evenness of his brow, and the squared set of his shoulders, you can see the weight of everything circling in stormy blue.

The success of this will be shared amongst everyone, but the loss will be solely his own.

On the opposite side of the room, Soap picks over every centimetre of your weapons and tactical gear. Scouring every iota in an effort to make sure nothing will fail anyone.

Gaz, as the youngest, shoulders it all, and pours over the blueprints, committing each exit and entrance point to memory. He won't be caught unawares if a route is compromised. He'll get everyone out to safety.

By stark contrast, Ghost does nothing.

He doesn't look over the documents, but he doesn't need to. The blood vessels streaking through jaundiced white speak of a sleepless night staring at the photos of the men you're supposed to hunt down. The people you're supposed to rescue.

Before he slips on his gloves, you catch ink stains on his thumb and inside his forefinger. The thick scent of gunpowder and oil clings to him. His weapon is sleek: gunmetal grey and cleaned. Meticulous. His attention to detail is unyielding.

He did everything he was supposed to do last night when he didn't come and sneak into your room.

But he never does. Not before a mission.

You sometimes wonder if he likes to torture himself with the if only or the what if that lingers whenever you split apart, left to your devices and wholly dependent on yourself for survival. He keeps his distance. Doesn't want, nor need, the distraction.

Some might think it cruel that he avoids you like you're already caught in the clutch of the Reaper; skin shading a sickly grey as your blood rots from within. But you know him. You know Simon.

And when he hands you your gun, you can feel that it's already been loaded, and tended to. There's a fine sheen of oil glued to the tight folds of metal from where his meticulous cleaning couldn't reach.

Your tac-vest is packed with everything he deems necessary for your own survival (and even a few things he doesn't but you do).

He hands you a knife, too—one you know is from his personal collection. It fits into the palm of your hand like it was made for you, and you wonder—with a small smile blooming across your cheeks—how long he took looking over them before picking this one. A perfect fit.

"Thank you," you murmur, low and soft. No one is paying attention to you at all—there is no time to do so when you can feel the seconds ticking down. "I'll do my best not to get your pretty knife dirty."

He snorts. "Defeats the purpose, doesn't it? And it ain't mine."

"My knife, then."

You glance down at the smooth curve of the blade, sharpened to a deadly point, and twist it in your hand to stare at the handle. It's black. Two stems jut out from the hilt, extended a bit longer than the blade. It's triangular and pitched in the centre before tapering off to a sharp point. It's the length of your forearm. Longer than the tactical knives issued by the weapons branch in the SAS. Bound in leather. The stitches look much too similar to the ones he threaded through your gaping skin in Jakarta.

"Fairbairn-Sykes," you say, glancing up at him. "Thought they stopped using these?"

He rolls one massive shoulder. A man with his girth shrugging insouciantly is a strange sight. You almost expect to hear the distant roar of an avalanche.

"Much better'in the cheap ones they give you."

"Oh, yeah? Kinda hard to hide, though—"

"If you don't want it—"

Simon reaches for it, but you pull it close to your chest, grinning.

"You can't take my knife away."

He huffs, lowering his hand back to the table. His eyes are piercing. Heavy. "Then stop complainin' about it."

A fly buzzes by your ear. A bead of sweat drips down the nape of your neck. Something about the look in his dark, shadowed eyes sets your teeth on edge.

It wells on your tongue, then—soft words not meant to be uttered in a room saturated in contracted death—and the astringent flood strips your enamel until your teeth ache with the urge to let them out, or swallow them down. You wonder what he would say if you let them free. If they slipped from your tongue and filled the room with the stench of your poisonous wants, ones left to rot inside your chest, your throat.

The burn of them blisters your esophagus, leaving behind open wounds leaking infection into your bloodstream, into the vessels that run to your lungs, your heart.

The tremendous weight of them makes your knees quiver, struggling to stay afloat in the thick atmosphere that sits, oppressive and unignorable, between you.

It's all one-sided, of course—a hunger felt only by you. He doesn't acknowledge the gossamer of tension that bleeds into the room, wrapping tight around your neck like a phantom noose. To Simon, nothing is amiss; nothing is wrong—

And it isn't, you think. This spooling knot inside of you, wound tight into a ball, isn't wrong. It isn't bad to feel this way, but it's terrifying.

Being with Simon is a bit like climbing a mountain.

But there is scaling one in a harness, secured safe and sound with ropes and pitons, and then there is this:

A free solo up the side of a chossy.

The chalk on the tips of your fingers clumps together under the stickiness of your damp palm. One slip, and you'll be a wreck at the bottom before you can even try to hold on.

Jagged rock at the bottom gnashes its teeth together in anticipation, eagerly waiting its chance to grind your flesh into pulp, and offer your spilled blood to Thanatos.

Melodramatic, maybe, but something about Ghost brings out a sense of morbid sentimentality from within you. The feeling is a harsh juxtaposition to who the man really is.

A mythological being who lingers in the foreground like a psychopomp, but gives you whittled knives from his personal collection, carefully whet to a fine point, and cracks stupid jokes in a deadpan manner as if the world around you wasn't raining bullets and reeking of gun cotton.

Your gaze wavers, falls. There are a lot of things you are meant to say now, and many more that are forbidden. None of them brim through the humus that sticks to your throat. Disturbed dirt in a lonely graveyard.

A flurry of motion snags your attention. In the corner of the room, you catch sight of the fly sitting on top of an intricate web. It runs its hands together, waiting. Mischievous. A morsel of food is still tangled in white lace. It feasts without worry, unaware of its impending demise as its feet glue to the threads woven below, shaped like the cracked skulls in a catacomb.

As the fly feeds, the spider cocks its head up from a darkened crevasse, a multitude of eyes gleaming in the flushed light hanging overhead.

It waits.

Poor thing.

"Thanks," you say again, wrenching your eyes away from the opening maw of the ossuarium in the corner. The sight unnerves you.

It's not meant to be any more sincere than the first utterance of your gratitude, but you say it—if only to fill the stifling silence, and wonder if that carefully curated mask would shatter into pieces, revealing the bare-faced man (human: flesh, bone; vulnerable) beneath, if you uttered the words pulsing against your vocal cords like a pizzicato.

He levels you with a flat look as if he, too, hears the whine of c minor screaming in your chest.

"Hilt is new. Try not to get it dirty."

You fight a shiver. Force yourself to give some facsimile of a smile in response.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Lt."

(A liar.)

You tuck the pretty knife in a tawny leather sheath into your pocket.

