#ghost cod x reader

[chamomiletealeaf]

Mommy kink Simon Riley who loves when you grab his face with one hand squishing his cheeks together while you’re riding him, making his lips pout.

“God you’re so fuckin’ cute baby.” You say, hand squishing his cute little face.

Simon whines in response as you roll your hips on him making his eyes go unfocused and half lidded.

“You like when mommy makes you go dumb hm? Tired of bein’ so big and strong all the time aren’t you baby.”

Simon nods his head with a moan. And grips your hips harder.

“Uh uh. Be a good boy and tell me what you want.” You tell him and stop your hips from moving.

“Want- want you to fuck me. Ride me. Please. Please mama.”

“Yeah there you go. See that wasn’t hard.” You praise him, and he throws his head back while you start to ride him again, his cheeks flushing as he cums in you :((

Sorry, had to get that out of my system

[lightwing-s]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader

It must’ve been early when the knocking woke you up. Rolling in the warmth of the bed, you struggled to get up and once you did, you walked towards the door on pure muscle memory, still too tired to proceed with any coherent thoughts.

You opened it automatically, rubbing your heavy eyes and letting out a yawn.

“Ghost, Price and I were thinking that maybe…” you heard a voice you faintly remembered blurt out words you vaguely put together. “Yn? What are you doing in Simon's room?”

Freezing at the spot, your eyes dart open, as wide as they could possibly be, and a burst of energy runs through your body, making your mind jolt alight, finally deciding to work.

“Fuck.” you whisper, as you could hear the sound of objects falling and stumbling steps rushing to your side. Simon, still shirtless, holding up his loose sweatpants and whose mask had been clumsy put on, only one of his eyes properly fitting through it’s proper hole, arrived beside you breathlessly, pulling Gaz into the room and closing the door immediately thereafter.

Pushing the Sergeant onto the unmade bed, it took him a moment to catch his breath, spinning around on the same spot on the floor. He had fixed his mask, and the moment his eyes caught yours you could clearly understand his message.

We’re fucked.

Your eyes were restless, moving from Simon and Gaz so quickly it was making you dizzy. Your hands tugged at Simon’s shirt, dressing you like a dress, but barely covering your legs, ones you were not used to exposing in front of your comrades.

It was awkward, this whole situation an awkward mess you had put you all in.

I’m sorry, you mouthed and pleaded with your eyes as Simon stopped in front of you, his hands reaching for your arm, rubbing it warm, consoling you as much as he could as you two sulked in unwanted company.

“Can you two explain what’s going on?” asked your “guest”. Exchanging glances once more, you two fought over who would break him the news. “Or am I supposed to make my own conclusions?”

“‘S pretty obvious, innit?” Simon replied, dryly.

“I wanted to hear it from you, it looks too surreal.” he said, leaning back and straightening his position, a smirk spreading on his face, amusement evident in his eyes. “The Lt and Yn shagging.”

You looked back at Simon once more, his arms crossed on his chest making his biceps look twice their size, and his clear crunched jawline, probably planning three hundred different ways to murder his teammate. Touching his shoulder, you asked for allowance, watching as he considered the options before nodding in return.

“Gaz.” you called, catching his attention. “We’re married.”

Gaz’s head bobbed forward as his eyes almost jumped out of its socket, questioning the shocking news and his own reality. To confirm your words, showed him your hands, more specifically your ring finger, where a pair of letters, ‘SR’, were tattooed secretly on its side. The Lieutenant followed suit, uncrossing his arms to expose your initials drawn on the same spot in his ring finger. 

You two were married. Married, and no one in the base knew it. Hell, they didn’t even know you two had a thing for each other, was going through Gaz’s mind.

“Married?” he repeated, more an affirmation than a question, trying to process it in his head. “I can’t wait till Johnny knows it.”

“Johnny can’t know it.” you immediately cut him. “Please, Gaz. I-it’s…” private, you wanted to add, our lives. But a lump in your throat caught you, feeling everything you’d build crumbling down. 

You’d been so careful. You and Simon had taken every possible precaution since the first night you hooked up, not wanting anyone to find out your silly “mistake”, to the day of your wedding two years ago, the most important day in your entire life. And now the secret was done for, days counted even if Gaz were kind enough to keep it to himself.

“Private.” Gaz completed your words after a brief minute of silence, and the hope in your chest grew. “I get it. You know I’m not a snitch.” Standing up, he continued. “Your secret is safe with me.” and extending his hand towards your husband he wished. “Congratulations, Simon.”

Your husband, after second thoughts, shook Gaz’s hand in his, evident force used to make sure a warning was heard: you say anything, you’re dead. However, knowing him like no one else, you notice signs no one would, and the slight drop in his shoulder lets you know he trusted his Sergeant.

“Congratulations you too, Yn.” he turned to you, giving you a tight hug instead, lifting you off your feet for a brief moment before returning you to the floor. “Does this make me the best man over Johnny?”

Fishing for a pillow, Simon threw it straight into Gaz’s head as he rushed out of your room, giggles heading out with him. You too stood laughing, enjoying knowing your secret paradise wasn’t done for yet, and trying to calm down your sulking and annoyed husband.

.

a/n: short drabble to announce i'm now taking simon and other cod men requests ♡

[yeyinde]

dangle on the leash | Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

The flimsy sarcophagus housing all his wants, his desires, cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant. Ghost cocks his head in consideration. Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. But he's a rabid dog burning with the urge to bite. No one should really be surprised when he finally decides to sink his teeth into you. Unfortunately, that hail mary Price sent into the aether never reached you.

(your bird is too big for a cage— —but maybe a collar would do.)

this is a babytrapping fic lmao but please read the tags carefully. a companion piece to this (Price + babytrapping).

DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+

HARD WARNINGS—coercion. dependency. intentional alienation. unsafe, unprotected sex. this very much toes the line of noncon (that is still very dubcon even when consent is given) in many ways, notably: somnophilia, and condom/contraceptive tampering. intrusive, violent thoughts. mentions of violence. manipulation; slight gaslighting. implied kidnapping. references to past abuse (Ghost), brief mention of drugging/threats of drugging (ambiguous as to if it was ever followed through on or not, mostly just Ghost's internal monologue unfiltered). ADDITIONAL TAGS—smut. rough sex. unsafe sex. dom!Ghost. mean, obsessive, unhinged!Ghost. spit kink. dacryphilia.

he's feral, but he's yours. too bad for you, no one is really sure if that's a good thing or not.

One of the things Price often tells new recruits is to shove their old life into a box. 

“There's home,” he huffs, fingers twitching as if he's subconsciously flexing around the hilt of a lit cigar. “And then there's work. Whatever box you decide to put this, or your family, your personal life, into is your choice. But for fuck’s sake. Keep them separate.” 

Most of the new recruits are fresh off selection, shaded sickly chartreuse, and take his words as a literal gospel. Work, this; home, them. They don't start to unravel the second part of his gruff speech until much later. Until they can't wash the blood from their hands, and the scent of their mum’s eucalyptus hand soap is nauseating. Unfamiliar. When being in civvies feels like wearing skin that doesn't fit, and everyone around you is alien, foreign. They don't know. They'll never know. 

It's only when they find themselves gazing at the clock on the wall of their family home, counting down the minutes until their mandatory leave is over do they realise that home is the barracks. 

That's something Ghost has always understood. Maybe it was because his home life was already in ruins, tatters. Beer soaking into the knock-off Persian rug a cousin nicked from a flea market when he was nine. No fine china in the cupboards because it'll end up in shards on the floor. Plastic plates and forks and cups. Always. Howling in his head. Screaming from down the hall in his mum's room. His bedroom door creaking open at night. The anger, the curdling fear (shameful—be a man; punch him back, hit him before he hits you, you useless prick—), of not knowing whether or not it was his dad, high as hell and itching for a fight after busting their mum’s lip wide open, or Tommy sneaking into his bed at night because his is soaked in piss and he can’t sleep when they scream at each other like this.  

(Funny that, he always found; neither of them could ever sleep when it was silent, either.)

Blood on the linoleum. Trying to eat burnt toast and overcooked beans with a busted lip and a twinge in his jaw—

(Fractured, they'll say later, years later, during his mandatory medical checkup when he's first recruited. Healed all wrong. Son, didn't anyone take you to hospital?) 

He understands the separation between home and work—even if the former lost all relevancy nearly a decade ago. Back when he buried them all. Was buried himself—

What Ghost never really understood was the box. 

Shove it into a box. 

When he asks over cheap whisky somewhere in Siberia, Price tightens his fingers around his glass before bringing it up to his head. His index finger juts out. He knocks the tip of that bruised, scabbed knuckle against his temple. Once, thrice. Levels Simon with a pointed look he both can’t understand and somehow knows all too well. 

“Up here."

“Paid nearly fifty quid for that,” he grouses, shaking his head. “Think I've been ripped-off, Price.” 

Price scoffs, places the glass down with a hollow thud. “Don't be a fuckin’ muppet, Simon—” his real name makes his shoulders tense. Around the barracks, they know him only as the Ghost. “You put it away somewhere. Hide it. I don't fuckin’ know. But if it keeps you goin’, keeps you sane, and doesn't become a mess I gotta clean up, well—”

The implication is stark. Heavy. 

Price was always good at chiselling through layers of accumulated indifference to get to the madness within, but considering Ghost’s past and his mile-long rap sheet, the warning digging into his words like a dull blade isn't unwarranted. 

Old dogs, he'd called the pair of them when they first met. There was a sharp keenness in his eye when he lifted his hand, waved his cigar toward the tangled mess of scar tissue crisscrossing his face (made with a dull, rusted knife, one that gouged out deep pocks of skin, ugly fuck, looks like the badlands, don't he? like a postcard from the Grand Canyon, sweetheart. not so cute anymore, are ya, pretty boy—), and said, “well, you're fuckin’ rabid, ain't you? Better put a muzzle on that before it becomes a problem, mm.”

His problem, specifically. 

And Ghost gets it. Thinks Price might understand that particular brand of madness—despite growing up on literal opposite sides of the track, his Manchester to the others Liverpool; poverty and prestige—if only just. Because Price seems to be able to curb those baser impulses in a way Ghost hadn't yet mastered (and won't for quite some time yet). He's put together. Sort of. Respected. Normal.

The men in the barracks don't look at him and flinch. 

But he sees the way the man's eyes linger in the crowd, shrewd and careless, before falling on the pretty bartender in the back. The one with roses in her eyes and a smile full of dandelions. Soft, like butterscotch. It's here when they darken. When he reaches, almost angrily, for his whisky. Pats his chest with a heavy fist searching for his cigar. 

She's a sweet thing, he reckons. All pretty and trusting. Birds like her make his head itch—

“Don't even think about it, Simon,” Price grumbles, and it feels like territorial posturing, a challenge he almost raises to meet with his chin, if only to make Price fluster, but it's hollow. Empty. He denies himself, too. The prick. 

“How'd you do it?” He asks, and doesn't specify. Doesn't think he needs to. 

When Price swallows, it looks like a grimace. “Years of practice.” 

He considers the weight of it, his eyes straying back to the woman behind the bar. She's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, wrist delicate like bone china, the kind they could never afford, and for a moment, the intrusive thoughts, the ones he gets sometimes about wanting to tear things to bloody pieces, rears—

It's stamped down in a swig of flat lager You stupid fuckin’ mutt, Price would say tomorrow morning, shaking his head. You always think with your prick? 

Simon cranks his head sharply to the side instead. The resounding crack seems to echo through the empty pub. 

Price just shakes his head. “Christ. No one ever house break you, yet?” 

“Yeah, they did,” he rasps, staring at the bartender who gazes back at him now. Skittish, unsure. Not so sweet after all. She looks away, cowed. Her hands tremble. He leans back, and hums. “And now I piss outside, like a good ‘ol boy.” “Ain't nothin’ good about you, Simon. Fuckin' Christ—”

And he's not wrong. 

The Ghost has a reputation of being a cold-hearted bastard. A Frankensteinian beast cobbled together with spare parts robbed from a jailhouse graveyard. Worst of the worst. An arm from a mass murder. The leg from a spree killer. Heart a patchwork mess of ichor and sulphur. Sutured together with barbed wire. 

It's all sort of macabre. Rather trite, too. 

The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.

But sometimes, he wakes up and he's still buried. Still dead. Dirt in his throat, lodged in his nose. He breathes in and feels pebbles scraping his lungs. Feels worms in his ears. Maggots in his head. 

They crawl through his grey matter. Leeches burrowing into his thoughts, sucking the good in him dry. 

Or, whatever's left of it, anyway. 

He thinks with his teeth because it's easier that way. Cold, calculative instinct. Just barely boxed into a neat package slapped on the desk of Price's higher-ups. 

A good man, they say, and turn him loose on the streets. One of the best we have, as he breaks jaws, and tears through jugulars. A force to be reckoned with. 

They hand him a gun, a rifle, when the bloodied footprints leading back to camp become too much of a hassle to clean. Shoot from a distance. He takes to it like the bulk of metal was made for his scarred hands. Scythe to a Reaper. 

It feels like bloodletting. Draining him of his anger, his fury, until a cold, gnarled indifference curls in the basin left behind. Icy, frigid. Down to the bone. 

Sometimes, he doesn't remember what it felt like to be warm, even buried under a thick balaclava and layers of military fatigues. 

Frankenstein’s monster. Patched together from the rotten remains of horrible men. 

And as he stares in the mirror at the patchwork ruins of his face, his body, he wonders if there's some truth to it, after all. He's pretty sure if someone cracked his skull open—again—they’d find rot. Tumulus. Infested with maggots and worms. Cobwebs behind his eyes. In his nose. His brain perfectly preserved: a zombified tombstone. And oh, how it hungers. 

Wants. 

But in a box it goes. One shaped like a coffin. Placed pretty in the back of his broken head. 

He stares in the mirror and thinks he sees something moving under his eye. Wriggling around. The temptation to claw it out rears, but the shredded tissue on his thighs reminds him of what happens when he listens to that insidious hiss in the back of his head (some amalgamation of his old man, and that bastard—) and goes searching for gold in bone marrow. 

He huffs. Fingers curling around the porcelain. His head is rotten. Putrefied. He can feel the decomposing sludge press against his temples. It grows teeth sharp like a razor blade and hacks away at jaundiced bone. Ghost lifts his hand, digs his fingers into his temple. Down boy—

(Simon doesn't even want to consider what his heart must look like, then.)

Cold-hearted, sure—

But he likes sweet things. 

The kind that will undoubtedly give him cavities. A spillover, perhaps, when candy bars were too expensive, and the only dessert he was given was a toffee by the neighbour when she wasn't moaning to his old man about all the shit he and Tommy got up to. 

(Bruises came afterwards, the colour of liquorice. Sour cherries.)

Unfortunately for him, sweet things don't like him much—a shame, really. Simon has always had a sweet tooth. 

His rough edges are too sharp for their liking, and Simon's—

Intense. Like a dog with a bone, he doesn't know when to let go. When to unhinge his jaw from the morsel between his teeth. He bites hard. Shakes his head. Tears into the things he wants until it's bloodied meat pinched in his incisors. 

And so, they keep their distance. Like they can smell the rot on him. The funeral dirt. The stench of an unearthed sarcophagi. 

Sometimes, though, the wiley ones will inch closer, looking to get messed up badly by a bad man, and it makes something inside his head howl when he turns them down. Following Price’s creed. Can't give in to the pretty ones, he'd said. Nothin’ but trouble. 

Trouble, like a pair of shackles. A noose. Trouble, like gentle, clean hands and fragile bones. Fine china. Fine powder. The marshmallow soft kind of trouble that will melt in the acid that leaks from his pores. Aqua regia. Attacking anything that gets close. 

(Breakable, is what Price means. Pretty chew toys that are beyond repair once he's finished with them.

He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)

But still. He stays away. It's easier on base, in safe houses, too far out from the general public to have to worry about doe eyes and soft touches. He doesn't need it, anyway—

Then comes you. 

And the forfeiture of his self-control. 

You're trouble of a different kind. 

Trouble, like the end of a sledgehammer. Trouble, like the grill of a car. The barrel of a gun. 

In the shape of a battering ram, one strong enough to dislodge the madness in the back of his head. Where the corrosive acid should ruin you, eat you alive, it doesn't. Not with your tantalum skin. 

But oh, do you pack a punch—

At first, you think he's homeless. 