"I'll take good care of it."

(A thief.)

Behind smeared grey, charcoal black, his eyes narrow. Pensive. Considering. Something rears, lurks. Hidden in shadows. Cut into brimstone. It's the same shade of death that only surfaces when he's on the battlefield—no longer Simon, but—

"See that you don't."

A ghost.

(Just warmer than most.)

Your eyes stray back to the corner of the room where the black spider prowls closer to the hapless fly struggling to be free.

Yeah, you think, a touch dazed. Your fingers tighten around the leather-bound hilt of the blade. Me, too.

You dirty his knife.

The chance for an injury is minor, but never zero. You find this out when someone grabs you from behind, knife pressed to your jugular. There is no fear, no terror.

Just—

Embarrassment. Stupid. You know better than to leave your six unchecked.

It ends with a paper-thin cut to your skin, and your knife buried in flesh.

The hilt is bloodied. Authentic leather stained red. Grotesque. Garish. You can't tear your eyes away from the droplets that stain the handle.

Plastic, usually. You know this because you looked it up. Polymer-covered wood.

The leather was handmade. Sewn with thick, black thread. Glued to the stripped wood.

Wrapped up pretty just for you.

(Just for you.)

And you ruined it like you promised you wouldn't.

(A liar. A thief.)

It makes you wince, and the burn in your chest hurts more than the sting in your neck. You thought you heard death and his fiddle this morning, but who knew his boney, rotted fingers would wrap around your wrists like it was the hilt of a conductor's baton.

Simon doesn't say anything, but there's a weight in his silence. A soundless ticking in the background as he watches, placid, as you make your way to him.

Nails bite into your palm until they're sticky with the blood that pools between your fingers. It's meant to be grounding. Replacing one hurt with another, but the biggest injury is the one to your pride, your ego. It's burned, blistered, and not even the swell of something you feel roiling through you at the sight of Simon, steady and sturdy—faultless despite the roaring that seems to echo around, the scream of the tide trying to pull you under—is able to quell the sting of humiliation.

Your hands are stained just like them. Scars mattered across soft tissue, and despite the way they spill over your flesh like Orion, you still feel the pull of torn flesh beneath your armour.

This—

This was an accident. Unfortunate. Unforgiving. It lingers between aching teeth, and tastes of raw wire.

You won't let the shame dip its talons into your pride despite the bruise forming on the side of your veneer.

Your chin lifts: defiant, almost. As if waiting for him to say something.

Anger, you think, is easier to wield than culpability.

There are a number of derisive, droll words he can pin you with, and your mind runs through the possibilities, the ones you heard barked out over the comms. Things like: rookie mistakes. Shoulda checked your six. How'd this happen? Thought you were better than this. Another scar to add to your collection, then? Better stop before you end up lookin' like me.

It surprises you, then, when he says none of them.

"Alright?"

His hand lifts, and a weight settles against your jaw, lifting your chin. It's barely a cat scratch, and doesn't even need stitches, but it stings something fierce when he stretches the skin around it. Pulling, tugging. You clench your teeth, swallowing back a wince.

He catches it, anyway.

Stupid.

You wait for the rest. For the or what? that traditionally follows a simple alright, but nothing comes.

His hand drifts, palm cups the side of your neck, and—

It's indescribable. A rush, maybe. A raw, pulsing wound throbbing inside your throat where his heavy, rough hand sits. A plinth. You can't lower your chin with it in the way. Stuck, you think, and then—

You shiver. It's instinctual. The curve of your neck is vulnerable; a sacred place. Animals protect their jugular, their soft bellies, from attack, and something primal in you tenses up. Waiting for the strike. For the snapping of jowls into your soft skin.

None come. Stupid. Of course—

"Jus'a little scratch."

His hand leaves almost quickly as it appeared, and you drift aimlessly, unconsciously, after it.

Snapped out of your strange reverie when Price calls out your name. Paperwork, probably. You've been hurt, and as a response—or a sneaky punishment—you have a mountain of forms to fill out, t's to cross, i's to dot.

The weight of Ghost's gaze on you is almost as heavy as the heft of his hand, and you linger for a moment in that strange, phantom noose, wondering what it would feel like if he held on just a little bit—

"Go on, then," his chin jerks toward Price. "Get cleaned up."

Something shifts inside of you. The open of a proverbial floodgate.

It's instant:

The weight of his palm, the press of his fingers—you feel them against your skin, a phantom whisper. A breath.

There's something almost comforting about the danger of exposure, you think. About bearing your neck to the biggest predator around.

It's not an act of submission. You'd never submit to Ghost, much less anyone else, but—

There's a sense of vulnerability there. Trust.

(It's that unseen edge of danger: a spark of life in a world that's always shades of muted grey, and draped in the folds of calamity. Death sits only a hair's breadth away no matter where you go. So close, you can feel the ghastly chill on your skin; always cold. Always freezing. You can set fire to your flesh, but your teeth still chatter.

For the first time in years, the skin on your neck burns with feverish heat.)

(The warmth fades. You chase it, pressing your fingers flat to your pulse, but still feel the icy drift of the waiting Sheol against your skin.

Cold to the touch once more.)

His fingers ghost along the skin of your wrist, skimming over your pulse. It’s soft. Gentle. A light brush that has no other meaning or purpose except to gain your attention—

—and oh, doesn’t it just.

Simon doesn’t let it linger. He pulls his hand away when your chin jerks toward him, and slides them into the pockets of his trousers. Hidden away. Out of reach.

Your wrist burns.

"Could've just said hello."

His eyes are heavy under the hood of his sweatshirt and lined with the grease paint he couldn't scour off. Maybe he never even tried to. Glacier blue framed in ashen blonde. His eyes remind you of the sandstone cliffs that line the Corfu shore. Stark white. Deep blue.

They're weighed down with something—exhaustion, maybe. The last you'd heard of him, he was chasing after leads that might link you to Shepherd with Gaz (who sent a dry text in the early morning, between the keds and the dad jokes, I don't know how anyone could be scared of this Manc; and: does the man ever sleep, or is he fuelled on Tenzing and spite alone?). And now—

“C’mere.” He murmurs, eyes heavy and lidded, sparking with something sharp, acrid. Humour, you think, heart stuttering in your chest.

The word is uttered just as softly as the touch against your flesh, and the sound—the phantom memory of the featherlight brush—burns with the heat in his gaze, the warmth that seeps through the gloves, and into your skin. Bone deep. You can feel the burn of him congealing in your cartilage.

"Finally gonna do me in?"

It earns you a dry scoff, the barest hint of an eye roll. "If I wanted to, you wouldn't see me coming."

"You could have just said no, never," you mock, stifling down a grin. "Or—I wouldn't even think about hurting you—"

The rest of the words are cut off when he steps closer. Liquid agility: he moves quickly for a man cut from Everest, sifting through the shadows with no more than a soft thud of his heel clipping the linoleum. Ghost looms before you in a blink, head tilted down to gaze at you.

His hand lifts, knuckle grazing the swell of your cheek. It's softer than he has any right to be. A warm brush across cold skin. The Agulhas current colliding into the Somali. It ripples across your surface and rattles the rotting bones below. The empty husk of you trembles.

"No," he murmurs, words distant and warbled under the roaring in your ear. You watch a flicker of something tremble across his face. A frisson shuddering too fast for your sluggish, mortal eyes to discern.

You can't find the remnants of that ugly, gnarled thing that sometimes stares back at you when he's unaware. A beast hiding in a forgotten bivouac, creeping through the desolate ruins of a travesty that reek of upturned humus. A ghost disinterred from its slumber.

But when you stare at him, bare-faced and uncertain, you see a darkening edge in the cuts of blue: deep canyons and crevasse that warm when your reflection swims in the glossy curve, wide eyes and parted lips filling the tenebrous, the shadows.

The things, disentombed, are at rest. Clouded over by the shocked face that swims in endless pools of blue.

"Never."

"Oh," you murmur, honeyed sweet and viciously coy. "How sweet of you."

(It takes you a moment to realise he's mocking you.

Your heart still thunders like the words were true.)

Simon cleans the hilt of the knife for you, bare fingers scouring away the blood that stains the leather. He lets you watch as he works, content to lean against the wall in silence as he dabs a cloth in a petri dish filled with cleaning solution, and gently scours the stain from the hide.

The motions are gentle, and familiarity bleeds into each swipe. This isn't the first time he scrubbed away the rotting blood of a dead man, and some part of you aches, stupid, knowing that it won't be the last.

A testament to the age-old woes of an occupational hazard.

Watching him work, silent and unbothered by your intrusion ("of all the bloody gits, you're somehow the least annoying. For now;"), fills you with a strange sense of comfort. Of longing.

(Domesticity makes your teeth ache and your cheeks burn.)

His knuckles are bruised. He won't tell you how it happened. Doesn't say much outside of, it's done, already, so no sense in worryin' about it.

You suppose he's right. No sense in dwelling over what you can't change. But the sight of his hands—bruised, cracked and bloodied—makes your mouth dry, and your heart race.

There's something about his hands that captivate you.

You can't stop staring at them. The memory of what his molten flesh felt like against your icy skin sears into you. The weight of his palm on your neck. Steady, solid.

Something predatory had risen from within you, and cocked its head to the side, allowing him an ounce more of your flesh for him to take. To touch.

A bear will seek the warmest cave to slumber after gorging itself on flesh and bone. A moth will kill itself just to touch an open flame.

There's something alluring about heat. Flames. Fire.

(Ghost smells of cedar embers: pyrolysis.

You're cold enough to want to burn the tips of your fingers in the open flame. To immerse yourself in the fire that'll char your flesh, and blacken your bones. Hollowed marrow, now filled with charcoal and brimstone.)

Your knuckles twitch. You curl your fingers into fists by your side.

"Done," he says, sitting back in the chair, and shaking you from your reverie.

He turns to you, the knife perched in his upturned palm. The leather is dark, wet, but the blood is gone.

On the table, the water in the Petri dish is diluted pink.

You let yourself linger when you reach for the proffered knife, knuckles grazing the rough flesh of warm, bare palm. Greedily catching tendrils of heat on the tips of your fingers.

"Thanks."

His eyes brim with something you can't name. "Try to keep it clean, or you'll ruin the leather."

You want to say, no one told you to make it pretty for me in the first place, but you don't. You think, instead, of summit fever, of scaling walls. The view from the top of a mountain must be worth the risk, the danger. To see the curve of the earth, and pure blue of the horizon yawning for you. As close to god as a mortal can climb with their bare hands.

It hits you like a punch to the gut. The rock crumbling. The chossy wobbling. Your feet giving away, fingers scraping against the granite as you fall to the rocks below.

He waits, eyes narrowing in that same shade of pensive contemplation as before.

You're lingering too much. Touching him too openly. Greedily. You wonder why he lets you when you pull away, shamefaced and meek.

(How much of it, you wonder, is an act and how much of it is real. Subconscious submission. Meek and unassuming. It rears inside of you, a skittish animal. But you're not scared. Not of him. Never.

A sick joke. Mortal folly. Something inside of you wants to know you're alive, and so—

Roll over and he'll think you're prey.)

You manage a shaky smile, mind racing to the same tremulous crescendo as the arrhythmic drum of your heart.

You don't meet his gaze. Can't when there's a deluge of something—ugly and awful—roaring through you at the sight of his hands, and the scars that cover them. Some, you note, deep enough to knick bone. False starts. Your teeth ache at the sight. Stomach knotting. Churning.

Something vicious gnarls through the rotten entombment of your living heart.

Gaze lowered. Neck bared.

Hook, line—

"Got it, Lt."

He fractures his fingers in Medellín after chasing a man through the barrios. They're cracked on the concrete when he jumps from the roof and catches it on a metal rod sticking out from the ashlar.

Those same ones that tilted your jaw back, bones creaking under the strain of his grip.

Ghost doesn't flinch, of course—you don't even know they're broken until he asks for gauze and a splint at the safe house you're holed up in. You just see him swing that same hand out, catching the man by the throat when he tries to slip past. Steady. Solid. An expert killing machine, numbed to the pain, the carnage.

Simon holds him tight to the wall by his jugular, barking out coarse questions, demanding answers. His voice carries (who are you working for? Where are the others? Gimme a reason not to snap your neck right now—), and you watch it all unfold from your perch on the rafters beside the alcove.

Watching his six—supposed to be, anyway—but you can't stop staring at the way he dwarfs the other man. The curve of his fingers, long and thick, around his throat. It fits like a scarf. A neck brace.

Simon's so—

Massive. Undeniably so. And seeing it like this is mesmerising. Hypnotic, almost.

Whatever the man says is swallowed by the roaring in your ears; the rush of the wind whistling through the houses below.

He gasps something out, eyes wide, and whatever it is, it makes Simon nod.

Right, then. Target acquired.