Some scruffed-up man sleeping on a park bench outside of your apartment. 

In another life, he might have been. He isn't a stranger to bad habits, and had the military not been his only choice in life for some semblance of good (laughable, considering what he does for a living), he could see the threads of his life leading him here. Drugs. Manchester is good for it, this he knows all too well. Especially the shithole neighbourhood he's from. 

He doesn't clue into this, though, until you glance at him, warily, and then shuffle into the cafè he’s holed outside of, the place where his current target gorges himself on steeped tea and crumpets. 

(Price's dry text sits, open, on his burner phone: and don't fuck this up—)

It feels a bit like an omen. Made worse when you meet his gaze through the glass, and—

Well. Shit. 

The impact is a collision. Hitting a pole at top speed. Metal bent around concrete. 

His teeth ache (so, so bad—).

You emerge from the small building a few minutes later—the faded eggshell with chocolate trim is nauseatingly sweet against your pastel yellow raincoat—holding a takeaway bag, and balancing a tray of coffees in your hand. 

He tenses. It's instinctual. There's nothing about you that's an immediate threat to his person—unless you plan on adding to his scars with the tip of your umbrella, the scalding coffee in your hand—but it's odd, isn’t it? No one approaches him. Not unless they have a reason to. 

And no one, in his experience, ever has a good one. 

“Hi,” you chirp, disarmingly sweet, as you come to stand in front of him. His jaw aches. Even sprawled across a bench, you're barely looking down at him. Sticky, cold fingers tap a strange rhythm down his spine. “I, um, hope this isn't weird, but I saw you sitting here, and—well. I got this—”

You wiggle the bag. He smells something greasy. A breakfast sandwich, he's sure.

It's an unusual assassination attempt. Price will be livid. 

“What for?” He rumbles, sitting up in the seat. The shift of his bulk seems to make you nervous. You take a step back, and he fights the urge to follow. To back you into a corner. No escape. 

You regain your footing, even if the smile on your face wobbles. Weakens under his flat stare. Some people can smell the rot on him. 

He wonders if you can, too. 

(Pity that. You're a pretty bird, ain't you?)

And the way you take him in lacks a distinct thrum of hesitation, fear that’s normally there. It occurs to him, then, that you see him as just another man. Just another person. 

(“deader than a doorknob, this one. such a goddamn waste, boss. he was a fun one, wasn’t he? should we burn ‘em?” 

nah. bury him out back—)

It's laughable, really. A joke. He has the urge to crack one—sick and awful enough to make that little smile on your face wilt. Wither away. Almost does, too, but it get tangled in his throat when he feels the weight of your stare on him. 

The easy sweep of your eyes is barely discrete, but it's clinical. Pitying. But the softened edges of that empathy dissolve as your pretty head adds up all the numbers on him, coming to a standstill. Your eyes linger on his wrist. The gold of his wristwatch peeks out beneath the black sleeve of his hoodie. An intricate web of complex timekeeping that only he's privy to. A little luxury he picked up in Italy when the cash he'd been given was getting too tiresome to carry around. 

Dead men, after all, don't need bank accounts. 

And then—

You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”

It clicks, then. The pity. The soft words. The goddamn coffee— 

His gums itch. He has the sudden urge to be mean about it. Pick you apart in this street until nothing but embarrassment and humiliation remains. 

“That I was homeless? ‘nd you brought me, what? A coffee? ‘ow sweet of you. Some breakfast, too. Well, aren't you a lovely girl?” 

You are embarrassed. It blisters across your expression. Has your hands trembling around the cardboard tray, spilling droplets of coffee down the side. Your head is bowed, cowed in shame. It reminds him of that bartender some years prior. Pulling away when the bad dog growls—

But there's a thin sheen of intrigue in your eyes, burrowing holes into the shoes in front of you; a tangled knot of want coiling in the heat of your embarrassment over this blunder. Over offending him. 

Well—

That's new. 

Some get off on it. On humiliation. Specifically, of the public variety. He didn't take you as the type. The way you twist, squirming in place, is odd, though. It doesn't fit as well as he originally thought. No. It's not the public shame, but—

Him. 

Ah. 

Sweet, sweet girl. 

(So naïve.)

He reckons he could get you to do just about anything to make it up to him. You would, too. You're soft enough to be submissive, to bow your head in contrition, but there's a flicker of defiance in the jut of your chin when you lift your head. 

This is a blunder and you're sweetly embarrassed, sure, but it isn't enough to break you. 

And now Simon just wants to ruin you. Teach you a lesson about bad, vile men—

(Something you'd welcome with open arms, wouldn't you?)

“Didn’t know Manchester was so charitable,” he rasps. His throat is dry. Parched. He reaches for the coffee—black, with extra creamer and sugar on the side, tucked neatly in a little bag; fuckin’ hell. Ain't you just adorable—and places it on the spot beside him. “I’ll be takin’ this. Will need it for later.” 

You look like you want to protest. Fight back. His hackles rise, ready for it—eager. Something anticipatory, dark, bleeds through the moulted mess of his head. Sickly. Terrible. He thinks about what you'd look like sprawled under him, shaking and begging for more, for him to stop—

Fuck. Birds usually make his head itch, but you make his fucking skin crawl. 

In the end, you just huff. Roll your eyes. He wants to chew them out of your head. Pop them between his teeth. He bet you'd taste divine. 

You walk away from him before he can. You don't look back once. 

Pity, he thinks. Someone's gonna snatch you clean off the streets like that—

Hours later, he sends Price a text message with the coordinates for where to pick up the package Ghost left. 

He considers it a blessing when the man sends him back, good job, now get a pint from me as a little reward. Can't say I don't treat my team well. 

A reward, huh? 

Well. With your stature in comparison to his own, Ghost easily can see you being considered a pint. 

So, he follows you home, and tallies this one as being on Price. 

It's easy. Too easy. He slips deftly behind you, tucked away from view, and masks his footsteps under the echo of yours until he's standing in the shadows outside of your house. This, too, feels like a blessing. It's a duplex. He waits for one of the lights to flicker on, and—

The window brightens. Room number two. 

He hums, and palms his pockets for the pack of smokes he nicked off the man. Needing something to take the edge off. To quell the urge to bite. 

It's even easier to engineer meetings. Random run-ins. All blamed on happenstance, chance. Of course. This towering mountain of a man with his thick manc twang—the sort of gallows humour that can only be found in the blue-collar streets of Salford from the nasty old men squatting on the corners—must have better things to do than stalk you. Surely. You're not special enough to be hunted, right? 

Still. You're a touch wary of him. Distrustful. You keep your distance—six inches for Jesus Christ, aren’t you a peach?—and try to skirt the line between neutrally polite to the strange man loitering outside of the shops you frequent (your schedule burned to his memory, naturally) and that fascinating skittish intrigue from before. All simmering heat. Blunt want. The kind wrapped up in silk threads. 

It's interesting to watch it play out when he steps closer and all those long-forgotten instincts in the back of your head flare up. The shaky step you take back. The inward frown of confusion when you're not sure why your body craves space, acting almost on its own. And then the sweet defiance that breaks over you. The intentional step closer. The feigned warmth in your tone as you talk to him.

It's easy to pocket the uglier aspects of his personality. The coldness. The indifference. The flat, droll insincerity that leaks into his tone. All of it shelved, locked away, and he's not sure if Price would be happy that he listened to what he said, followed his example, or furious that he's bastardising it to lure this pretty fish in.

)The latter, undoubtedly. But Simon gets a sick kick from it all.)

Especially when it brings you closer to him. Thaws you as you rationalise his reaction during the first meeting, gears spinning. Kicking up excuses. 

Anyone would be angry, offended. It's natural. He's alright now—

It makes you look at him differently as you forcefully fight the urge to flee. 

Silly bird. 

Wary eyes rake over his massive bulk. Brows furrow at the series of black medical masks he wears in public. Always. That, in addition to the heavy black of his wardrobe—black jacket, black hoodie, black leather gloves—sometimes makes you glance at him with a touch of worry. Fear. Probably wondering if you brought home a delinquent. 

But it changes when he rolls up his sleeves one day after you've been moaning about your broken beach cruiser (the, I don't know, chain—or something—keeps catching—), and crouches down to fix it. 

There's a hitch in your breath. A distinct swallow. A guilty tinge of something shy, deliciously so, shading your eyes ruby-red when you look down at him. 

And ah—

Sweet little treat snagged on the line. Ain't he a lucky lad? 

It's all the better when you do the work for him. Reeling yourself in, practically throwing yourself in his cooler when you ask about his tattoos, carefully—considerately—nudging the topic away from his ugly scars. 

He guts you clean as he tells you he's in the military. Top secret, pet. Don't ask because I'd hate to ‘ave to hurt a pretty face like yours—

You preen under it. Pet. Pretty. You don't even notice when he slides his knife over your scales, dices you up on his chopping board. 

You're the picture of sweetness when he unkinks the chain in your bike, and sets it straight. All happiness. Smiles. Appreciative glances. You flutter your pretty eyes at him as you say—

“Thank you—”

You're waiting for a name. His belly rumbles. He could eat, he thinks, and licks his teeth. 

“Simon. Simon Riley.” 

The risk-reward ratio is balanced when you breathe it out between plump lips, chasing the end of it with your tongue. He wants to eat it out of your mouth. Swallow it down. 

You touch his arm, hand warm, soft. “If there's anything I can do to pay you back—”

He takes you out for a kebab later on. Nudges you out of the way when you open your wallet to pay. Draft girl. Naïve, too, because he can feel the heat in your cheeks from where he stands, reaching over to snatch the bag from the man with a grunt. 

You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting. 

Doesn't matter. He lets it take root. Especially when you shyly invite him back to yours to eat. 

He makes a feast of it, and fucks you on your mint green chaisse after he's finished. 

(Not on birth control, you say, and hand him a box of condoms, suddenly shy. It's unopened. He hums, and burns that to memory.) 

He keeps his distance—an easy feat when he's halfway around the world, and you're stuck in the gloom of Manchester. 

It's purposeful, of course. He made a promise to Price not to give him a reason to worry, but fuck—

You're proving hard to quit. He's never had anyone cuff him upside the head on his bullshit. Not anymore, anyway. Not as the Ghost. He likes the thrill of it, of this chase. 

You don't let him steamroll you when he's in a mood to fight. You punch back, hitting him right in the mess of his guts, and fuck. Fuck. He's a little bit obsessed with it. With you. This wily little fish that acts so shy when he's got three fingers buried in your cunt, but rides him after like you're starving for it. Clawing at his chest. Scratching his arms. It's raw. Primal. He wants to break you—this fiery little kitten that bites his fingers until they bleed, and then purrs in his lap as he drives a pickaxe through your head, shredding logic into pieces. Rummaging around until he nicks the optic nerve that lets you see red. 

You’re everywhere. In everything. In the back of his head, under the howling that hadn't stopped since you trailed your finger down the jagged topography of his bare chest, digging your nail into the crude x across his heart, and whispered, soft and sweet: you're all kinds of fucked up, aren't you? 

A bludgeon to his self-control—

He resists. Has to. Is mean about it, too. Doesn't tell you where he's going (it's need to know), or what he's doing (would ‘ave to bash your pretty ‘ead in if I told you), but keeps you strung on the line (keep thinkin’ about that pretty cunt of yours; can't wait to come ‘ome and ‘ave you sit on my ugly mug—). 

It's dangerous, this game of his. Thrilling for all the wrong reasons. 

But he’s a good mutt. Good—

Until the text. 

The one you send to him when you're out with friends. A picture. You're in a pub somewhere in Moss Side, a drink in hand. A gaggle of nobodies crowded around you. It makes sense, he supposes. There's that old idiom—you’ll trap more flies with honey—and he doesn't know anyone nearly as sweet as you. 

His sweet girl.

(you fuckin’ mutt—)

Ghost stares at you for a moment, teeth aching. The little ensemble—a crop top and jeans—is a vision, he reckons. But it's spoiled when he catches more eyes on you than pointed at the camera. Practically spilling out of your top, aren't you? 

He breathes heavily through his nose. Tastes guncotton in his throat. 

Ghost commits every face to memory, and then calls you. 

You're drunk. Too drunk to remember it tomorrow. Stuck in a pub on what's supposedly a bad part of town. Chatting away about going to your friend’s house. He gets the address, and something sour twits in his stomach. Shit council houses. 

“That safe?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. He's already chubbed up in his slacks at the slur in your voice. “And dressed like that? Didn't take you for a slag—”

It makes you sputter on the line. “I'm—I’m not—”

You're so quick to placate him. So hasty to make him happy. Please don't be angry with me, Simon. I'm just having some fun—

The claws and fangs are tucked away when you're drunk. He shoves the information in the cache, eyes burning. Head aching. He's feverish. Hot under the collar.

Odd considering he's dead—

“Sounds like you will be.”

“It's not like that—”

“‘ow would you know? Might meet a nice fellow. Might take him home.”

“I don’t—I wouldn't—”

The sniffle makes him throb. Fuck. “Yeah? Well, ain't none of my business, I reckon—”

“It is.”

“Oh? How's tha’?”

“I—I like you, Simon—” he can taste your embarrassment through the phone. He didn't even need to bring you flowers and you're already boxing him into monogamy, confessing to him. So sweet. So tender. If he were a better man, he might have told you to sober up. To talk about this tomorrow. 

Too bad for you, he isn't. And what’s worse is that he’s a loyal bastard, too. 

But that's later, and right now—

He's halfway across the world, and you're vulnerable. In the den of hungry mutts. 

It’s charr in his throat. Anger in his veins. “You like me? An’ you go out dressed like that?”

“There's nothing wrong with how I'm dressed—”

He sucks his teeth. “Dunno ‘bout tha’, pet. You look like you're achin’ to get fucked.”

You take a shuddering breath. “I just want you—”

“Yeah?” It's a growl. His cock spits prespend in his trousers. “Then be my good girl. Go home and wait for me.”

It's quiet on the line. He catches the hitch in your throat, the sharp exhale, like you can't really be sure if he's serious or not. He says nothing. Waits. 

Where there would have been a fight—fists and teeth and snarling words—you quieten in the silence. Docile. Submissive. It's in you, he knows. He saw the glimpses back when you first met, when he'd bent down and fixed the bike he broke. All it needs is a little—

“Jus’ worried about my sweet girl, is all.” 

And you relent. 

Corrosive oil spills out of the necrosed holes in his head. It curls over his thoughts, liquid sin. He takes himself in his hand, blood pulsing in his veins, white-hot, damning, and bares his teeth at the urge to come to you, to push you down on the floor, and mount you like a snarling beast—

“Good girl,” he growls when you tell him you'll call a taxi, that you'll go home and have some wine with your friend instead.

Friend. Friends. 

He'll have to do something about that. 

(The thing about deprivation is that it bleeds into a vicious sense of possession when it's finally obtained. Greed. His wants have wants, have wants—

A perfect ouroboros. One you feed into almost destructively.)

Because the thing is—

Simon wants to tie you to his bed. Keep you locked up in the safe house he has in Manchester. Chained, shackled. A prisoner with him as your iron guard. 

It isn't just fantasy, either. 

The flies that congregate around you are an annoying, incessant buzzing in his ears. Remora clinging to the biggest fish. 

But they're easy to scatter when he waves his hand. 

(Waves off. Threatens with bodily harm, with physical aggression—

Same thing.)

The sting in his knuckles and the blood on his shoes are worth it in the end when your tantalum skin cracks. An aggregate of beautiful lines, pretty in their fragility, their brokenness. He wedges his fingers between the splints, widening the chasm to pet at the sticky-soft centre hiding beneath all that rough rock. Sweet girl. Hard candy enclosing taffy-softness. 

His coos melt you to the consistency of mercury. Liquid silver pebbles along your lash line, spilling over in a dizzying display of raw vulnerability. 

It makes every predatory instinct inside of him bristle. Locking onto the sweet lines of crystalline sadness that run down your cheeks. It has his heart racing. Eager, anticipatory. The thrill of the chase, of running you down into the ground until you're fine powder under him. 

And it’s there, it's in his arms—the maw of a beast—where you seek comfort, lamenting the loss of your friends, your coworkers. No one wants to hang out with you anymore. They don't return your calls or answer your texts. 

What did I do? You sniffle, throat bared. Belly turned up. 

Flooded with tears. The lachrymal face that peers up at him makes his teeth ache. He rolls his head back, feels himself thicken in his pants. 

Simon loves it when you cry.

“Fuck ‘em,” he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. “If they can't see what a catch you are, then they don't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

It makes you cry harder, makes you mumble into his chest about how lucky you are to have someone like him. Someone who cares. 

His breath hitches. Warm floods his veins, fever-hot. 

“Thank you, Simon—”

And then you, smooth silver and wickedly sweet, cradle him in your palms as if you could hold all the broken pieces of him together. 

He thinks it's cute. 

Doesn't really have the heart to tell you it's a lost cause.

“Anytime, pet.”

And you're perfect, too.

You take this mangy mutt into your house, and let it eat your food, sleep in your bed. You let him fuck you stupid, and listen so prettily when he convinces you to let him spoil you. Let him pay your rent, your bills. Let Simon dote on you the only way he knows how—mercilessly possessive, and a touch cruel, mean—but you roll over, showing your belly. Submissive and sweet. 

It's even better when you try to lash out at him with a collar in the shape of his teeth branding your neck, spitting and hissing like a feral cat who doesn't know yet that's claws have been clipped. Only to then curl up in his lap, purring as he strokes your fur, and carves out a place for himself in your life. 

He wants to sink his teeth into you, and you think he's a big dog. Undomesticated. One who comes and goes as he pleases. A stray. A mutt. 

It's said fondly. Full of love—

His mouth is full of cavities. His teeth ache. His gums bleed. 

(do you know he's rabid? that the faded name on his dog tags once read cujo—)

Everything about you makes that sludge flood behind his eyes, pounding rotten fists against his temple. take, take, take; mine, mine—

The howling doesn't stop. It tells him to press you into the mattress and fuck you stupid. Tie you to the bedposts and never let you go—

He throws fists in the dark, trying to hit the madness in his head. Ends up with bloody knuckles and laughter in his ears. 

(a voice of reason says, your bird is too big for a cage—)

He clings to it. 

You're warm beside him. Burning hot. He syphons it from your veins when you're asleep, pulling you close just to feel something on his skin other than dirt. Other than blood. 

It's easy to pretend he's fine with these little nips. Leaving teeth marks in your neck. Bloody rings snaking up your thighs. 

He wraps one hand around both of your wrists, holds them high above your head, and tells himself it's enough. Shackled by him, under him, as he takes you apart, pulling at your sense of independence like the gnarled fingers of winter bringing defoliation to summer's bloom, but even with this, all of it, he still aches. Still wants. Needs—

Stupid fuckin’ mutt. 

Then you bring his hands up to your throat, letting him wrap his bearish paws around your delicate neck, and he knows these little bites will never satiate the hunger in his guts. 

He wakes up the next morning feeling warm. Full. Edges softened, if only just, by the sticky sweetness of your breath ghosting over his chest. 

Simon curls his arm around you, holding tight.  He won't let go. Won't—

Hide it. Put it away. 

Ghost does neither of those things. He buries it, instead.  

But in doing so, you find cracks in the foundation. Ones that are just big enough for your willfulness to slip through. To hand him back the cash he gave with a scoff, and a, i work, too, you know? i don't need your money, Simon. that's not why i’m with you—

(All he hears is, I don't need you.)

And then you send him a text. I'm going out with friends from work tonight. We're going drinking. I'll talk to you tomorrow! 

In the zombified remains of his head, a new howling starts. The hisses tell him you're pulling away, running from him—

It's a big world out there. It'll eat you whole—

Like Tommy.

The thing about want is that sometimes it grows teeth, hands. Claws. Without a body of its own, it tends to mould itself after its maker because that's all it knows how to do: devour, consume. Yearn. 

He shouldn't be too surprised to find that this need of his has dug itself out of the grave he buried it in. 

(he did, too—)

The flimsy sarcophagus cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant.

The howling in the back of his head stops abruptly. The pulsing ache in his temple abates. It's heavy, this weight. This absolute, utter emptiness—

No. It's not hollow. The chasm isn't drained, it's—

(In the silence, something growls. Feral. Possessed.)

—full. Perfect equilibrium. All of the patchwork parts of himself, the ones that don't quite fit, suddenly find synergy. 

Communion. 

Ghost cocks his head in consideration.

(your bird is too big for a cage—

—but maybe a collar would do.)

—after all, could you ever leave him with his name etched into your womb—

In leaving the key under the mat for him to come and go as he pleases, you've left yourself vulnerable. But—

Not anymore. 

He has a safehouse he'll take you to. You'll let him, too, because it'll be the best choice for you. The three of you.

He's never entertained any ideas of family, not when the closest approximation he has is drenched in gun oil and smells of smoke from artillery fire, but the howling in his head quietens at the idea of it. He can't shackle you to the bed—stupid fucking mutt—but he can tie you down all the same. Make you his. Wholly. Always. 

And the thing is—despite a pickaxe making figure-eights out of his grey matter; lead poisoning and rust giving him these sour, awful thoughts about locking you up in his house, leaving you a needy mess, dependent only on him—Simon supposes he knows right from wrong. 

Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. 

But in carving himself a place in your life, he failed to realise that the walls behind him closed in. No way out. And so, his only option is to go forward. To keep moving.

He'll be crucified for this, but that's fine. 

He doesn't intend for you to find out, anyway. It'll be an accident. He came home early, and found you drunk. Drank with you. Your drunken idiocy merged, creating a terrible, noxious cocktail of awful, bad choices. Permanent ones. Irreversible. 

(You're so sweet, so docile when you're drunk—)

It'll be easy to convince you. To play the part of a stoic man suddenly in turmoil. You'll offer to get rid of it, a suggestion that he'll flinch at—a cornered dog, a hand raising in the air. You'll whimper. Shake in his arms as you tentatively smooth over the wrinkles in his brow, murmuring out your options in a stilted breath.

You'll be a Riley before the end of your term. It's only proper, he'll mutter, stiff and uncomfortable, and you'll melt. Liquid tantalum in his palm. The fruits of his labour laid bare, seeping from the corners of his mouth. Tucked tight between his teeth. Mercury he can swallow down, keep in the bracket of his rotten ribs. Safekeeping from this world that just takes. Devours. 

But not if he eats you first. 

The mere notion alone serves as an anchor, locking him to the seafloor. The tumult in his head calmed at the promise of owning. Biting to claim. To have. Greedy for it. For you, and the strange sense of quiet your proximity brings him. The warmth, too. 

He's a rabid dog. This he knows—has known—for quite some time. Indisputable. It pools in his mouth. Liquid sin. Makes him ache for just a sip. Unquenchable, though, because he's wary of water. Hydrophobia, but only for how it washes his efforts away. Cleanses. 

The urge inside of him to bite, to infect, quietens when he gets closer to you. 

(a rabid mutt licking at the window you're on the opposite side of, dreaming of just a taste—)

A byproduct of that maddening virus in his veins, the one he must have picked up six feet in the ground. Bite, bitebite—

—and give you a collar in the shape of his teeth.

He finds you in bed. A bottle of wine on the end table beside you, courtesy of your friend. The one lingering remora he couldn't snap at—one who sends you messages about how you are being manipulated. Taken advantage of. Fuck that loser, the latest one says when he picks up your phone, scrolling through the dwindling conversations housed within. Just him now, and them. 

It preaches about empowerment. About how you shouldn't let a man pay your bills (textbook manipulation. he's putting you in a position of dependency. making you feel obligated to stay. it's all on Google, babes. like, fucking get a clue!!!!), or how it's moving so quickly (maybe you should come stay with me in Durham for a bit, hun. get away for a weekend. i worry about ya, is all). He hums, thumbing through the old chats. 

You told her to fuck off about the manipulation, but it came after a lot of, oh, yeah. well, he's just. you know. he's different, and you haven't declined the invitation. i’ll think about it, is what you write. 

It simmers under his skin. That independence he plans on stomping out under his heel. With his kin. 

(sick, sick sick, wrong—)

It's desperation, this. Clawing at the walls—the dirt—until his nails are torn off his fingers. Until his skin splits, peels. Broken under rock and rubble. That animalistic need for air. To breathe. Basic training tells him not to save the person drowning unless he's sure they won't kill him in their struggle to live. But what's he supposed to do when that person is his rotting body, sinking down to unfathomable depths? When all he has is you to cling to—

Damnation built by his own hands. 

You'll die together, he reckons, and tosses your phone on the hamper in the corner of the room. 

Ghost can't remember the last time someone made him feel anything at all other than impartiality. Indifference. Casual apathy. 

Price is the exception to this on the grounds of being consanguineous to him.

And you—

An outlier. 

One he intends on sinking as deep as he can with. Anchored, maybe, by this little plan that beats and pulses in the back of his head. That clogs his throat with a want so thick, he can already taste the brine from the ocean. Water in his nose. Down his esophagus—

Better than dirt, he supposes. And it spurns him forward.

You're malleable like this. Tensile. He bends you easily with just a touch until you're flat on your back, a pillow shoved beneath your tailbone, and stripped. The loose shirt you wear to sleep is hiked up under your neck. Panties are pulled off until your sweet, bare cunt is revealed to him. All pretty and soft, and his. Untouched, he notes, and gives an appreciative stroke over your clit with his thumb. 

It was something you were whining about the other day, panting in his ear as if he wasn't a continent away. Pleading with him on the phone to please, please let you come. 

Simon likes the way you cling to him when it's been a while since something has wrecked you as thoroughly as his cock. When your spoiled pussy was neglected for a few days, weeks, and starved for attention. You were so sweet to him then, cooing in his ear how good you've been, how much you want him and only him, need him. Begging so prettily for it. 

He's almost sad to spoil himself in your cunt when you can't weep for it. Can't bully him closer. Try to claw his eyes out. That delicious push-pull where you hiss at him for pulling away, but whine when he gets too close. 

Sad, but—

Not enough to stop himself. 

You're not wet enough for him to slide inside unprepared—his cock too big, something that makes his bones tremble—and he rectifies it by leaning down, letting saliva pool between his teeth and lips. He holds it there for a moment as he spreads your folds apart with his thumb and forefinger. 

And then he spits on your bare cunt. 

It hits your clit, the thick glob siding down your slit. He reaches between your thighs, pawing at you. Slides his fingers through the slick mess he made, teases around your tight rim. 

Simon usually likes to take his time with you. Lapping at your pussy for hours until you're a weeping, snot-nosed mess whining in the sheets. Spoiled rotten. Begging him to fuck you already, Simon, you can't take it anymore—

He's mean. Cruel. Edges you for hours until your legs shake, trembling around his ears. He never lets you reach that peak—doesn’t let you come until he's buried inside of you. 

Coming on his tongue, his fingers, is rarely a privilege you ever earn. Too much of a spitfire, a spiteful little kitten, to give in and do what he demands. So he keeps you on the precipice until he's ready to fuck you, ignoring your bribes, your bargains. Simon doesn't give in even when you beg, when you relent and tell him you'll finally be good. 

You never are. 

Spoiled, he always huffs. Down to the fuckin’ bone. 

Like now. Pulling away from him. Him, the only person in your life who stuck around. A little bullying (bones breaking, splintering under his fists; the wet, hot smear of blood on his hands, skulls smacking against the pavement—an’ if you tell anyone, he cracks his battered fists and it sounds like a snarl, a gunshot, your parents will be cryin’ over an empty grave—) shooed the gnats away. He took a more clandestine approach to others. Birds that kept circling you tight. Protective, shrill. They made his head ache, but—

(don't want to start nothin’, but i don't want to be alone wit’ ‘er. tried to kiss me, is all. ain't like that, pet—)

It was a test. And they all failed. All but him. 

Yet—

come to Durham. 

i’ll think about it. 

Ungrateful. It's his fault, though. Simon doted on you too much, cosseted by his affection, when he should have clipped your wings from the beginning. 

Ah, well—

Lesson learned. 

You're wet enough now. He pushes in two fingers, scissoring them apart. You'd be yowling at him, kicking up a fuss if you'd been awake. But you're not. It thrums through him. Thick, heady. He likes you like this—probably more than he should. The heat simmering in his veins bubbles. Pops. Sap on charring wood. It clogs his throat with his smoke until it burns, a dry forest fire. 

He needs you. Needs to be in you. He's tired of waiting. Impatience burrows into him like a maelstrom. 

Simon adjusts his hold on your leg, fingers curling behind your kneecap. Steadying himself. His fingers slip out of your cunt with a sloppy squelch that ghosts across his spine. Anticipatory. A touch anxious. He wants you. Wants you bad—

He takes himself in his hand, and slides the weeping tip over your slit. Taps it once, thrice on your clit. And then guides it to your centre. Your warmth bleeds into him. Eager, he shuffles forward. Feeds you his cock. Eyes drilling into the place where his head slips in, swallowed by your sloppy, wet hole. The glands make you stretch around him. Rim pulled taut. 

The sight alone must have been crafted by some Luciferian dream, dangled before him in the shade of nirvana. 

take a bite, it urges. and then take more—

Like this, passed out with your legs hitched over his shoulders, drooling into the pillow unawares, you're just a doll. 

Made for him, and—

“Fuckin’ hell—” He presses into you—cock splitting tight, warm heat—and tries not to lose himself to the sensation of being bare, raw, inside of you. 

—“A perfect fit.”

It's always been condoms. You're not on birth control. Ink blots in his eyes. He goes a little feral with it. Instincts unleashed. Unfettered. 

Simon bullies his fat cock into you until his hips tap the back of your thighs, buried as deep as he can go. It's molten heat cocooning him—a warm embrace. For the first time, ever, he thinks he understands the meaning of home. Sliding home, in particular. 

(Welcome home. Home. Home. He'll make a house out of your body. Sleep inside the brackets of your thighs, head pillowed on your chest—)

As good as you feel around him—slick, wet, and tight—and as much as he wants to saviour the sight of you, passed out on the pillow, cunt split by his cock, he has a goal, a mission, to see through. 

His hand falls, slick and tacky, to your lower belly. Palm pressing against the subtle bulge in your abdomen, the outline of his cock. You always whine and hiss that he's too big for you. That you can't take him to the root. 

Hurts, you complain, hand against your naval. Fingers knotting over the place that aches. 

He presses his fingers there instead, feeling himself under your skin. Changing your anatomy to make room for him to fit—

It lights him in fire. Spurns him on. He bucks into you, pace sloppy, clumsy. Selfish. He's unrelenting as he splits you apart, drilling the full length of himself into your supine body, supple flesh relaxed under him, practically melting into the sheets. 

The thread keeping his resolve, his self-control, sprung up tight begins to quiver. Each piston into you has delicate fingers drumming across the strings of a harpsichord. It reverberates through him, echoing in the stifling, suffocating, silence of the bedroom, overtaking it. Clouding it with the musk of his desire, his devotion to you, to this dream blooming in the prison of his mind. 

Everything narrows into a needlepoint. 

There's just your burning flesh beneath him, softer than it's ever been; pillowy. Welcoming. And the sounds of him fucking into you—lewd squelches, slick and wet; the sound of his cock finding home in the basin of your spread thighs; his heavy breaths, his groans and growls that seem to rattle the bed. The noise breaks, an incomplete requiem of sin in his head, and he loses himself in the lulling notes, dragged under in the bestial beat of taking what his—

A sudden noise shatters through the room. Beneath him, you stir, gasping wetly. The sound mangled in your throat. 

There's confusion in your sleepy, hazy gaze when you peer up at him, lashes clumping together. You moan, whimpering, as you struggle to latch on to the threads of cognisance that he's content to fuck out of you. Your hand lifts, falls to his wrist still pressed against your lower belly. The grip is lax, loose. You’re not pushing him away, but clinging to him. Centring yourself. 

It makes his blood thicken. Has him burning red-hot. 

“Wha’s a’matter, pet?” He taunts, grinding his cock into you hard enough to make your dazed eyes water. Your hand tightens around him, holding steady. “Don't like it? Not fuckin’ you hard enough?”

“Simon—”

His name tapers off into a keen when he angles hips, and starts pistoning into you with a mean, merciless fury. The desperate noises that spill, unhindered, from your slack mouth is the perfect accompaniment to the lewd sound of him fucking your sopping cunt; the piece he was missing when this started. His requiem, complete. 

It's a serrated blade to his self-control, already frayed and threadbare as it is. The pressure makes it snap.

“C'mon, sweet thing. Thought you wanted this?” 