The moment his jaw snaps shut, information unveiled, he barely has a chance to beg before Simon's hand twitches.

You hear the sharp snap from your perch above him, and barely have a moment to collect yourself before the man goes limp. Simon pulls away from him, a half step back, and without his support, he falls to the ground with a soft thud.

His hand falls to his side when the man falls, and it's then, in the fading ochre streaking through the concrete, you notice the drops of red staining his gloves. They catch in the light—a Rorschach of brutality and death—and you can't stop staring at them. At his hands.

A small thing, really. It's hardly anything noteworthy considering the litres of blood that saturate any of you on a particularly gruesome day, and yet something about the red smears on the back of his hands, staining the worn, faded white metacarpals catches your attention. Eyes glued to the way he shakes his big hand, as if throwing off the sting of split bones.

(Even with splintered fingers, he was still able to snap a grown man's neck. The thought shouldn't be as enticing as it is.)

Later that night, you sit on your knees between his broad thighs, and gingerly take his bruised hand into yours. The contrast is laughable—his palm alone swallows the entirety of yours up. A cantaloupe to a satsuma. The mental image makes a smile crack on the corner of your mouth, a little twitch.

He catches it. Always, always—

The hand that isn't several shades of indigo and burgundy lifts, settling on the curve of your jaw. Long, thick fingers splay out, stretching from the slope of your bone just below your ear, down to your chin. The entire expanse of your face cupped in his palm.

Simon is a big man. Massive.

(You sometimes forget that he's a direct descendant of Everest.)

Something inside of you gnarls, and tightens. There's always that thread of unease whenever he's juxtaposed to mortal men, to yourself; a lingering remnant, an atavistic fear for the beings that are bigger, broader than yourself. The primal instinct to run from the things that look like they could snap your bones into pieces with just their bare hands.

It's a small thing, considering, and always washed away by the surge of desire that pools in the space it once occupied.

He's big.

(You've always had a fondness for heights.)

"Does it hurt?"

If it does, he'll never admit to it; but you murmur the words, anyway—if only to feel the power in his hands when you move your jaw under his palm; the gentle resistance that meets you when you lower your chin, and hit the warmth of his skin.

"No," he says, and you fight back a smirk. "Are you finished yet?"

His question pulls your attention back to his swelling hand, skin already turning glossy from the tumescence of inflammation. Irritated. Pulpy. The knuckles are split in the valleys; a deep divot of plum red.

He has pretty hands, you think.

Peached-tinged ivory dusted in a fine layer of coarse, flaxen hair, and broken into streams of scars and welts in a mosaic on his rough skin. Thick veins in ballpoint blue run from his knuckles to his forearms; all intersecting rivers that cross and meld into a confluence near the bend of his elbow.

It's layered with fading charcoal ink pushed beneath his dermis.

The slide of his palm is rough with a patchwork of scars that cut through his life line. Jagged little marks from the sharp end of a knife. Pockmarks from cigarettes.

You like the way they feel on your skin. The weight behind them, the heat. The way they bend, and contort. Curling around the butt of a cigarette as he snipes game plans back and forth with Soap. Then the hilt of a rifle when he steadies it on concrete; playing God with gunmetal.

The way they curl into loose fists by his sides when he's displeased, tense and ready for the impending alternation.

How soft they are, then, when he slides the back of his hand against yours. Touches the small of your back, fingers curving around your waist when he pulls you close.

The way he sometimes holds your face between his palms.

You cover them up with the starchy gauze before lifting your chin to catch his gaze once again.

His eyes are stagnant seas.

You might think it's tranquillity that keeps the midnight blue surface from succumbing to the pull of the moon, and the tides; but that would be a fallacy. A death sentence.

There's nothing calm in those depths. Below the thin film sits an endless abyss torn up by currents that carry the same inescapable grasp as the churning hydrology of a waterfall. It'll snatch you the moment you plunge into the blue, ripped through the water until it suctions you into a crevasse.

But—

You hold his gaze as you lift your chin up, notching it higher until his hand slides down your jaw, palm now resting on the side of your neck.

—You've never been afraid of drowning.

"That's good," you murmur, tilting your head to the side until your neck is cupped in the palm of his hand. Algae blooms in those unfathomable depths when your pulse thuds against his thumb. "'Cause I was kinda thinking it would be nice to get your hands around my neck one of these days."

His hand twitches against your pulse.

The usual caustic, derisive barbs and brackish quips are bereft from his hidden lips. You might mistake him as unbothered. Uninterested. But you've always been good at scraping off the veneer people tend to wrap themselves in, burrowing under their dermis, and the flash in those murky eyes—widened slightly at your words until it's a pretty polynya: icy white around a puddle of midnight blue—gives him away.

His thumb slides down the column of your neck until it's pressed tight to the little jut of your jugular poking through thin, delicate skin. Ashen lashes flutter when you swallow against the soft press of his fingers; eyes flickering down, liquifying, as he takes in the way your muscles tense in his hand.

He could close the entirety of his palm around the convex curve of your throat, and—if he really wanted to—his thumb and middle finger might meet in the back, nestled just above your spine.

There's a heat simmering in your veins, stroked by the flex of his fingers as he mulls over what you're asking him for. The smooth, almost pensive way he brushes his thumb over your neck; an unconscious action, you think, with the way his lids dip, cresting over liquid black.

His silence doesn't last long. Whatever conclusions he draws in that brief lull are tucked away, hidden from view, when he shifts in the old wicker chair.

He leans forward a little—enough, you note, to hide the growing bulge in his slacks—and lifts his heavy gaze back to yours.

"That so, pet?"

It's rare you ever find Simon speechless, but you've known him long enough to know how to catch him off-guard.

You swallow when his fingers thread through the loose hair along the curve of your ear, scratching his short nails along the skin of your skull. His thumb presses against the spot below your eye, lower lashes spilling over the tip of his finger when you blink up at him, eyes lidded with the weight of your want. Despite the languid, almost kittenish, way you tilt your chin until it's plinthed into his warm palm, your eyes are razors. Sharpened on the whetstone of your conviction.

"Yes," you breathe. Your tongue runs across your bottom lip, as if chasing the words from lingering in the seam of your teeth. "That's so, Lt."

His fingers twitch at your words, eyes narrowing into those same contemplative slits as before. Then slowly, deliberately, he drags his hand down to rest once more over your jugular.

—sinker.

Your nails dig into the hard flesh of his bicep until the skin breaks: crescent moons pool beneath the tips of your fingers. Red, raw.

It makes him suck in a slow breath, the sound heavy in your ear.