There's a place in hell just for him. It's sealed when you blink your tired, sleepy eyes up at him, mind a slurry of lingering somnolence and the heady alcohol on your breath, and offer a shuddering whimper. Always so soft for him, so agreeable when you’re drunk. 

“So’ry, Simon—”

You can barely string words together. Poor, pitiful you—vulnerable under him. Breakable. Malleable. Anyone else could have tricked you into this same position when he was away. Got you beneath them like this, compliant and unawares, and took what belongs to him. 

(The only thing in this destitute existence he claims for himself—)

Not anymore. Not ever again. 

It's almost callous when he grinds into you. Hateful. Brutish. Furious. And dazed as you are, you barely even flinch at the snarls that spill, unfettered, from the back of his throat. The low groans of him making promises with devils unknown; constructing shackles from brass, iron. 

Entrenching his future in motion, cupped protectively between the parentheses your thighs make around his hips. It's almost a vicious sort of poetry, one laid bare in the odious ruins of that broken thing he calls a heart. Etched into his rotten pericardium. Necrosed devotion. He'll see it through—however noxious, and putrid, you might find the miasmal stench of it spun tight in his web. 

It's for your own good.

And as if you agree, you answer him in perfect euphony, moaning sweetly as you tilt your hips up for more. 

Ghost groans low in his throat, bestial and spinning rapidly out of his control. He feels everything spinning, slipping; the trudge to the finish line narrows into a pinprink. He needs something to cling to, to hold on to with broken hands—

The only purchase he finds is in your demise. 

His hand lifts, shaking yours loose. He reaches up, fingers dig into your chin, forcing your pouty mouth open. You blink at him, sluggish, but he catches the thin gossamer of awareness spooling thin cobwebs over darkened crevasses, covering the canyons in your eyes with cognisance. It makes him leer. 

“Stick your tongue out, pretty girl,” he rasps, words sticking together, muffled under the mask. Crushed aggregate stone under the weight of his own desire. “Tha’s it. Open up nice and wide—”

He lets spit gather again, pooling on his tongue. It's degrading, you always say. Gross. But you swallow it down like a good girl, anyway. Always. You come at him with fangs and claws, but somehow, you always merge in a perfectly dizzying polyphony. 

Ghost spits on your tongue. Lets it land right in the middle of fleshy pink. A sick, twisted pleasure thrums in his veins at the sight. 

There's checking the boxes of an established kink, and this. Horrifically proprietary. Ownership that ignites a fire in his marrow, setting him alight from the inside out. Turns bone into blackened char, cinder. He can almost taste it on his tongue. 

It's made worse, turned frenzied, when you—sweet, perfect, you—bracket it protectively in the curve of your tongue. Completely dazed, head filled with a heady slurry of somnolence and alcohol, but still aware enough to know, even if only through muscle memory, what you're meant to do when he spits in your mouth. 

If anything, you're more obedient like this. Little doll. Coddling it lovingly, this little piece of him that he gives you. 

And it might be the madness speaking—these fraying thoughts take on a vitriolic edge, corrosive aqua regia pooling in his throat—but Christ. He's been stabbed in the guts, repeatedly, and it somehow packed less of a punch than this. 

He wants, wants—

Family never crossed his mind, was never even on the table or something to be considered, but with you it brims. Blooms in rot. Roots in tenebrous. 

He has this insatiable urge to devour you whole so you'll always be with him. The waves of his desire are monstrous. The waters below are rapacious. A gaping maw eager to eat you up—

Pity it’s not an option. 

But he’ll make do. Buy a ring tomorrow. Something pretty that matches your eyes. The curve of your smile. Sanctioned ownership. A collar in gemstones and gold, glimmering and shining bright enough that should any light fade from your gaze, it’ll illuminate in the gloom; twilight made in sorrow. The prettiest blues—

Said eyes water. Ghost’s hold on your face relaxes when you give a muffled keen, cheeks bubbling up against the pressure. Tongue still stuck out even as he takes his pleasure from your supine flesh. Suspended in motion, stasis. Such a good girl for him—

He swallows. Tastes poison, rot, on his tongue. “Swallow.” 

You're a little sluggish, a little slow, but you follow his command all the same. He knows, then, that it could only ever be you. 

No one gets under his skin like this. No one makes him itch, want, crave, as much as you do—

You make a face, twisted up in some amalgamation of pleasure and confusion. It nudges the ruins of his chest and feels almost like a heartbeat when it pulses in his flesh. 

“Simon, Simon—”

His name is all you can say, and he's not sure if you're begging for mercy, or muttering it out into the scant air between your heaving breaths like an obsecration, an orison, but he eats it all the same. Bites down on your pleas, your cries, your prayers, and chews them up between fangled teeth. Takes them down into the swirling pits of his belly where they're eaten alive by what grows in the decay.

(belly full of dirt:

he heaves, and heaves, but nothing comes out even though he can taste humus in his throat, feel worms using his organs like a playground—)

“Somethin’ you want, pet?” He taunts, and shifts his hips back just enough to drag a few inches of his cock out of your drenched cunt. A tease—cruel and mean. He’d get lobbed upside the head for this had you been in your right mind. A tap to his temple, shaking the cobwebs loose. He would have bent down, and sunk broken teeth into your jugular. Merging violence with love until bloody knuckles feel like a kiss. “All you ‘ave to do is ask. Use your words, pretty thing—”

You whine, low and drawn out. A lazy whimper in the back of your throat. “Pl’se—”

You can barely speak. Tongue too thick. Sleep too heavy in your veins. Alcohol, too. A lesson, perhaps, for his willful little pet come the morning when you struggle to measure just how deep into his gullet you’ve let yourself fall. 

He can’t help rubbing salt into the shallow cuts, if only because he likes the way you pout. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better’n that.”

And damn him—damn you—you do. Your hand curls over his wrist, pulling it close to your mouth where you place a kiss against his palm. Tender. Chaste. Midnight blooms in your eyes, casts shadows under pale moonlight. His breath stutters in his chest when you lean your head back, letting his hand fall to your bared neck. 

Your heavy, lidded eyes gaze back at him, cutting through the shade of night that sews the air like satin. Etched in the file silk is threads of trust in stark white. The kind that bleeds for him; hungers. One that aches, always tender like a bruise. The throb of it echoes between mouldering ribs. Booms between his ears. 

Ghost doesn’t fall into pieces. Doesn’t shatter. No. Something in the splintered remains shifts. Settles. He wraps his fingers around the thick of your throat, thumb notched tight against your pulse, and he feels complete. Whole. Remade from the ruins. 

Your breath hitches. The sound is a gunshot in his ears. He squeezes down, a gentle press. Just enough to make the air spill out of your lungs, to let your eyes water. Lachrymose, eager. It does something to him when you cry. He feels tipped upside down, torn inside out. Left all askew, asunder. He wants to drown in the pebbling river growing against your lashline. Wants to drink it down until it quenches his neverending thirst. Wants, wants—

He feels his name spill from your lips. Brassy and broken, trembling against his palm. A plea—

More.

And he gives it to you. 

Simon hitches your ankle on his shoulder. Adjusts the grip he has on your throat. He settles over your body, blanketing you under his bulk. Stygian beast devouring the maiden whole. The thought amuses him even as it knocks the air from his lungs. 

He anchors himself into the mattress with his knees, steadying himself, curls his other hand around the iron ring of the headboard. All the while, you look up at him—glossy eyes burning coals in the dark, in the gloom. Wanting, hungry. Mouth held open as if you’re waiting for his scraps—

And then he bucks into you, the leverage giving his thrust a savage edge. 

The whines are snuffed out under his palm. Your eyes widen, tears now spilling down your temple, soaking the pillow below your head. 

He groans, head rolling back. “Fuckin’ hell—ain’t you a pretty sight?”

Tucked under him, throat swallowed by his palm. Split on his cock, slick and wet. The tears streaming down your face makes him feel wicked, foul; but the spit running down your slackened jaw quells any doubt. The hand on his wrist holds him tight, tighter still, to your flesh. 

You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.

So, he gives it to you.

Simon’s almost ruthless when he snaps his hips into yours, cooing viciously into your ear about how you feel, how you look, how you sound—so pretty wrapped around him, under him; his little doll—

“S’where you belong, pet—” guttural words spill, flintlike and savage, from his mangled throat. Reinforced with the hateful way he blugeons his cock into you. Times it perfectly with the firm squeezes against your jugular, never letting you catch your breath. Your eyes roll back, legs trembling. Shaking. But you don’t move, don’t struggle. The hand on his wrist is a shackle, and it makes him smirk, scars pulling up in a gnarled mess of mirth; ugly and mean. “Right where you belong. Ain’t tha’ right?”

He leans down, babbles nonsense into your temple. Promises you the heads of gods, the ichor they bleed. Swears he’ll build a shrine for you in Durham.

But for as mocking as these words he murmurs into your ear are, they’re tremulous. Raw. A current roars beneath; a steady stream, a plea, all full of need: stay, stay staystay—

(please)

He buries his nose into your hairline to stem the ravening ache in his guts, breathes in the heady scent of you—of sex, and wine, and sweat. Drags it into his lungs in harsh, angry gasps to stain his skin with the smell of you. Of him. 

It goes right to his head in a heavy rush until he’s dizzy, almost sick, with the swell of it flooding in. An animal, he thinks, drunk on merging pheromones that make him mindless. Unfettered. 

It’s as if he’s driven on instinct alone; his frenzied pace ebbs, grows sloppy. The air around him feels thick. Syrupy. Stifling. The balmy breath in his chest is nearly as unbearable as it is addicting. Sickeningly sweet. Still—

His chest expands, taking as much of the potent miasma into his lungs as he can, filling them up, up, until he feels the edges threaten to brust. It’s only then, when ink moults across his vision, that he lifts his head just enough to shove his mouth against yours, a broken snarl ripping free from his throat as he forces the infectious air into your mouth, down to your lungs. Polluting you with the same sickness. The same rot. 

Little hiccups tumble past your lips as you swallow it down, taking everything he gives you, and he catches them on his tongue. Plays with them between his teeth, basking in the salty tang of you—brine, loam; peatsalt. Ashes, guncotton. Molasses. He’s not sure if he wants to drown you in him, or crawl into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth that pulses around his tongue like a heartbeat. 

Both, maybe. Everything. All of it. 

Always—

But he’s chasing pleasure on fumes. Trying to run with broken legs. There’s nothing refined about this. About the way he cudgels the head of his cock into the places that make your mouth twist away from his greedy lips in a silent scream. His weight is crushing you, he’s sure, but you cling to him harder, holding him tighter. Almost afraid to let go. And fuck—the notion alone is a kick to the chest, harsh and heavy. He nearly gags on the litany of broken moans spiling out of his mouth, landing on your tongue. 

Driven mad, maybe (or pussy-drunk, and high off of his own poison); but in that madness, he discovers this:

Nirvana exists between your thighs. 

Home, too. 

(well—

not yet.)

Pleasure fissions down his spine. The paroxysm taking him deeper into the battle-worn depths of his demise until the walls narrow, closing in. Crushing. No escape. But—

He won’t climb out of his hole he dug. Not until he makes a bed from your flesh; shelter out of your bones. He wants to ingrain himself as deep within you as he can, arsenic subsumed down to your marrow. Poisoned with the fill of him, too sick to let go. 

(Bone nausea. 

A death sentence.)

It metastasises inside of him, filling the barren spaces up until it leaks from his pores. 

He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close. 

Simon lifts his hand from your throat, and reaches out, grasps at it with a shaking paw—

All it takes is a few crass, careless swipes of his calloused thumb across your clit, cock angled toward that spot that makes you rake your broken nails down his back, yowling in his ear for more, there, please, Simon, please—

You clench like a vice around him. A pretty bow tied up at the base of his cock. He bows over you, grunts spilling from his chest as he sinks his teeth into your nape, splitting skin btween his teeth. The warm, ozonous tang of your blood flooding his tongue is euphoric, eclipsing his mind in a haze of pleasure that crackles and burns at the base of his spine, spitting smoke up his body and into his skull. 

The harsh whine you let out—all prey, all animal; wounded, stuck under his muzzle—has some part of him, basal and inborn, rearing up. Roaring in his ears, ripping talons across the jagged remains of his head. 

(mine, mine, mine—)

He answers your scream with a growl, one caught in the smoke clogging his throat. It sounds inhuman when its wrenched out of his mouth—more animal than man: the devastating howl of a forest on fire—but the feel of it vibrating between his teeth is connatural. Innate. It belongs between his incisors; fits like a puzzle piece in his broken muzzle. Unleashed now. Finally free from this ill-fitting cage he housed it, this goddamn box—

Cobbled together from palm ash and brimstone, ichor and salt. Sewed up with copper sutures in the shape of a man for a perfect fit. 

Every cell in his body screams that he was made for this. To be over you, in you. Maw filled with your blood. Pussy stuffed full of his cock. 

He might not have clawed out of the dirt for you, but this mossy, gnarled lump in his chest beats now only for you. Apodictic. Ironclad. His teeth in your jugular, your life pulsing wetly on his tongue. 

It’s his apotheosis. His end. 

His hips stutter. White noise in his head. It drowns out the shrill screams, the hisses. Everything is just—static. Pleasure of a silent kind, humming, buzzing, and molten. Ghost buries himself inside of you as deep as he can, until his cock is fit snug against the plug of your womb, and lays his claim by branding it with the potency of his name. 

Tidally locked, you’re dragged down the summit with him, tumbling to your demise. Too dazed, too wound tight in his arms, his embrace, to see the jagged rock at the bottom of the hungry chasm thirsting for your blood, you just cling to him. Refusing to let go. 

(silly girl—

His pretty little perigee.)

His body aches in ways that cruelly remind him of his age. Joints stiff, stomach quivering. His knuckles sting when he unfurls it from the headboard, skin pink and raw from the tight hold he had around the metal. 

It’s made worse when he heaves a harsh breath, and pulls away from you with a long, drawn out groan. He settles back on his haunches, eyes searing into the space between your thighs. Messy with his spend. It dribbles down your slit, your ass, pools on the sheets below. 

Your chest shudders, legs splayed out how he left you. He thinks, viciously, of gazelles, and wonders if the blood he feels drying on his mouth looks anything like the muddied mane of a lion after eating its fill. 

“Fuckin’ hell—”

He should clean you up, hide his crime, but he burns the image of you into his head (another tattoo over scar tissue), and drops to a heap beside you. The moment his back hits the mattress and all thoughts of moving are erased in silk, in smoke and clover. 

Chest heaving, slick with sweat, he feels the thrum of his victory in his veins. The high of the chase abates, and he nearly purrs with contentment. Hangs his pride on a pedestal, and doesn’t think about the absence of any guilt. Doesn’t even entertain the thought, not when victory dries between your thighs. When you roll over with a huff, reaching out for him. 

It's as if you're trying to bury yourself inside of him, crawl into the safety of his ribs. 

Ghost grunts, feels his sensitive, spent cock give a feeble twitch on his sticky thigh. The idea of you, blissfully unaware, seeking comfort from the man who writ your body with his virile spend, irrevocably changing your life and entwining it so deeply and so messily with his own that to severe either of you from each other is nearly impossible, floods him with satisfaction so deep, euphorically heady, that his chest seems to shudder. Resounding with some amalgamation of a purr, a grow, so utterly primal, that he sounds more beast than man. 

His roots run deep within you, now, and every misaligned piece of his patchwork body seems to sag and shiver in an almost perfect parallelism. Congruence ascertained with the cupping of you between its mismatched maw. Shackled in a baleen prison. Nestled, safe and sound, between white teeth. 

Ghost pulls you close, holding tight, and hums. As you drool on his shoulder, dripping with his spend, he knows he'll keep you there forever, until you're nothing but bones. 

There's a cloud of confusion hanging over you the next morning, a twinge of uncertainty gnarling across the gaps in your memory. The pieces of a puzzle that belong to a different set. He watches you scramble through them, filling in blanks. Oscillating so deliciously between wariness and discontent. 

“‘morning,” he greets, as if his spend hasn’t dried on your thigh last night. Tucked up nice and tight against your fertile, unprotected womb. As if he couldn't taste brimstone in the back of his throat when you wince as you walk, achy and battle-worn from the weight of his desire crushing you all night. 

“Morning,” it's a sticky rasp in your throat. He wonders if you taste him on your tongue. “When did you get in?”

“Las’ night.”

You nod, but it's absent. Flickering through the timeline of events that aren’t drenched in black, shaded over like a heavy bruise. Your expression is fractured. Raw. Pensive. Something untouchable, unchartable, and yet he reads you as plainly as the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup. 

You don’t remember. Don’t know what to make of this chasm, this fissure, that looms, icy and deep, before you. There’s no anger, though. You don’t demand recompense for what he stole, what he took. The lashings he deserves are tucked quietly between your teeth. Hidden under layers of normalcy to prevent yourself from seeing him as is: a beast. 

“Well, um. Some homecoming, huh?” You joke, but it's hollow. Flat. Fragile like fine glass. You're digging for more. Rooting around to connect these vague, absent dots that linger, lost in the vacancy of your memory. 

He almost purrs. 

He wants to chew you up. Spit you in the palm of his hand. Maybe tuck you in his breast pocket, nestled against the lump in his chest—the one those silly enough to dream might call a heart. Keep you there forever. Hidden in the barrel of his loaded gun. 

“Bit rowdy.” 

It’s horrifically vague, but you cling to the prevacation he proffers to you; a lifeline in the turbulent sea, letting it overwrite the absence, the itching in your skull that must be clanging on the walls, begging for you to run. 

“Sorry,” it's sheepish. He knows the ferality in which you sometimes come at him when he's buried deep inside you is something that makes you twinge with embarrassment. Little kitten clawing at the old dog trying to get it to play. Rolling over immediately when it growls. Docile, sickeningly sweet.

But even naive kittens know to watch out for the frothing, foaming maw. 

“Did you use a—?”

He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”

And you take it as gospel. As truth. Why would Simon have any reason to lie to you about this? 

Relief shudders over your shoulders. You relax, inching toward the seat across from him. Gazelle making a home for itself in the lion’s den. 

The spell of unease is broken, now, and you quickly fill the chasm with chatter about your day. Your plans. Asking him how he’s been. 

You shove at the warning signs until they’re hidden away, and ignore the bones of your brethren scattered around you. All because you trust him. 

He aches with the urge to crush it between his teeth. 

And he will one day soon, he’s sure, because it’s just as easy to enact his plan as it was to get you to open the door. 

It starts with him convincing you to drink with him after dinner. Jus’ a glass. Got this fancy bottle. Reckon we should ‘ave some. 

But—

Can’t drink forever—no matter what his dogshit dad thought. 

So, he pokes holes in the condoms you hide in the bedside table, a little wary now. A touch fretful about your contraceptives in a way that makes him preen. You have good instincts, but rarely do you listen to them. Your head must be filled with sirens, but it's futile, he supposes. He's already stuffed cotton into your ears. 

It only feeds into that gaping chasm that bellows up from the depths that this world is not good for you. That it will tear you into pieces, into shreds. You need him. Need the Ghost to protect you. 

Case in point:

You’re needy beneath him, panting and mewling into the sheets as he teases your clit with his thumb. So wet, it almost feels like hot oil on his skin. Syrupy thick. 

In your desperation, you cling to him, throat bared. Fragile fine china. Belly up. Vulnerable. 

You barely notice when he pulls off the condom, crumpling it up into a ball and shoving it in the pocket of his slacks.. Don’t even react when he shoves his bare, raw cock into you. 

You don't even notice. 

(or when he slurs in your ear about how badly he wants to knock you up—breed his pretty girl until she’s stuffed full of him, making life with what he offers. salvation in the form of creation. ain’ tha’ a thought? he huffs into your ear, humid mirth curling over your skin. a stain. and the way it unfetters you—tightening around him, gushing slick—he finds his answer, one reinforced in the rolling of your eyes as your common sense, independence, trickle out of your ears and down your slackened jaw—)

And when that fails, he just slips you a sleeping pill. There's always an easier way to the finish line, he finds. 

(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)

Nothing bleeds from the cracks he wrought, or slinks from the shadows cast by his machinations until weeks later. 

Life just goes back to what it once was—Simon coming and going, letting himself into your home with the door you leave unlocked. You go to work, and chatter aimlessly about this vision you have about a home in the countryside, near the ocean. Saving up—uselessly—for sheep and goats, and the sought-after Highland cows. Chickens and ducks first, you say, and barely notice when his gaze drops, drilling holes into your stomach. Watchful. Leering. 

He can almost scent the change on you. Nose pressed to your skin; bloodhound sniffing the ground. 

Ghost keeps time in the slow, susurrus drawl of your voice sifting through the cotton in his ears, waiting for those precious decibels to catch on, to tilt up at the end as your eyes skim the calendar he keeps scratching x’s across in red, almost delicate, innocent even though it's from his sanguinary hand. A countdown to something you haven’t yet caught on to. 

And it’s all so sweet. 

—the waiting game, the subtle changes, the desperate way you cling to normalcy—

Sweet, like the way you carve this life out for yourself, filled with stuffed animals full of idealism. So much so, that it's almost bitter. Acrid. He watches the light glow in your eyes as your plans take shape, moulding putty between your hands, and like a pit viper, he coils in on himself. Frenzied. Fearful—

But only just. 

The excitation has run its course. He’s drifting, languid, into his scheme. Content. The notion of you slipping from his fingers is a thought that rarely crosses his mind these days, especially when that house on the prairie grows from an occupant of one to two—

“And, you know… when you're not out saving the world—” your eye roll and air quotes make his lips twitch, tugging at the scar tissue, the acid burns, splashed across his mouth. An ugly fucking Pollock. “—maybe you can come visit.”

“Never fancied myself a rancher,” he drawls, just to watch you squirm. Brow furrowing into a deep ravine as you struggle to make your intentions known without actually giving them sound. Skirting around the issue of wanting him there, of planning a home with him. 

(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—? 

if only you knew—)

He finds it charming, really. 

Still—

“It's just a thought,” you mutter, downcast. He wants to choke on your misery. Your sadness. Drown himself in your anger. Float in your happiness. 

Fuckin' Christ—

All this playing daddy in his head has thrown him off his rocker. Made him soft. Sentimental. It's probably why he yields to you. Offers a lazy shrug and another smarmy twitch of his lips. 

“Sounds like a plan,” and the way you brighten is a dagger to his chest. 

And the thing is. It does. It sounds like a dream, a perfect vision. Just—

Maybe not in the way you'd want. 

He's been looking into places unmarred by human hands. Ghost towns, uncharted territories. His home here isn't perfect for it, not like the vast geography of Mexico. The uninhabited wilderness of Canada, places so remote that it's almost untethered to modern civilisation. Islands of forest, mountains, all on their own. 

Vast corners and crevasses where someone can disappear and never be found. 

But those won't work in tandem with his flighty lifestyle. While he plans on keeping you barefoot and pregnant (common sense in the back of his head screams that he's foul, vile, monstrous—), he will continue to work. Has to, really, to avoid suspicion. 

So—

Home it is. 

But he gets inspiration from the Highland cows you coo on about and purchases a plot of land in the Western Isles. Gives this whim of his—yours, really—a concrete foundation made of the abstract. The filament provided by his newly christened Sergeant—an overeager mutt that bleeds warning signs from his pores. 

(don’t get close, reactive dog. will bite—

the little mutt is a great pyrenees, ain’t he?)

But bless Johnny’s bleedin’ heart, he thought as the man prattled on about this cabin he owns. A place of solitude. Could fire a gun and no one would even peek out the curtains. Beautiful, the way all of Scotland is. The highlands, he breathes in that shade of catholic madness only the dutiful soldiers of god's right-handed wrath can be, is where he keeps his home. A place chiselled from stone, surrounded by wilderness that eats tourists alive. 

(he didn’t ask at the time why Johnny was so keen on finding these places scattered around Scotland, ones with little traffic and a nearly negligible amount of souls within the vicinity, but he finds its best not to get too close to mutts crossbred with wolves.)

But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so. 

You’ll get your fantasy ranch in the middle of nowhere. Your highland cows, your billy goats, your chicken, sheep, and ducks. A baby in your arms, too. One that shows its hand the next morning, dashing all your carefully laid plans. These paths of independence of yours run parallel to his whims but never converge. There’s the potential in this for these fraying threads to split, and diverge. Separate. 

(But it’s all put to rest at the sound of you heaving in the adjoining washroom. His path eats yours until it’s overtaken. Consumed. 

The evasive, unfettered little bird trammelled, caught. Wing-clipped, and all his.) 

Any misgivings the part of his gyri not buried under the frothing mess of his polluted grey matter might have is vitiated by the unwavering certitude that, despite his own gains in this, it really is in your best interest. 

And maybe it's something that should have come earlier in your relationship—however threadbare that word is in conjunction with the unhinged desire blooming in the pit of his chest; madness masquerading as love or some obsessive, desperate facsimile of it. Maybe a proper man, a better one, might have dug down and fully laid out the reality of intertwining your life with the living dead. That the idea of danger, death, and revenge are all everpresent threats scratching at the walls of this sickeningly sweet fantasy you wrap around yourself. 

He’s a dangerous man. A creature of devastation—manmade, bent into, or congenital is yet to be unearthed—which, in itself, brings about a certain lifestyle. One with fewer people around, and always shrouded in secrecy. Friends, family—none of that matters when death curdles gnarled fingers around his jugular. 

You’ll get used to it. Eventually. The only other choice is to let you, his now flightless bird, go. Released back into the wild vulnerable and reeking of his stench. 

You’ll be devoured before daylight, ripped into pieces—only if they’re feeling generous, that is. 

Simon has his own twisted remora. Ones with claws and fangs and a hunger that runs deep. Insatiable. Any scraps that fall from his mouth are devoured before they can touch the sea floor. They’ll crush you in their maw and dangle your mangled body from the gaps between their teeth. 

You’re not made for the wild. Not anymore. You’re meant to be protected. You—this fragile, delicate thing. He’ll hold you close, keep you secure and safe in a mausoleum of your own making. 

This little glass jar domicile. 

A billet in the mountains. 

He’ll fill it with the finest things—silk linens, fine china; mahogany and teak, pink ivory; a bed of soft, downy feathers, sherpa, Egyptian cotton; (sticks and stones and grass and moss). Buy you whatever you need. Chickens and ducks. Sheep and goats. 

They’ll keep you company when he’s away. 

(and if that fails, he can always plan playdates for you with whatever dirty secret Johnny’s been keeping tucked away in the woods.)

He draws an x in the empty, white box of the calendar, the tip of his red marker gliding silkily across the glossy surface. Something unfurls in his guts. Blossoms in his bones. There’s an almost indescribable sense of satisfaction—primal and animalistic—that grows from the upturned dirt in his head. Life composted from rot. 

Ghost hums to himself when he turns, the sound nearly a purr—bestial as it is, suffocated under sulphur. It reverberates through his chest, trembling across the brackets of his ribs that expand with his deep, heavy inhale—breathing in the sight that greets him like a lover’s kiss

The kebab he ordered lays untouched on the table across from the television—some trashy reality show playing in the background while you tried to eat; a dating show, you’d said when he merely shrugged, having other things on his mind over what to watch while you ate. It all seems to be preserved in time. Frozen in on the exact moment when you’d sniffed the döner kebab he got for you—the same thing you order each time—and then promptly wrenched yourself back, gagging. The sandwich was flung back in the takeaway box before you slapped your hand over your mouth, rushing into the washroom. 

If his phone wasn’t in the other room, he might have taken a picture. A little memento to remember this moment. Framed it in iron and perched it on the desk they gave him back in Hereford, the one just down the hall from Price. 

(ah, speaking of—he’ll have to send that caustic bastard a fruit basket, or something, won’t he? maybe some pretty flowers for his lady.)

His reverie is shaken when the door to the washroom creaks open slowly, and you emerge through the gap with sweat on your brow, knots across your forehead, and a shaking hand resting over your churning stomach. 

Shame, he thinks. He really should have brought his phone—

You lean against the wall, taking in deep, shuddering breaths to steady yourself, confusion and worry knitting over you like a thundercloud. It tastes of ozone when he inhales. An approaching storm. In the blue gloom of the living room, illuminated only by the light flooding out from the washroom behind you and the static glow of the television, you look etiolated. A wilting flower. 

His budding rose. 

He coos. “You alright?”

You glance sideways at the kebab on the table, mouth pinching into a grimace as if to stem the nausea still rippling through you. You stare at it for a long moment, seemingly trying to make sense of the reality sitting in front of you on scratched, old pine; confusion runs laps over the dawn cresting in your eyes. This puzzle is too unfathomable for you to piece together; the keys and slots all askew. 

The air around him grows still. Silent. Anticipatory. A tiger crouched low in the tussock. A little fawn roaming too close. 

There’s a heaviness in your eyes when they flicker back to the wall where he stands, drilling holes into the x. Something implacable frissons over your threadbare expression, fracturing across sallow cheeks. 

The air is electric. It pulses across his bare flesh, irritating scar tissue, acid burns, and scorch marks. His skin prickles at its whisper. 

“Feelin’ sick, pet?” He ponders, playing pretend. He’s viciously, deeply amused at the desperate denial splashing across your cheeks. The thin shade of askance that unfurls like the leaves of a flytrap when you look at him. “Mus’t’a been the kebab. Bad meat, I reckon?”

You offer a weak nod in response, pinching your lips tight together. The matter seemingly concluded, brushed aside. Pocketed for later. 

And you say nothing else for the rest of the night—gaze unseeing, turned inward; pensive—but he purrs in contentment as if everything was alright, sprawled across the couch with his head pillowed against your churning stomach as if he could hear the whisper of another heartbeat from within. 

In the saturated blue light, he catches your eyes listing toward the calendar every so often. Wary. Nervous. He thinks you might say something, might ask, but you don’t. It’s caught on a stilted breath. A harsh swallow. 

All you do is bring your hand to his shorn head, and raze the stumps of your clipped claws against his scalp. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soothe the madness from within. Scratching that itch deep inside until it goes away. Gentle hands play pretend and dress up as a panacea. Affection to scrape the illness away. 

He thinks you should know better than that, even as he leans into it with a soft exhale, more relaxed than he'd ever been his entire life. Content. Unassailable in his conquest. 

Simon has always been more scar tissue than man, and no place is damaged more than the upturned tumulus inside his head. 

But oh. How you try—

His sweet, sweet girl. 

The look you give him the next evening is, in parts, brumous. 

A polynya of dread, worry, guilt, fear that frissons across the deep valleys in your eyes, shaded in plumes of darkness, filled in deliciously with the weight of your beleaguered uncertainty. It yawns out before him, this heavy gloom. 

So close he catch the embers in his hand. 

“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”

You hold up a little rectangle, dismay, misery, etched in the blue tinge spreading across your face. It seems to steal the words from your throat, turn them into ash. What else are you meant to say, he supposes, when you look out at the world now from the gape in his maw? 

But there’s a veil of wonderment that hides below the tidal wave; this precious, deadly, undercurrent that rents the air, splits his chest in two.

The happiness, however meagre, thin, it is right now (just a sunken boat on the seafloor), is there. Ripe for salvage, and he sees that it’s handled with care. Cupped between his palms, nurtured by his own conviction to do what’s right, an’—fuck, pet—know this ain’t what we planned, but—

but:

The howling quiets, turns to a low growl, and then a susurrus hum, when you shakily utter the words he was waiting for. 

“Yes, Simon—”

You shudder when his fist closes over your wrist, pulling you into his purring chest. Shaking like a prey animal in the jowls of a beast, bested and ensnared. It has a profound, almost predatory, sense of satisfaction curling over his bones. He knows this was the right choice, and is sure, in time, you'll come to realise that, too. You’re in the early stages, he knows. Prodromal. You need to be handled with care to curb the lacrimation, the hyperesthesia. 

And there’s no one better than him to guide you through the throes of it. To lead you to the unequivocal end. 

He leans down, and whispers in your crown—

“Good girl—”

—and the sound of his voice is gravel encased in sticky, sweet honey. Dark, smokey molasses. The very same cadence as a key sliding inside of a lock; metal grazing metal. Turning—

“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Tommy.”

Click. 

(he gives you that ring he promised when he takes you to the mountains. you smile wide, and tell him it fits like a gyve.)

Simon stops shovelling his want under the cold dirt and starts burying it inside you instead. Makes a domicile from your flesh; a place where he can rest his aching head every night until the howling scraping down fractured bone stops— (paralytic)

[l13]

Ok, so, what about the 141 and König reacting to their s/o not feeling confident abt taking their shirt off during seggs because they are chubby and feel embarrassed about their belly?