"Keep that up," he rasps, a livewire pressing into your naked chest. "And I'll have to do somethin' about it, pet."

It's not an empty threat. You know Simon enough by now to know he never says anything he doesn't mean. But you still toss your head back, laughter slipping from your blood-red lips. High, you think, on the thrill of him.

"Yeah? Promises, promises, Lt—"

A flash in liquid black. Napalm embers.

One hand lifts, leaving the back of your knee. You know what's coming. Asked him for it, even, but it still takes you by surprise when his massive hand slips between your chin and neck, fingers curling until he has a perfect grip of your throat in his palm. Your head is forced back, pulse beats against his thumb; a frightened bird struggling in the grip of a predator.

He isn't squeezing—not yet—but the hold he has on you is firm.

You meet his stare, quivering in his arms.

"Lay back."

A slight pressure. You gasp. He feels the inhale under his hand, the thick swallow you take when he begins to push you down slowly. It makes him groan again when you lock up around his cock, tight and throbbing like the pulse under his fingers.

"That's it." He holds you against the pillow. You don't test his grip, but you know it's ironclad. You're shackled to the bed. At his mercy.

Tears burn your eyes. It's not fear, panic. The moisture leaking into the crease of your eyelids is involuntary. You want to tell him this, to let him know you want this, want his hand on your vulnerable neck.

You gasp quietly, the air barely slipping past the curl of his fingers—naked, warm, rough—on your skin.

"Simon—"

"Relax," his voice is liquid sin; velvet draped over a kindling fire. The crackle floods you until you're panting, breathless. "C'mon…you can take it."

Your fingers unfurl from his biceps, tips soothing along the irritated flesh, ghosting over scars—bullets, fire, knives, cigarettes: his flesh is a mosaic of history you're barred to ever uncover—but the way his muscles coil under the softness of your hands makes your chest lurch.

You trail them down until you reach the thick forearm bent over your sweat-slicked chest, nails catching on the throbbing veins until you hear the rasp of his breath under the mask.

Your palm is tiny, almost fragile, in comparison to his wrist. Wrapping your fingers around the thick of him is like holding onto the end of a bat. Your hands can only cup the width; a perfect crescent.

It's that—the immense power, the strength of him, buzzing under his storied skin that makes your belly burn with the fever of your want. He's so—

Massive.

Strong.

You can feel it, now. Fingers brush over the veins on the back of his hand, a seal around your throat, and you know that he's holding back. Has to. He could snap your neck with an ease that should terrify you. You've watched these same hands throw knives into men's throats. Watched them wrap around their necks, crushing the bones until the struggling ceased with a gut-wrenching snap, and they fell, limp, to the floor.

His eyes flutter when you swallow, when your small, delicate throat works under his clutch.

He has the capacity to ruin:

Simon—Ghost—can break your neck without a flinch.

And yet—

You meet his eyes, lips trembling, and then you slowly tip your head back.

Submission. You give yourself to him wholly.

(A toil—

come closer, pretty thing.)

Simon's breath stutters in his chest, his hand tenses. Eyes widened. The whites are stained with tendrils of red.

His next breath is a snarl that bludgeons into your core. He leans down, cock jarring something inside of you that has the cosmos burning into your retinas.

When he speaks, his words are raw. Scoured with sandpaper. It's almost animalistic when he growls your name, adds:

"So good for me, pet."

He matches the praise with a sharp jerk of his hips, sinking in deep until you can feel him throbbing in your sternum.

When you clench, spasming around him, his fingers flex.

It starts slow.

He readjusts his grip until you're a perfect fit in the palm of his hand. A little bird begging for respite in the claw of a hungry lion.

Ghost has never been a man of mercy.

(And you'd long learned to stop trying to barter with a hurricane.)

There is no rhythm to the way he fucks you. An interrogation expert, skilled in torture, he keeps you on the edge the whole time. Left to do nothing but cling to him, and take it. All of it. Whatever he wants to give you.

You suck in a breath, but it is stopped when his hand squeezes. Tighter, now. The air in your lungs is compressed, forced out until they're empty.

His pulse beats against your throat. His heat is an inferno, a fever; he presses into you until you're panting, head soporific and gummy under the intense blaze of his body. Hard, firm: there is no give when you notch your knees to his ribs, pressing your caps into his flesh. He's unmovable. Unshakeable.

Liquid pleasure spumes from that unfathomably deep place he batters into with his cock, and the tips of his fingers as he burrows both into your flesh.

It's too much—

His hand drops from your knee, resting on the pillow beside your head. It brings him closer—now, almost chest to chest—and smothers the air from your lungs completely. His eyes, however, steal the last wisp of your breath away.

Standing on the edge of a singularity, gazing into the event horizon. Black holes ready to swallow you whole.

Bereft of oxygen, you begin to crumble in his hold.

"That's it," he rasps, fingers tightening. "Fuck—you're so tight—gonna strangle me, pet—"

Your breath is clinched by the palm of his hand. Futile gasps, hiccups, spill from your lips as he shifts inside of you, bracing his knees on the bed, and driving forward until you see stars. Until you claw at his wrist, back arching like a bow.

The cosmos tastes of gunfire. Smoke. The heavy scent clogs your throat until you're choking on the embers that seep from his skin.

"I'm not done with you, pet." His timbre pitches, low and sultry; a rough graze. A scraped knee. "I could do this for days."

It makes you whimper. Makes you thrash. He means it, too. Always. Always. He'll hold you down until you're drowning in it.

Your head swims. Hypoxia bleeds into your eyes.

"Simon…" you whimper when his hips slot into yours. "Simon. I'm—"

The words are swallowed down when he ruts into you again, driven mad by the clutch of your body, and the vulnerable way you look at him. His head drops, moussed hair tickling your nose.

"Fuck, pet—," it's chiselled out of him. A warning, perhaps. Don't. Don't say any more. Don't—

His voice is polar when it drifts over you. The chill alone freezes the words in your throat.

"You like this, don't you?" Detached. Distant. He can't let himself feel the quiver in your voice, the ache in your throat. If he lets himself have this, even a meagre amount of it—

You don't think he'll be able to let go.

The words are tucked back into the pocket carved out in your ribs just for them. They'll sit until he's ready, until the storm in his Rorschach eyes dissipates—if, of course, it ever does. You'll wait for however long that might be, even if it lasts a lifetime.

(closer, now—)

Your fingers spray wide over his skin, soothing and gentle—calm pets over a ruffled plumage—until you feel the tension bleed from his coiled muscles; softening back into the pliancy you've come to expect from him.