Also not feeling confident with getting touched around that area while sleeping/seggs/daily life.

first of all i'm so so so sO SORRY that this took so fucking long (this ask is literally from february 😭) i had this in my drafts for fucking ever and just now found the inspo to finish it:(((((

CHARACTERS : price, ghost, soap, könig

WARNINGS : NSFW, MDNI, female!reader, this is for all my thick girlies <3, talk of body image, insecurities, descriptive mentions of sex, fluff, supportive bfs, not proofread

WORD COUNT: 2,8k

john price

he's a confused puppy when you first push his hand away from your belly while you guys were cuddling and he rushes to apologize, before noticing how you avoid his gaze nervously and he decides to hold his tongue.

Did he make you uncomfortable? Was it the way he touched you? He got so embarrassed that his ears turned red, deciding to not speak at all.

few days after that he startles you by hugging you from behind, caging you in his arms tightly, and pulling your body flush to his, humming lowly as he pressed kisses to the side of your neck. You try really hard to not look at him as you squirm away from his prying hands, choking out a lame excuse and bolting the other way.

Now he was confused and concerned. He surely fucked up somehow.

This man is so touch starved that it's painful. You don't understand how physical Price is, he needs to hold you, touch and kiss you. He needs to feel close to you and if that gets taken away from him he can't function fr

"Love, if there's summat bothering you... if I made you uncomfortable in any way, I'm-" you cut Price off with furrowed eyebrows, taking his hands in yours and he inhales sharply when you squeeze his hands slightly "No-what? John, what are you talking about?"

There's frustration piling up, and he clenches his jaw looking down at your hands holding his, tenderly. He missed your touch so much. "M gonna be really blunt with ya love, cause I'm hangin' by a thread here.." you lean closer to him as you nod, and he swallows harshly.

"Why.. why don't you let me touch you anymore?" John almost whines, and you gape at him, suddenly at a loss of words. "Tell me what I did wrong and I'll fix it, please just talk to me honey" he brings his hand up to cup your cheek, and you almost burst into tears as you catch the redness in his pretty blue eyes.

God, you felt terrible. Yes, you were avoiding Price, but it wasn't his fault at all. The fact that by giving him the cold shoulder because you weren't feeling too good about yourself, brought his own insecurities to the surface made your heart fall to the pit of your stomach.

"You did nothing wrong baby, I'm sorry. I haven't been feeling very.. confident in my skin lately." you said and looked down at the top of your shoes, shifting on your feet nervously. You didn't have to look at Price to know that he was looking at you with those puppy eyes of his.

"Love... I have no words.. I- why?"

Your eyebrows twitched. Why?

His hand came up to grab at your chin softly, nudging it up so you'd look at him. You felt that familiar stinging in your eyes and you blinked away the tears, clearing your throat hurriedly.

His question made your mind go blank. Why the fuck did you feel that way? "I- I don't know... I'm sorry."

"Hey, no honey, don't apologize," he cooed, nudging your temple with his cheek as he lays a kiss against your hair. "Never apologize for what you feel, ya hear?" you smile despite yourself, and nod slightly, wrapping your hands around his middle and burying your face in his neck, his hands in turn coming to rest on your waist softly.

"M just having trouble wrapping my head 'round it 'cause you're God damn perfect, honey. It breaks me that you doubt that." if John can hear how fast your heart's beating he doesn't say anything. He's too busy blinking away his own tears.

Listening to him mutter praises and sweet nothings against your ear made you realize that you should have talked to him about this earlier- cause you'd have experienced price absolutely WORSHIPPING you much much sooner<3

(sorry if this is too sappy)

simon 'ghost' riley

ghost is someone who's fighting his own demons, and that doesn't change when you guys start a relationship together

so whether you're just now starting dating and you're avoiding being touched while hugging/cuddling/sex or if you'd been in a relationship for quite some time and you suddenly change how you act with him because of that- he'll blame himself.

you best belieeeve he'll think there's something wrong with him, that somehow he did something and you finally realized that maybe he's not good enough for you- that you deserve better (yeah his whole fuckin' list of insecurities come up bro)

Everytime you'd reject his advances, even for something as small as a hug, he felt as if someone threw ice cold water down his back

so after a while he'd just stop trying fr

he'd avoid you in turn, become distant and cold

that understandably made you very upset

so now you're BOTH SAD

It was sheer luck that you managed to catch Simon just as he was leaving the kitchen, and you felt relief wash over you as you spotted him washing his mug, ready to put it away. His name left your lips before you realized it, but it went unnoticed apparently. You clenched your jaw as you watched him walk to the door, and you quickly realized that you were at your breaking point.

"Could you just wait a fucking second?"

His broad shoulders tensed as he stopped, throwing a look over his shoulder "Huh?" "Why have you been avoiding me?"

"Excuse me?!" Simon huffed out a dry laugh, whirling around to look at you, his brows drawn together. Guess he wasn't coping well either. "Why have I been avo- are you fucking kidding me?"

You shrugged, "Yeah maybe 'avoiding' isn't the right word. 'Ignoring' or acting like I'm fucking dead maybe? You planning to kill me or something? Practicing your acting skills beforehand?"

Okay yeah you were exaggerating, but who could blame you? Your boyfriend suddenly starts acting like you don't exist, what else are you supposed to think?

Ghost snarls, and strides over to you, pointing his finger at you accusingly, "Listen- if you don't want to be with me anymore, just fucking say that. Don't ignore me for weeks, and then turn that shit on me. Just say we're done and be over with it."

What the fuck?

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

He groans, hand coming up to rub at the back of his head nervously "Don't act so clueless as if you haven't rejected me each time I came even remotely close to touching you- If you're so disgusted by me, then maybe don't ask me out in the first place."

"What? No, Simon-"

"Don't. I get it."

"No, you don't get it I...fuck. Okay, yes i've been avoiding you but not because I'm disgusted by you, don't ever say that again. I've just been.. embarassed, I guess."

Now it was his turn to look at you like you've gone insane, "What for?"

"..I don't know, I mean I.. I can't help but compare myself to you- you're so.. muscle-y, and I'm just.."

"You're just what." you shiver at his authorative tone, avoiding his gaze at all costs.

"I'm.." you trail off, your hands instinctively circling around your torso, and his eyes drop down to follow the movement, his eyebrows furrowing, eyes darkening, "Y'know what nevermind. I'm sorry I've been acti-"

You snap your eyes up at the sound of his loud steps, thinking that he left the room, only to find that he was standing right in front of you, one hand coming up to caress your cheek while the other falls atop your forearm. "You scared me. I thought I lost you and you were just being dumb this whole time?"

You gape at him, slightly offended by his choice of words, "Hey-"

"You're stunning." your breath hitches at his whisper, looking up at him reluctantly, almost bursting to tears at the way he's looking at you-

"Beautiful. Prettiest woman I've ever laid my eyes on, you hear?" his other hand comes up to rest on your other cheek, cradling your face in his palms, squishing them that you're almost pouting from it-

He nudges his nose against your own, thumb tapping your bottom lip once, "Did you hear what I said?"

You swallow harshly, unable to look away from his pretty eyes, "Yes,"

"Good. You're everything to me."

johnny 'soap' mactavish

he is downright offended when he finds out let me tell you

even after how he hypes you up daily? GURL GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER YOU'RE PERFECT AS FU- okay yeah he can't yell you THAT but, he sure as hell will drill it into your brain if he has to

soap never shies away from any physical contact he can give you, whatever the time or place. he will slap, squeeze and grope to his heart's content, he's quick with it of course (don't wanna get caught now, do we?)

okay I'm getting off topic

the first and second time you had sex together, it was quick and rushed, he'd pulled you to the side and fucked you open against a wall, clothes on and all.

the third time he makes sure he treats you right, meaning he makes sure there's a bed involved LMFAO

so imagine his surprise when he turns around, butt ass naked in his room and ready to tackle you on the bed, to see that you were still wearing your shirt on.

...okay?

he's confused but doesn't question you, he thinks he'll just rip it off of you later himself

he shrugs it off like a champ, and strides over to you with a shit eating grin, walking you backwards till you fall on the bed with a soft thud. You smile back at him, but not fully. Not really. That makes his eye twitch. Something was off.

five minutes later he's holding himself upright with a palm beside your head, swallowing dryly as he stares at you with an open mouth and hazy eyes, thrusting inside of you with no promise to stop.

his eyes drop lower, and he catches sight of your nipples poking through your cotton shirt and he groans- sliding his hand under the material to bring it over your breasts and you tense suddenly, pushing his chest till he's shoved to the side, and he watches with wide eyes and a hard cock as you scramble to pull your shirt in place, chest heaving when you steal a nervous glance at him

"I-I'm sorry, can I keep this on?" your voice almost breaks when you speak and Soap is really fucking confused. "Are you cold?" his question catches you off guard and you look at him as if he's grown a second head, closing your eyes shut as he continues to speak, "I can close the window-"

"I'm not cold."

"Ah."

.

.

"Then...?" Johnny trails off and you let out a defeated sigh, "I don't want you to see me." he blinks at your hiss and you bring your knees up, hugging them close to your chest and he thinks he deserves an award for not even glancing at what he knows would be the perfect view of your glistening pussy- Get your fucking act together Johnny, ya fuckin' prick.

Soap seems to be deep in thought for a couple of seconds before his mouth parts in realization. He internally curses himself for even going there, but when he sees you shrinking to yourself, clutching your legs tighter against you, he feels sick. There's no fucking way you felt that way.

"You gotta be joking, hen." his whisper was almost pleading and you felt your chin wobble slightly and he tuts, scooting closer to you to lay a hand on your shoulder, "You can't possibly not know how perfect you are." you scoff out a laugh as you shake your head.

"I'm serious. I can't even begin to imagine why you'd even feel that way. What the fuck do you have to hide? Your stunning beauty? C'mon now." he tilts his head to try and catch your gaze but you avoid him like the plague and he shakes your shoulder back and forth playfully, successfully pulling a small laugh out of you. He decides to ignore the few stray tears that fall down your cheeks to stop his heart from breaking.

He cups your cheek softly and tilts your head up, finally making you look at him "Did someone say something? I need a target to practice on anyway-" you shake your head softly as you sniff and he licks his lips as he drops his forehead on yours,

"You trust me, right?" you nod instantly, and he mutters an okay, "And you know I'd never lie to you?" you hesitate, but nod regardless and he presses a kiss to your wet cheek, "Show me,"

You inhale sharply, and you're shivering before you even realize that you've taken your shirt off- your hands coming up to shield your breasts, as if you're not naked from the waist-down.

A chill runs down your spine as you wait, and when you hear Soap let out a shuddering breath your gaze snaps up to him. You're surprised to see the utter adoration in his eyes- looking at you as if you'd hanged the moon and stars.

His fingers shake slightly when his hands come to rest on top of yours, his eyes holding an unspoken question. Can I?

You swallow dryly, bringing your hands up to your face instead, hiding your flushed cheeks in the safety of your palms.

"Ah quit your theatrics ya fuckin' minx. Look at you." Soap hisses, his voice suddenly dropping an octave. You hear him mutter a curse, and feel him run his hands all over you- your belly, your sides, your tits-

You yelp when he pushes you flat against the sheets, and you grab at his hair when he starts to press kisses on your lower belly, "Johnny-" he groans, biting at your plush flesh, hands kneading your sides in appreciation, savoring. "You're so fuckin' beautiful- jesus fuckin' christ,"

yeah he made you feel better alright.

könig

like ghost he's a bit insecure himself. has his own issues and doubts about himself so he gets it

but still can't believe that YOU feel that way

like you and your perfect self? he gets so frustrated that he wants to punch something

how DARE you think you're not perfect, how dare you.

once he finds out how you feel he makes it his mission in life to spoil you rotten, and make you realize how incredible you are

this makes me think back to that other ask I got about him fingering you while making you look at yourself in the mirror- booooyyy

HE WOULD IN THIS SCENARIO AS WELL, I JUST KNOW IT.

he'd be so angry at you for not loving yourself LMFAOOO HE'D BE POUTING I SWEAR

man turns FERAL, it's the most dominant you've ever seen him-

he'd make you see yourself how he sees you, if it's the last thing he ever did

"Don't you dare look away, liebling," you squirm in König's hold, his hand holding your jaw, making sure you won't miss a thing as he runs his other hand aaaall over your middle, squeezing the plump flesh in his hands as he goes.

You watch Konig's face in the mirror, speechless at how dazed he looked, half-lidded eyes trailing all over your naked form- drinking in all your curves hungrily. He groans lowly, his eyes almost rolling back when he squeezes your supple skin "I can't... how can you look this good and not know it?"

"König-" you go to turn your face in order to look at him, but his hand tightens against your jaw, making you whimper and keep your head in place, "No. Look away and you'll regret it. Now, repeat what I said earlier-"

"But-"

"I won't ask again, liebling."

You give the tiniest moan when his hand snakes in between your legs, his palm cupping your pussy, nd you grind down at it needily "I-I'm beautiful.."

He hums, "And..?" his fingers gather up your slick to circle up your clit, drawing three, four tight circles on the nub before he's sliding them down again, slipping two fingers inside your pussy, thrusting them lazily in and out of your drenched cunt.

You mewl, circling your hips against the palm of his hand, loving the way it nudged your clit the slightest bit, "Jesus christ.. and g-gorgeous.."

"Mhm that's right, my love. Doubt that again and I'll make sure you won't be able to walk for a week, yeah?" he smiles at your reflection, and it would have been so innocent and almost shy if it weren't for the devious glint in his eyes.

2023 © l13 | Do not steal, copy, edit, translate or re-post any of my works.

[mrshesh]

i saw on your rules that you don’t write hardcore nsfw, so im gonna try to stay tame LOL

how would ghost be in bed? i feel like im so conflicted about this topic

ghost in bed - simon "ghost" riley x reader

overview: how simon "ghost" riley would be like in bed

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x gender neutral reader, romantic

genre: smut, fluff

a/n: i'm actually so passionate about this topic. he's very misrepresented in our fandom, so i'd like to give my two cents regarding this topic. thanks for the request, anon!

TW! mentions of SA, abuse, suicide, and torture. proceed with caution.

Contrary to popular belief, he is not the rough dom everyone makes him out to be. He wouldn’t slap or spit on you. He wouldn’t push your head into the mattress and call you the filthiest words that come to mind - no, he’d be gentle, careful, and loving. 

Simon has been through hell and back - he knows what it feels like to be hurt better than anyone. Physically, verbally, emotionally, and psychologically, you name it! He knows it all, so he doesn’t get off on it. 

His past is extremely gut-wrenching. He got betrayed by everyone, even his own team. He got tortured for months and months on end, to the point where he got severe PTSD and anxiety. He suffers from nightmares and panic attacks and has even tried to take his own life. We also know that he got SA’d in the past, in the months he got gravely tortured. (Reading the comic was seriously terrifying.)

The fact that his father was abusive isn’t helping his case, either. 

And on top of that, he dislikes exposing his body and face. 

So best believe he’s only sleeping with you when you fully trust each other.

And when he does have sex with you, my god, it’s gentle. 

He loves missionary and sitting cowgirl. Being able to hold you close, look you in the eyes, kiss your cheeks, and press his forehead against yours - those things he’d do during sex, not choke you till you pass out.

He has lost everything he has ever loved, so losing what he loves the most, you, is out of the question for him. And that results in him being extremely cautious while having sex. He’s terrified of scaring you away. 

He whispers sweet nothings in your ear constantly. “I love you so much.” “Takin’ me so well.” “You’re so beautiful.” 

His face is redder than a tomato. Having intimacy with someone he loves is a pretty new thing to him, so his cheeks are painted a light pink from the get-go. 

The aftercare consists of soft kisses, compassionate touches as he cleans you up, and praise, so much praise. 

The moral of the story - he's a gentle giant who's absolutely terrified to lose you, despite his hard rock exterior.

this turned dark really quick, but it had to be said.

[feralforfrank]

simon riley loves napping.

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY X FEM!READER

cw nothing, i think. just huge man sleeping anywhere and anytime. NON-DESCRIPTIVE READER

a/n i was bored in class and desperately wanted to nap. so, this happened.

simon riley loves napping. the when and where doesn't matter. if there's a chance to sleep (and he feels safe to do so), he takes it.

the most common times are after a meal, while reading a book (he will literally put it down and just casually nap for an hour), or watching a documentary with you.

the best time to nap is on a sunday morning. you drag him out of bed early, convincing him to tidy up the apartment with you. but when you give him the cleaning duties of the living room (while you're two rooms away, cleaning the bathroom or something), you best believe you'll find him dosed off, with the (thing that cleans dust) forgotten on the coffee table.

his favourite places are on your side of the bed (because it smells like you, and your pillow is fluffier, apparently), even better when you're laying on it. the couch is also a good spot, for your cat always ends up on top of him, all purring and happy (simon will never admit it, but he likes it when joe - the cat - chooses him to nap on).

but, his all-time favourite place has got to be your lower half. he starts by laying his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat while you twirl and tug on his blond strands. as the night progresses, he goes lower and lower until you feel the weight of his head on your stomach. his breathing matches yours, and you hear him occasionally hum if you tug on his hair a bit hard.

you find his habit of falling asleep so easily cute, but his napping hours weird.

you could both be watching a show, you talking his ear off about it, when you suddenly hear a snore as loud as a tractor. you can't help but lift your head from his chest with a look of bewilderment. how the fuck can he be asleep? he was talking with you two minutes ago.

or when you return home, heart in your mouth, because he wasn't answering your calls and you thought something had happened, but nooooo, simon's just snoring on the couch with a blanket draped over him and joe on top of him.

simon riley can never resist a nap.

—

bonus. the one time simon dosed off when he wasn't on leave happened to be during a debrief in price's office.

he had his arms crossed over his chest, legs spread, and leaning back against the squeaky, uncomfortable chair. it was rare for ghost to be laid-back and relaxed, always on alert for danger even in his own base. but the preparations for this mission were kicking his ass, he missed you a lot, and being surrounded by familiar faces - his work family - relaxed his muscles and his brain a bit more than it should've.

gaz noticed first and nudged soap, who snorted. that caught price's attention, who lifted his eyes from the papers he had been reading to look where his insubordinate sergeants were looking. he couldn't help but shake his head and cough to cover up his chuckle.

soap snapped a quick picture (to send to you later) before gaz cleared his throat loudly, causing the lieutenant's eyes to open. it took him a second to get back to his senses, and when he did, his glare turned towards his two sergeants, who looked like they were trying to hold their laughs in.

he never slipped in front of them again.

[daisies-daydreams]

Ghost x shy reader? Would love a spicy scenario where he coaxes us into learning how to dirty talk with him

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Shy!F!Reader Category: Fluff/Smut (18+) Warnings: P in V Sex (you know the drill), Dirty Talk (obvs), Pet Names (baby, sweetheart/sweet girl, hon), Swearing Word Count: 1.2k+ A/N: Hello! Thank you for your sweet request! I love shy reader prompts so much.😭I hope you enjoy! MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Simon murmured in his low, gruff voice. You held your hands over your eyes and burning cheeks, his cock pushed half-way inside your slick cunt. You shook your head and raised your shoulders. Your lover sighed. "Love, am I hurtin' you?" he asked. You peeked from between your fingers as you shook your head.

"N-No," you squeaked. Simon grunted as he gently grabbed one of your wrists.

"Then what's wrong?" he asked. You bit the inside of your cheek as your heart thrummed against your sternum. You took a deep breath.

"I-I just..." you huffed, cursing yourself for not being able to just spit it out. Simon rubbed up and down your arm, his dark eyes still as he patiently waited for your reply. You inhaled deeply again as you tried to relax beneath him.  

“Hey, look at me,” Simon said. Your lip quivered before you slowly peeled your hands away. Your love gazed down at you with such deep admiration, you thought your heart was going to explode. “Love, I need you to talk to me when we're like this, remember?” he said as he cupped your cheek. You glanced away. 

“I know. I'm just not good at it,” you sighed. Simon hummed as he stroked his thumb over your cheek. 

“Well, no time like the present,” he grunted. You blinked.

"What?" you asked. Simon gave you a wry grin before he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"I'm gonna teach you how to talk dirty," he said bluntly. Your jaw went slack.

"B-But I-I'm not good at it!" you flushed. Simon tilted his head.

"Do you want to learn how?" he asked.

"I mean...well...you know...yeah," you muttered. Simon chuckled.

"Alright, sweet girl," he said before kissing your cheek. “You comfortable?” Simon asked. You nodded and bit your lip. “Good,” he grunted. “Now, dirty talk doesn’t have to be a long, flowery poem,” Simon murmured as he brushed his cheek against yours. You gulped when he planted his lips on your neck, sucking on it lightly before letting go. 

“You taste so good, baby,” he purred. You swallowed thickly before parting your lips. “See? Simple. Let’s just start off with what we’re feelin’ and go from there, yeah?” Simon suggested. You licked your lips and nodded. 

“Okay,” you grinned. Simon beamed before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. 

“Such a sweet girl,” he groaned as he pushed his hips forward. You moaned as his dick sank further inside your tight pussy, the stretching sensation making your toes curl. 

“Mmm,” you moaned as you gripped his large shoulders. Simon continued to kiss along your neck as he gently rocked his hips, his cock sliding against your gummy walls. 

“What are you feelin’ right now, hon?” he whispered into your ear, his hot breath falling against your skin. You blinked away a few tears of pleasure as your chest heaved. 

“I-I feel your cock stretching me,” you swallowed. Simon grunted and raked his teeth over the shell of your ear. 

“Yeah? Does it feel good?” he asked. You nodded. 

“Y-Yes! Feels really good, Si,” you moaned. You cried out when he pulled back and pressed his thumb against your puffy clit. You scrunched your eyebrows together as he drew slow circles around your bundle of nerves. 

“And how does this feel, hm?” he asked as he continued to thrust into your squelching cunt. Your walls fluttered around his thick length as you gasped for air. 

“So good, fuck,” your eyes widened before you slapped a hand over your mouth. Simon chuckled as he switched between circling your clit and swiping up and down. 

“It’s okay, baby. Just say whatever comes to your mind,” he encouraged you as he continued to massage your engorged button. 

“I-It’s not that-oh!” you mewled as Simon began to pump his hips a little faster. Your breasts began to bounce with his thrusts as he moved around your clit in tighter circles. You arched your back as he rested a hand next to your side. 

“Feel so fuckin’ good wrapped around my cock,” Simon growled lowly. You whined as you dug your nails into his ivory skin. Your mouth pooled with saliva as you heard your flesh slap against his. 

“Ahh, Simon!” you moaned and ducked your head against your shoulder. You felt his warm lips against your temple as you wrapped your legs around his sharp waist. 

“You can do it, lovie. C’mon,” he urged you as he dragged his cock along your walls. Hot tears poured down your cheeks as you bit your lip. You wailed when he snapped his hips forward, the fat head of his cock sliding against your g-spot. 

“God! Right there!” you sobbed while clinging onto his muscular body for dear life. You felt him smile against your face before he started to thrust against your sensitive spot repeatedly. “Yes, yes just like that!” you whined while hooking your ankles together. Simon groaned into your ear as he continued to paint sloppy shapes around your clit, his cock throbbing deep inside you. 

“I-I love how much you stretch my pussy, Si!” you cried out. He puffed a hot breath of air against your ear as he thrusted even faster, his balls slapping against your wet skin. 

“Atta girl,” your lover praised. You moaned as he hungrily kissed your lips, his tongue swiping over yours before he pulled back. 

“Fuck, (Y/N). Look so pretty when you’re takin’ my cock,” Simon grunted. You whimpered as your walls pulsated around his shaft. He chuckled. “You look even better when you cum,” he grinned as he gently pinched your clit. You felt the cord inside you suddenly snap.

“S-Simon!” you moaned as your pussy clamped down on his dick. You sobbed as you rocked your hips against his as waves of pure bliss crashed over you. 

“Good girl, that’s it,” you heard Simon mutter as he let you ride the rest of your orgasm on his meaty cock. Your legs shook around his waist as you gasped and moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders. You blinked your eyes open just as Simon began to thrust again, his strokes becoming more sloppy as he flared his nostrils. 

“Hold on, sweetheart. Just a little bit longer,” your lover grunted. Your limbs felt like jelly as you basked in the afterglow, your body filled with a divine sense of warmth. Simon growled into your ear as his cock twitched inside your walls. “Fuck,” he hissed. You tilted your head, your lips close to his ear. 

“Cum inside me, Simon,” you whispered. Simon’s eyes widened before he released a deep, feral groan. You mewled as he stiffened above you, his cock snug against your cervix as he flooded your tight hole with his warm cum. 

“So, good, you’re so good to me,” he murmured repeatedly as he finished releasing inside you. You caught your breath as his body went slack, his chest heaving as he gazed down at you. 

“Sorry, I don’t know if I was good,” you blushed. Simon gave you a half-lidded grin before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get better. We’ll just have to try again next time,” he beamed. Your heart fluttered at the prospect of next time. Simon hummed before kissing along your jaw. Your pussy clenched around his softening cock. 

Next time might be sooner than you thought. 

----

Thank you for reading! ❤��� Taglist: @maybethatfanfictionwriter @depressesoespressorat @yuhhtricki999 @lavenderbabu @famouscattale @thedevax @galaxy-dusk @tayleighuh @zombieblogx @mrswhitethornbelikov @migueloharastruelove Want to be a part of my taglist? Comment down below!

[agoofyannoyancetolaw]

consider... Ghost babytrapping reader. It's something some could see Soap or Graves doing, but never Simon.

He's so sly and sneaky, never showing his needs, but when he senses you drifting away, he will slip a pill in your drink when he's sure he's ovulating to ride you till sunset, making sure to milk you dry

a/n: god I love these requests

minors DNI- warnings: baby-trapping duh, trans ghost as well

ghost wasn’t ever going to admit how much he wanted you, how much he needed you in fact. He didn’t want to put into words how he felt- but he knew deep in his gut that you were his, right? You had to be his in some way. You and him had been friends for quite a while, and eventually just enough more that he could call you to his barrack any time of night and have that perfect feeling of sex fade into his senses with you

that’s all you really were though- fuck buddies. God he hated that term, it made his gut boil with envy and hate that someone could slide into your life and end it all so easily. No, no, that couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen.

these thoughts all brewed in his mind over the months, but the thing that set it all in motion was when he saw you at the closest base pub getting all close to some civilian. That’s what truly got him going, the fact you were flirting with a civilian- not even part of the team, although he’s not quite sure if that would have been worse.

sure he could tell you his feelings straight up, but where’s the point in that?

so he made a plan. It started in physical motion the second you got back from base and he texted you to come to his room for the usual quick fuck, nothing horrible so far

he had this all planned out- unknown to you of course. Any condom you have now has little needle holes poked in and any drink at his house has just a smidge of something he found just to make sure he takes

he rides you all fucking night even when your half asleep and tired, he still keeps bouncing on your length, his body clenching around your member and his folds wet and inviting as if he was trying to keep every little drop inside of him, his gummy walls squeezing every little drop he can get out of you and cockwarming you till you fall asleep next to him

he just felt it in his bones that it was gonna take, it just had to. And god was he close to bouncing in joy when he pulled out a test a few days later and it came up positive, him getting ready to put on some fake tears to tell you. You couldn’t really just be fuck buddies now, could you?

[undercoverpena]

home and the ghost mug

simon “ghost” riley x reader (cod)

this is unedited, and born from a random thought as I put away dishes and cleaned my kitchen at 1am. warnings: none. themes: fluff, cute mug moment, ghost and a non-military partner. just toothrotting 1am thoughts.

you don’t like to think you live alone, but you know you spend more time waiting, than you have with him.

this time it’s been months. the last contact weeks ago. it’s normal, but it doesn’t lessen the frustration you feel—or how it balls and clumps with worry.

you know you signed on to this. married yourself to the wondering and standing by when you bought the house with him. it’s why you’ve perfected the art of keeping busy, remaining distracted.

today, your mind slips. falls down on the job, scrapes the skin from your knees and bruises your heart. thoughts appearing, the faint sound of his gruff voice echoing in the walls. unable to unsee the shadow of his last time here—how broad he appears in your door frames.

it’s the slip up that means you unconsciously make a tea for yourself in his mug. a no-go, a thing you never do. the cup sacred, forever off limits unless he’s here. the one you’d bought as a joke, wrapped it in paper and watched him stare at it when he unveiled the skull on the side with the bone handle.

“this bought for me?”

“well, it’s not for next door, simon.”

suddenly, you don’t fancy tea. your heart aching, all heavy and downtrodden in your chest. so you pour it away, washing it out and putting it away quickly. because you know it’ll sting seeing it on the drainer in the morning. practically punch you in the gut—because your mind will trick itself into thinking he’s home. that he’s back. for whatever time he can spare.

by the time his car pulls onto the drive, the house is coated in darkness. the moon full, high in the sky. shimmering a luminescent glow on everything and anything it can touch.

you must be tired, shattered. no murmur of his name or quickened footsteps when he slides his key on the lock, when he takes his boots off. he does do it with precision, care—almost mouse like for a man that’s more mountain than man. shoving them away in the contraption you bought sometime between the two of you moving in and him coming back to you.

and because the house is quiet, silent. a pin being dropped sounding like a shout, he begins his routine. the one where he shoves the things away he doesn’t need to have. not needing reminders of what he does as ghost when he’s trying to focus on being simon.

his routine concludes with a shower in the downstairs guest bathroom, watching the places he’s just been slide down the plug hole, all out of sight, out of mind. you know this routine, keeping some of his casual clothes—sweats and tees in a drawer, for moments like this.

even if he should expect it by now, he still smiles as your genuineness. your kindness. the one that comes ti you with ease.

it’s why he craves being next to you, being able to hear your breaths—close his eyes and allow the evidence to bury the niggling worries he amasses when he’s not with you.

but, joining you isn’t possible. discovering you star-fished, snoring lightly—one of his t-shirts covering and concealing you. practically burying you. and so he closes the door, heads back downstairs. running a hand over the back of his head, feeling clumps of long and short hair from his bad diy cut you’ll undoubtedly have things to say about.

but it isn’t until he’s walking past the kitchen, does he notice the mug and glass cupboard ajar. a thought appearing, his hand retrieving his mug and placing it on the side. a sign, he hopes—a bold exclamation that he is home, in case you wake before him.

you don’t wake before him. simon and fucked up body clock, as usual, wakes at the first break of sunlight. only rising from the guest bed when he hears the floorboards above. your feet eventually coming down the staircase, all slow and heavy, his mind imagining you rubbing your eyes, softly sighing at another day.

he waits in the doorway—the one connecting the guest bedroom to the kitchen—watching you come to a standstill, eyes blinking as you stare at the mug.

simon doesn’t know the error you made yesterday, that you’re going through a crisis of whether you’d put it away or not. whether you’d lost your mind from missing him so much.

he just knows you’re not reacting. not whispering, never mind shouting his name. so he clears his throat, loud, purposeful.

and your head spins—he’s even pretty sure he hears it crack—and then the reaction he expected lands.

it erupts over your face. an explosion of confusion and joy, tear-filled eyes and a large smile, before you’re in his arms, face buried against his chest as he feels you shake with sobs he hopes are because you’re happy.

“take it you’re happy i’m home?”

“more than you think.”

his chin comes to rest on the top of your head, fingers stroking up and down your back.

the mug becomes a sign, a beacon.

it only ever used to indicate he was home—a trophy that remains on the side, until he gets the call that he has to go.

then he is the one to put it away, hating how he turns to always find your lips being chewed by your teeth.

“it’ll be back out before you know it.”

“it better be.”

simon doesn’t promise. because he knows—as do you—that there’s none he can keep in the games he plays. he comforts you without words, his mouth slanted over yours.

I’ll always fight to get home to you.

[chamomiletealeaf]

@naivegh0ul writing about Mommy kink Simon has been rotting my brain like a parasite.

Like fuckin hell, you’d be riding him, his hands on your hips pulling you down as he thrusts up into you and his poor little head would be too fucked out and dizzy to comprehend the words he says.

His mouth open and eyes half lidded, he says “fuck mommy mmph, feel so good.”

And you slow down a little bit, smirk on your face.

“What’d you say Si?” You say tilting your head to the side, using his nickname only you call him, knowing it already makes him flustered in the first place.

He looks up at you with his big honey colored puppy eyes that are wide with confusion, trying to remember what he said.