He'll run if you're not careful. Flee. Disentangle himself from the weaved knots spooling between the fibrils of your bodies, atoms merging and moulding together in a joined entity. Severe himself even if it means losing limbs.

You think of old dogs, strays. The ones that weave through the villages with matted fur, and battle scars; the wizened, grizzled muzzles from a short lifetime on the run. Wild, feral. Touches that don't cause hurt are bewilderingly foreign—the idea of a hand that doesn't maim, doesn't break is as unfamiliar to them as living inside of a home.

The only way to gain their trust is patience. Perseverance.

And so, you pull back. Let him breathe.

"I love it, Simon."

The breathy utterance falling from your lips makes him twitch deep inside of you, a groan spilling out of the cage of his chest when he feels the vibrations of his given name against his naked palm.

"Fuckin' hell, pet—," you might call it a snarl, a growl; a mangled curse in your likeness dipped in the palpable ache of his pleasure.

He says nothing more. A man of little words and heavy actions, he shows you what he won't say, what he can't.

His cock hits something deep inside that makes you see white; a nebula of bliss pooling deep inside of you until you're spasming over the absurd thickness of him.

Ghost holds it for a moment, and it's that—the midnight hour pooling in black, covered in grease paint, and clothed under a thick balaclava—that, the subtle way he takes, takes, that makes you all too aware of who is fucking you right now.

You're not fucking Simon. It's Ghost. Deadly. Dangerous. His eyes gleam in the light; dark and empty. Black holes pulling you in.

He drags you to the edge until your eyes cross—hazy and unfocused, slipping into that blurred realm of semi-consciousness—and it's when you begin to slip down that precipice, head numbed and full of him, he pulls back.

His cock bludgeons into you, seated deep, and when the head kisses the deepest part of you, grinding sharp, and intense, his grip on your neck eases.

Air floods your lungs so quickly it hurts.

His name rushes out of you on the deep exhale, a wrecked, aching plea. It sounds like a hymn when you breathe it out, and the reverence of it makes him shudder. Makes his hand clench, and his cock throb.

You feel it all. The deep twitch inside of you. The spasm of his knuckles. The way the air clicks in his throat, catching in his larynx. A thick swallow. Another spasm. You take it all. Everything.

His hand lifts from your thigh, reaching down to snag both of your wrists in the wide expanse of his palm. He drags them up, arched high above your head on the pillow stained with your sweat. The brassbound grip of his hold, locking you tight in the cup of his hand when he presses them into the pillow steals the last vestiges of air from your lungs.

The hold on your neck eases. His long, thick fingers brush over the smooth column of your throat. You suck in a deep breath, letting it fill the vacancy of your lungs, and take the rich, dewy scent of him in until it clots to the fibrils inside.

Filled, you think, to the brim with him.

He smells of chemise, tonyon, and dried hawthorn. Wet chaparral after a wildfire scorched the thicket to cinder and ash.

With him perched above you, now drenched in the fullness of him—his smell, his touch, the way he sounds when he fits deep inside of you—you find the once unutterable words again.

They've been buoying up and down for months now, maybe even years. Always left to rot in their esophageal prison, but as your airways open up, as this moment of utter vulnerability and underlying trust brims inside of you, hotter than the bliss burning through your core, they slip out, tangled up in the way you breathe his name.

The orison rings with the palpable weight of your wants, oiled in the gossamer of your pleasure. It lingers in the scant space between you.

Simon shudders as it tickles against his skin. A featherlight whisper over naked flesh stained with the brine of sex.

You gaze up at him, burning the sight of him arched above you like the fruition of your yearning carved in flesh and bone, and a part of you selfishly hopes the barbed hooks of those words you're barred from saying sink into his pale flesh. Piercing deep enough to sink into his bloodstream.

Infectious. Incurable.

It's dark, and awful, and full of that ugly longing that makes your teeth ache to mark him up for the world to see, to know, that he's been conquered, claimed. Stupid. Silly. Infantile. You can't own a person, can't chain them to you through ichor and offerings, and yet—

Ghost groans when your teeth find purchase in the meat of his shoulder, a rough noise that rattles through your empty bones, and fills the barren space where humanity once beat.

—You spill his blood on the altar. A sacrificial offering. Yours to keep.

"Fuck," he rasps, the word sticking to the side of his raw throat. "Tryin'a give me a new scar, pet? Don't got enough already?"

Despite the weight of the words, they're uttered with a caveat that's almost indiscernible had you not the wherewithal to know him as intimately as you do. Equivalency bleeds in the vowels.

It comes as no great surprise, then, when he huffs in your ear, dips his chin, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse point, just above the place where his thumb rests.

(Matching offerings. A tangled web.)

The sharp sting condenses into a blistering pleasure: a damnable bliss. It's the victory of your acquisition, the satisfaction of your merger. Your release bludgeons into you—a mix of euphoria and pain—and the world around you wobbles, narrows. There's a pinpoint where only the hazy shadow of ashen hair fills your periphery. The dark silhouette of a man you itch to pry open and burrow inside.

A muted noise spills from the back of your throat. His name, maybe (Simon, Simon, Simon), but it's swallowed by his wet groan—blood-drenched and bitter.

Maybe it's the bitter tang of you on his tongue, or the dribble of red on the corners of your mouth, caught when he flickers his gaze up to your own, catching the smear of his blood staining your lips, but he shudders above you. Rumbling like an earthquake. The clash of plates grinding together. It splits you down the middle, and shakes the chill from your bones until you're a molten mess of liquified limbs: polymer bones, bubbling blood.

You melt into the mattress below with a hymn of his name—a blasphemous orison that has no place amongst the debauchery of sex-soaked sheets, and blood-stained teeth, but fits like a second skin when it brushes past your lips.

Simon follows. He says your name—a rough and gritty howl in the back of his throat—and then he's burying himself so deep inside of you that something breaks apart, gives, and the consuming hole, the vacuum he wrought, is filled with him. Him, him. A void. A cenote.

A gaping chasm of rot, need. Unquenchable.

"Fuck—" he snarls like a beast, the words crushing your ribcage, and leaking brimstone in your empty marrow. "Feels so fuckin' good, pet—"

There's something alluringly victorious about catching the biggest predator in the pen. A man made of death now bowing at the knees with just a flash of vulnerability; the slightest tilt of your delicate neck.

A string coils around your finger, pulling taut when you tug.

Bones ache when you move. Muscles scream when you swallow. Still, you lean forward, and syphon the heat from his skin, the blood from his veins.

Your spoils to keep, wrapped up prettily inside a diaphanous web.

Your nails rake across his flesh when you pull him close, curling around him in a spooled knot. When you grin, you feel the thick film of blood on your teeth. Vicious, victorious. "We match now, Simon."

He might run.

But you've always been good at running: a long-distance sprinter in perpetual motion.

(You'll catch up, no matter where he goes.)

And when he breathes your name through the wet fabric of his mask, trembling with his release, you know that some things are worth chasing after.

"You, uh… got anything to tell me?"

Gaz can't keep his eyes from straying to the moulted bruise on your neck—a startling smear of charcoal, flaxen, and indigo, broken in a perfect crescent of teeth—and each glance feels like a physical touch to your sensitive, inflamed skin.

It's childish. Immature.

(You wear it proudly, flaunting your win to the world.)

"Not really," you shrug, body buzzing with heat. It simmers in your veins now. Syphoned warmth that spools in your bloodstream, leaks from your marrow. "Just tamed a stray over the weekend. You know how it is."

There's a strange cut in melted brown. A look you're much too familiar with. One might mistake it as condemnation, scorn, but you know Gaz. The quirk of his lips gives him away.

"A stray, huh?" He intones contemplatively, timbre breezy, light, as he was mentioning the weather in Birmingham. Light drizzle, should clear up in the aft'. "Don't come aggin' to me when this backfires on you, yeah? Some never learn to stop biting."

Gaz pointedly looks out toward the table where Ghost and Price pour over another set of documents—shoulders drawn tight as they toss ideas and plans back and forth—before turning back to you.

"But I guess you know all about that already."

The barb in his tone—equal parts admonishing, and scathingly facetious—prickles against your skin. You offer a small smile, a languid shrug, and let your gaze drift, dragged back to Ghost.

His hands are wrapped in white, his mask pulled over his neck, hiding your mark from the world. Another scar on top of a storied history of others, but far kinder than anything else he'd ever received.

It prickles in your gums when you see him, and makes heat fill your chest when his eyes list to you, to Gaz, as if he can feel your stare, even when you're tucked away in a hidden crevasse, watching, waiting.

He won't come closer. Not when everyone else is around, but you catch the hunger in his gaze when you tilt your chin, exposing the soft, vulnerable curve of your neck, baring the bruise for him to see. It's rough, abrading. His eyes scrape over the varicoloured smear with a rapacious greediness that burrows under your skin.

"I'm learning," you murmur, words muted, heavy with something that tastes like triumph when it slips out. "Baby steps, right?"

Ghost turns away first, tearing his gaze from the bruise on your neck, muscles tensing as he ducks his head, and forces his attention back to Price.

In the corner of the room, a spider reaps the spoils of its fruit: a webbed sarcophagus around an exhausted fly that has long since given up on the struggle to get free.

It opens its maw, fangs glinting in the jaundiced light.

Vicious, victorious: it feasts.

(You drag your tongue over your warm lips, and feel the stirrings of hunger gnarl inside you once more.)

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #i'll come back in the AM and edit it when my eyes aren't sick of reading about purgatory and spiders and prey #HAHHH dunno what this is #what mythological fable was used in the making of this #who knows #i got my hands on Yorgos' scripts and i've been Inspired #this is probs as close to my unedited nonsensical and barely english notes as we'll ever get but #kindaaaaa okay with how it turned out #i'm def not proud #but like #it's finally 18 and can GTFO y'know??#simon riley #cod simon riley #ghostfics

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lolchicsa · 2 years ago

Text

Skulls and Chaos

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, nsfw, description of gore

Part 1 of 2: smut in next part (link here)

No use of y/n

Loosely follows the events of the ‘Alone’ mission. Reader’s vacation was ruined by Shadow Company going on a genocidal rampage :( But fear not dear reader! Mr Ghost is here to make it better ;P

A/N: First time using Tumblr to post stories and using mobile to write this. Apologies for bad grammar, it’s been a while, and I have no idea what to tag for this story. Story inspiration comes from a post by @fanficsforfun so here’s my twist on it.

Chaos.

The streets of Las Almas could be described using only one word. Chaos…

Usually, at this time of night, children would be asleep, lovers back in their homes and just a set few would be enjoying the dreamy sight of stars littering the night sky. It is truly a beautiful place to visit, if you can ignore the cartel’s presence that is. The cartel is known for being violent… but this… this was different. This wasn’t the cartel.

The screams and cries of children and parents echoed through the city. Gunfire sounded off at irregular intervals, surrounding me in fear. I had abandoned my hotel room when the screams first started, trying to find my way out in this maze of a city. The first dead body I had come across was that of a young boy. A trail of blood, starting from a small hole in his head, ended on the ground in a pool of crimson liquid. At first, I was fear stricken and unable to look away.

My reality felt surreal, a distant nightmare I could escape when my mind decided to end the torture. But no, I wasn’t dreaming, I was wide awake and running for my life. I officially lost count of how many dead bodies I unfortunately came across after seeing an alleyway filled with them. I wanted to cry, to curl up in a ball and forget the world exist. But I couldn’t bring myself to do so.

Exhaustion took over a few minutes ago, leaving me walking through the streets of death alone and on edge. The sound of death still polluted the air, I was trying my best to avoid the gunfire and escape. Easier said then done, trust me. It felt like the chaos was following me, taunting me with thoughts of escape.

And then I heard voices. Must be a sick joke my mind was playing on me. Logically, I knew there was very little chance of finding a living soul, but hope has shimmering at the back of my mind. Maybe these people can help me, maybe they know how to escape. I travelled closer to the orchestra of voices until I noticed something… odd.

They where speaking calmly to one another, acting like this was a pleasant walk instead of hell on earth. It made me uneasy, but something caught my attention. Their accents. Not to different then my own, but definitely a rarity around here. Americans.

I round a corner and there I saw them. All black tactical gear, guns, knives, they looked ready for war. My heart leaped into my throat, a surge of newfound adrenaline propulsed me closer to them. These soldiers most be here to bring an end to this chaos.

“Man, that Ghost guy gives me the creeps” One said, the pack turning their attention to him. They where huddled close together, seemingly enjoying a 10 minute break of freedom before continuing on. A few snickers broke the silence following the soldiers comment.

“It’s only one guy, c’mon he can’t do much against all of us” replied another.

“Don’t forget about the other one” a third chimed in. Their conversation helped keep their attention off of the street corner I was currently stalking. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in eavesdropping on these guys. The more you know, the better right?

“You mean the one that goes by Soap? Ha! What kind of name is that anyways? How can you be scared of a guy like that!”

“An angry Scotsman is not to be trifled with, trust me”

“Man if you get killed by someone named after a cleaning product, no matter what he is, you’ll be a laughing stock in whatever hell we end up in”

“Oh so getting shanked by Ghost is better?”

As far as conversations goes, this might be the worst one I have had the privilege of eavesdropping on. Their arguing… over names? I don’t get it.

“Hey you! We know your there! Come out with your hands in the air and slowly walk towards the middle of the street” yelled on of the soldiers. The command was directed towards my general area and my stomach dropped. Anxiety started prickling through my veins, thoughts racing through my head a mile a second.

Just do as they say, my conscious brain screamed. It’s the only way to survive this nightmare. With that, I made my way towards the middle of the street with my hands up, just like I was told.

“Mind explaining to me what you are doing here ma’am?” asked one of the soldiers. From the looks of things, he seems to be the leader of this rag tag group of men. He’s got the scariest voice of them all, I would say. Sounds like the type of guy you can easily trust, but would stab you in the back if he had too. He didn’t have a gun pointed at me, not yet anyways, but he did have a death grip on his rifle.

“Please, I mean no harm. I was here on vacation and I just want to go back home” I begged.

“You’re American? Odd to see you here. You’ve got ID to prove your story miss?” His grip on his rifle loosened and his posture reflected that of a calm man. I started searching through my small purse, searching for the requested object.

The moments leading often where a blur. Adrenaline had left my system, leaving me tired and emotional. I remember giving my ID to the man, which I now know goes by Graves. Something in him changed, going from the on edge soldier to overprotective best friend. One of his men was ordered to strip off his armor plate and give it to me. A jacket was placed over my shoulder, a signet stitched on the jacket sleeves. I was told it was their company’s logo… Shadow company.

Graves had me follow a couple of his men out of the city to safer location. They where ordered to protect me with their lives. I felt safe, like really safe. Here I was, following three armed men, tasked with protecting me, out of this city of nightmares and closer to my warm bed back home. Currently, our small group was engaged in conversation. The topic? Well…

“These guys don’t play around. All this death? They caused it. We don’t know why, but we’re tasked with hunting them down” specified one of my bodyguards.

“Specifically that Ghost guy. He has this weird mask thing he wears all the time. It’s like a skull and it covers most of his face. Scary fucker” another added.

I hear admiration when they describe this guy, that and fear. My gut tells me there is more they are keeping from me. Part of me couldn’t give two shits, but another was curious.

Fwoosh

My brain froze, my body stopped moving. The world shifted, the quiet chatter turned into loud commands I couldn’t make out. I saw red. Blood red. This time not painted on walls or flowing down the cheeks of children. This time, I saw it spray out of the neck of one of my new friends. A blade had materialized out of thin air, implanting itself into the soldiers neck.

His body made a sickening sound as it hit the ground. I wanted to scream, I wanted to run, but fear stricken as I was, I could only watch. Watch as the other two had knives plunged into their throats like the first. Watch as lifeless bodies hit the floor.

My body moves, but not because I ordered it to do so. The colours shift into each other, sky and ground blurring together. It only last a couple seconds, but has an everlasting effect on me. Slowly, my senses come back to me and I realize something is very very wrong.

It’s him.

It’s the man with the skull face mask.

It’s Ghost.

He’s the first thing I see when my vision finally focuses. I’m to unfocused to realize what’s going on, but I can feel a wall behind me. His eyes are staring into mine, hands holding me tightly to the wall behind me. I can feel the heat radiating of his body and I can’t help but feel attracted to it.

That’s when I realize he’s shouting at me, but I’m having a hard time making out what he’s saying. I feel trapped, unable to move, forced to keep eye contact with this dangerous killer. His eyes are mesmerizing. I can’t look away, I can’t focus on anything other then his eyes.

“Tell me where Graves is and I promise to give you a quick death”

His words still sounded unclear, but the anger rolling off of them helped snap me out of my daze. This is the killer the soldiers were talking about, the dead soldiers. He killed them… just like he killed everyone else. Fear gripped my soul, my fight or flight instincts finally kicking in. I started trashing about, trying to loosen his hold on me. The wall of pure muscle in front of me didn’t seem fazed by my attempts to escape.

“Answer me now, shadow bitch. I’m losing my patience!”

His hand bolted towards my throat and gripped it with a force I have never felt before. It was getting hard to breath, my already tired body didn’t know how to react. He wasn’t playing around, he’s making that very clear. I have a feeling he’s the type to not make empty threats, especially when it comes to death threats.

Wait, did he call me “shadow bitch”? Hold on.

“Wait! Wait! Wait! I’m not part of that group! I just stumbled upon them and they were gonna bring me home! I swear! They were protecting me!”

His grip on my throat relaxed and for a second I thought I was in the clear. That’s until he moved impossibly closer to me. My head rested on the wall behind me, tilted up so I could keep eye contact with the behemoth in front of me. Our chests was flush to each others. His breath slowly fanned over my face, his warmth bringing some sense of safety.

We stood in silence, staring at each other for awhile. I had to remind myself of the atrocities this man committed… the children he killed. But something felt off.

“Why… why do want to know where Graves is? Are you going to kill him? Like you killed these civilians?” My tone was shaky, filled with whatever authority I had left. I hope this doesn’t get me killed.

Instead, the man stepped back from me, leaving an empty void where his warmth was moments ago. He acted like I had just stabbed him through the heart… if he even has one that is.

“What? You think I am responsible for this genocide? No, the Shadow’s are responsible for that”

This new information served to confuse me even more then I already was. Did Graves lie to me? Or is Ghost lying to me? Who to trust? Graves did seem like the lying type, and if Ghost really was behind all this, why was he being so nice? Well, as nice as someone could be in a situation like this, I should say.

“We have to move. Forget about Graves, survival is a priority. If the Shadows find you with me, they will kill you” His tone suggested he wasn’t lying about that last part. My gut told me to trust him, follow him. So I did and I don’t regret a thing.

A/n: omg I’m finally out of writing hibernation and boy does it feel good. I plan on making shorter stories that focuses more on smut eventually because Ghost melts my brain and I need to share. Pardon any grammatical errors and the fact that I split this in two. Any criticism is welcome, like straight up tell me if this is shit cause I’m trying to get better. Might do story requests if people are interested enough. Anyways, I hope every single one of y’all has a great day!

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