When he remembers, he places his forehead on your shoulder with a groan trying to fuck up into you again hoping it’ll make you forget.

You place one hand on his chest and the other under his chin to tilt his head up to look at you.

You know what he said, you heard it loud and clear, you just wanted him to say it again.

“What’d you say honey?” You asked in the sweetest, softest pitched voice that had him whine in response.

“I-“ he blushes, his cheeks the prettiest shade of pink.

You trace your thumb over his lips.

“I- said mama.” He admits like he was confessing a sin.

“No.” you giggle, “close, but that’s not what you said Si.”

“Mommy.” He whispers breathlessly, and you smile at his honesty.

“I didn’t know you liked that Simmy.” You tilt your head again, smile still plastered on your face, your thumb now tracing over the blush on his cheekbone.

“Go on, say it again.” You start to bounce on him again, nuzzling your head on his shoulder into his neck, whispering praises in his ear.

He tightens his grip on your hips and his eyes roll back.

“Yeah mommy, fuck, just like that, please, fuck me like that.”

[ghosts-cyphera]

Bloodied Bullets, Soft Confessions

╰﹒ the reader gets hurt on a mission-gone-south, and Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley is not having it.

content/warnings: mentions of blood and injuries; slight arguing and ghost being a bit of a meanie—all for a good reason; hurt/comfort; gn!reader; wc 1.8k

a/n: thank you so, so incredibly much for the love and support for my previous story! I was nervous to post it, so the warm welcome meant the world to me. I hope you enjoy this one too. ♡

“Take off your vest and jacket.”

Had it been under any other circumstances, the sheer dominance in Ghost’s voice would have left you weak in the knees. It would have made your breathing catch in your throat, and your head spin: your forehead to glisten with sweat, and your teeth to close around your bottom lip.

You did all the things listed above, but it wasn't because of the depth of his voice. Right now, as you cursed under your breath, your panting, sweating, and cursing were brought on not by Ghost, but by the excruciating pain on your shoulder.

“Sarge, take off your fucking jacket.”

He dropped to his knees on the dusty floor of the dim shack, his fingers fumbling for his med kit. For nearly a year you had known the man, yet not once had you seen his hands shaking.

Not until now.

“For fuck’s sake, sergeant. Do not make me pull fucking rank here. Jacket off, and sit your ass on the fucking couch.”

Like from a snap of a band, you seemed to stumble back into reality. Your senses sharpening, you rushed into action—shaky curses passing your lips, as your fingers worked on your buckles and zippers.

Jesus fuck, did it hurt, yet suddenly—for a fleeting moment—you nearly forgot all about your pain.

Because on your jacket, you only saw one hole.

A single hole.

“Ghost?” 

“Sit down, sarge.”

“There’s no—,” you hated the way that your voice cracked. The way that your eyes searched for his, as the fear settled into your chest. “There’s no exit wound.”

“I know. I need to dig out the bullet,” he nodded his head, his voice strained. “But I can’t fucking do that if you keep standing over there, now can I?”

Fucking hell.

Swallowing, you forced your feet to carry you onto the dusty old couch, the springs creaking as you did.

“If I fall through this fucking couch, I’m blaming you.”

“If you had listened to my fucking orders—“ He left his sentence hanging, as his fingers moved to investigate the wound on your shoulder. “Can you fucking stay still?”

“I didn’t move.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I was fucking shot, Ghost.” Your words, despite being laced with a touch of annoyance, were spoken as a breathless laugh. “I can’t fucking help—“ Your eyes squeezed shut, as he rested the palms of his hands around the wound and pressed down. “Fucking hell—“

“Bite down ‘em moans, love.” His brows were furrowed with his concentration. “I see the fucker.”

“Intact?”

“Can’t tell.”

Fuck.

“Pass me 'em tweezers.”

With quivering hands, you did as you were told. “First time fishing out a bullet?”

“Not even damn close.”

“So why are your hands shaking?”

From your words, he paused: his gaze meeting yours for only the briefest moment, as he spoke. “I’m your only fucking chance at getting this bullet out fast enough to avoid infection, so how ‘bout you keep your mouth shut and let me focus?”

With an arched brow, you nipped your bottom lip between your teeth—only to bite down, hard, as he dipped in the tweezers.

“Jesus—“

“I know, darlin’.” His voice was deep, as his other hand moved to massage your shoulder. “Just breathe for me, yeah? In and out.”

Your chest was rising and falling with your heavy breaths, yet his hand on your shoulder helped.

His voice and the familiar depth of it were grounding.

“Keep talking,” you managed, brows knitted. “Please.”

“I don’t—“

“Tell me a stupid joke, or—or fucking yell at me for not listening to your orders. Whatever gets you talking.”

“Fine.” Ghost cursed under his breath, as his fingers kept on working on your shoulder. “So there's Bob, yeah?"

“Who the fuck is Bob?”

“Just—fucking listen. Bob hasn't got any arms.”

“What happened to his arms?”

“Sarge.”

“Sorry.”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Not Bob.”

"I—" Your laugh was breathless, as you shook your head. “I sort of wish you had yelled at me instead. That was the worst fucking knock knock joke I’ve heard since—“

“Yeah, well. It was long enough to keep you distracted.” He lifted up the tweezers, between which a small bullet glimmered in the dim light of the shack. “Intact.”

“Fucking hell,” you breathed out, as he dropped the bullet on your open palm. “I’m so keeping this as a trophy.”

“It wasn’t your fucking first one, was it?”

You arched a brow with a warm laugh, fingers now playing with the bloodied piece of metal. “I guess I’d been lucky so far.”

“Doubt luck had much to do with it.” Though his eyes did not meet yours—he was busy looking for a gauze to bandage you with—you could hear the touch of annoyance in his voice.

You had fucked up. 

“Look, Lt.—“

“I gave you a simple fucking order to fall back.”

“Ghost, I—“

“A fucking rookie would understand what it means when their superior tells them to fall the fuck back.” His fingers kept fumbling with the med-kit, despite the gauze being right beside his hand.

He couldn’t even look at you, could he? 

“I’m sorry.”

“Why the fuck did you not fall back?”

His gaze avoiding yours had been hard to handle, yet as he lifted his head and his eyes met yours, the anger, and frustration, and goddamn desperation in them was like a dagger through your heart.

“Because there were too fucking many of them, Ghost.” Your brows knitted, as you shook your head with your frustration. “Because if I hadn’t stayed, you would have been the one to take a fucking bullet for some simple goddamn A-to-B mission.”

“As your superior, it is my fucking job to evaluate the situation, sergeant.” His voice was laced with the same frustration that played in your voice. “The last fucking place I wanted you to be was—“

“Beside you, when everything went south? There were fucking six of them in full riot gear and a basket full of grenades as if they were goddamn apples. There was no fucking way you were going to walk out of there without—“

Without getting hurt. 

“Why the fuck do you think I wanted you gone?”

So that you would be safe.

So that one of you would live.

“You knew we wouldn’t make it,” you managed, your voice cracking with your realization. 

“I knew one of us could.”

Fucking—

“Asshole.”

Ghost snapped his gaze up, his brows furrowed. “Wanna fucking repeat that, sarge?”

“I called you an asshole. I—” You shook your head, frustrated, as an unbelieved laugh bubbled from your lips. “Let me get this straight. This entire time you were mad at me because I took a fucking bullet saving your ass when you were planning on doing the same for me? Do you fucking—do you hear yourself talk?”

“That’s not the fucking—“

“So me refusing to leave the side of someone I care about is the biggest goddamn crime out there, but you expected me to just—what?—continue my life out there after losing you like nothing fucking happened? Like the person I love didn’t just fucking die protecting me?”

“It was you or me, sarge. It was—“ He paused. 

A second passed, followed by another.

And that—that’s when it hit you.

You let it slip, didn't you?

He blinked. “What did you just—“

“Don’t,” you managed, your eyes blinking shut as your breath clung to your throat. “Ghost. Don’t.”

“Repeat what you said, sergeant.”

“No.”

“That’s a fucking order, sarge.”

With a deep breath, you spoke. “I asked you if you expected me to continue my life as if the person I loved didn’t just die—“

“Protecting you.”

Fucking hell.

“Did you mean it?”

“Ghost—“

“Answer my fucking question.”

“Yes.”

Even with your eyes remaining closed, you could hear the deep breath that passed his lips. 

“Fucking hell, love.”

“Can we just forget I—” You shook your head. “We could just forget.”

“Yeah.” You could hear the way he swallowed, thick, as he shifted on the floor of the shed of which silence was suddenly deafening. And then, he continued. "Yeah. Or we could just fucking stop pretending like this hasn't been—" He blew out a deep breath. "It's been fucking months, love. We could forget, or we could just fucking stop pretending like we didn't have it in for each other from the first goddamn moment you walked in. Like it hasn't been months of wanting to—"

Kiss him.

Touch him.

Scream the three little words at him.

And despite the spinning of your head, your chuckle was warm as it passed your lips. "Well, I'm not sure I'd go as far as to say I had it in for you from the moment I saw you. It did take somewhere between one to twelve hours for—" 

From the feeling of his hand reaching for your cheek, the words died down on your lips, now slightly parted.

"For—?"

"What?"

"You didn't finish your sentence," he mused. He was closer now, as the back of his hand caressed your skin. Soft and gentle: so at odds with the roughness of his voice, and the size of his hand, slightly calloused. 

So at odds with the way that the two of you had been going for each other's throats for ten months.

So fucking welcome of a change.

"I think I've forgotten what I wanted to say."

"That's a first," he chuckled. "Think I like it more when you talk."

"Think I like it more when you shut the f—," your brows furrowed, as your words were cut off. Yet this time, it was not because you did not know what to say, or because he was too impatient to let you finish. 

This time your words were cut off by Ghost’s lips on yours.

You knew better than to open your eyes, as he moved closer to you. You knew better than to push it, as his fingers closed around your wrist and brought it to the side of his neck.

Permission to touch him. To feel the warmth of his skin against yours, as your lips deepened the kiss. Warm and passionate, driven by months of built-up frustration and yearning, and something so much softer and gentler. 

Something loving.

Something meant to be. 

[sickuma]

SILLAGE — a Simon Riley fic. 2/2

❱ again this was an au first written on tiktok! this will be the last part of it, please keep in mind that it is all fiction and that if you're going through the same thing and are having the same thoughts, please seek someone you trust. Please fight for yourselves, you're worth it ꜝ？ Warning. . this is a heavy angst fic, mentions of suicide and acts of committing, if that is something that triggers bad emotions, please exit the fic.

paring is Ghost x Reader this is unedited! mistakes such as spelling and grammatical errors are to be expected !

Part 1 (^_^;)

SILLAGE — (n.) The scent that lingers in air, the trail left in water, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone; the trace of someone's perfume.

—hey [name]? I know I'm the last person you want to hear from right now, but I just really—

There was a short pause, as the voicemail erupts a slight static sound.

—I love you. That should have been enough reason. No, you were enough. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I was cowardly, I figured that you'll be happier and safer, being with someone who isn't me. Someone who isn't a soldier.

It was the same night he left your apartment. He swore to himself he would not come crawling back. To protect both of you, at the time, it had been the best solution for him. Until the midnight strikes, he remembered just how serious you looked, just how accepting you looked.

Too accepting.

—because who knows when one of these missions would finally take me out. I can't let you suffer through that, I can't be the one to give you that kind of grief. So I thought leaving you was the best option.

There was a dire pause as he thought of the best words possible to express himself. He’s never been one to do such, but for you, he’s willing to be better.

—it wasn't.

He spoke desperately, almost shaking from just how much adrenaline rushed through him. He had just argued with the team, and after a long hour of explaining to them what he needed to do, he was finally permitted to bail out on this mission, it’s not like he wouldn't leave without permission, that's how urgent this is for him, he needed to get to you as soon as possible,

Even he doesn't know why he’s in a rush,

Maybe it's because of your silence, the unanswered calls, and unread messages that brought him on edge.

—I love you, far too much, my love, to even think straight without you. I love you so much it's hard to breathe. I so desperately love you to the point it hurts.

The desperation and sincerity. It was all there. He knew if he couldn't let it out now, he won't let it out ever. This was his only chance of being happy.

You were his only chance for happiness. He almost couldn't believe he thought letting you go because of his fear was the best decision.

He stupidly let you go, succumbing to the fear of dying while you wait for him. He knows better, he will do better,

For you. Because you're worth changing for, you're worth the risk.

—please don't hate me. I know I was an ass for leaving in the first place, baby, I am sorry. You loved me so much that it felt so good, I didn't know I'm capable of feeling that way, so I was scared that worse would come after. I'm not scared anymore. You looked at me like there's something in me worth looking at,

He felt like he was saying so much yet so little at the same time,

He had so much to tell you but very few words to express it. He needs to be with you. He needs to see you and physically explain to you just how much you mean to him.

—I won't waste it, love, not again. Please open the door for me when I get back. 

He frowned, realizing once again just how idiotic he was. He knew he should not have done what he did, but it was over with. The only thing left to do is to make things right somehow.

—I've never been taught how to love, I have.. I don't— I'm not the best at it. I'm sorry baby, if I'm not loving you the right way, and for leaving just like that, but I promise I'll be better. you're worth the better of me, you're worth learning love for.

He needed you, and you needed him. That should have been enough reason to risk it.

—when I come back, please let me hold you. Please forgive me for making you feel like an option between my job. It's you. It's always been you. I love you, baby, wait for me. I'll make this right.

As the line cuts, the static sound fills the eerie room of yours. The very same room he had walked out from, the same room where you sat breathing hours ago. There were no other living sounds except for the occasional ticking of the clock.

There were no signs nor sounds of life perceived in the room. The silence was thick. With your lifeless body beside the bed in a fetal position, a bottle of used pills tightly wrapped around your hands. It was light, about three to four pills left inside a newly bought bottle.

It was dead silent as if the universe sympathized with you.

Allowing silence in regards to respect for what has passed, for what has ended.

﹑

“My family’s never been the typical joyous family, I guess that affected me, as a person in general.”

You explain, running your hand through his hair while his head laid on your lap. It’s one of those days where he’d be much affectionate compared to the majority of the time. He requested to hear about your childhood while he rests on you,

For a moment you felt your heart and breath hitch.

“I guess growing up in that kind of household really—really influenced my well-being. It's given me problems and worries I shouldn't have.” You were hesitant to continue, “Fear, I started having fears for a lot of things.”It's as if you caught a glimpse of his mind, taking in the details you've just given him.“Fears like?” 

The moment the question reached your ears, he could see your body tense. He understood, and he doesn't plan on pushing it.“You don't have to answer that, my love.” he smiles, “No matter what it is you're scared of, let’s face it together, yeah? You have me. That's enough, I hope.”

Little did he know that fear was yet to come. The fear of leaving soon, the fear of being unable to keep going. How could you ever explain to him that you don't plan to stay long?

﹑

With a ragged breath from exhaustion, he dropped his things once again, the same way he did before he left. Facing your door yet again, panting as a feeling of discomfort plagued him, why exactly? He’s finally here. Why is he so distraught, he wondered.

“[name]?” he knocks,

Swallowing the lump in his throat, his voice strained, and his state dishevelled. “[name] please—it’s me, please answer.”

The lack of response made him think about just how angry he made you,

“I'm sorry,” he whispers,

“I know I was stupid and irrational. I won't do it again, petal, please open the door.”

To say he’s nervous would be an understatement. What would he do if you never find it in you to let him back into the comfort of your arms? Will he return to the familiar cold he had forgotten when he met you?

“[name] I love you.”

He desperately spoke, yearning for an answer; the smallest sign of acceptance. 

It was odd. How quiet it was. Are you that mad? He wonders, but then again, he knew you’re not one to ignore, not even when you’re the angriest you've been. You would never shut him out, not ever. “[name], please, answer, or I'll have to go inside.”

“Baby are you okay?” no response.

Each passing second was like a countdown. He was uneasy and distraught. Afraid even.

The silence felt deafening. He was afraid of what? He had no clue what he was so afraid of, surely you're okay...

Right?

“[name], I'm coming in,” he says sternly, fishing the spare key he oh so gratefully forgot to give back. His heart thumps louder with each action.

The moment he entered, the creak of the door interrupted the silence. He felt like he was intruding on an abandoned space. It felt wrong. He knew something was wrong.

“[name]? I'm back, like—like I always am.” his voice broke, stepping inside, head looking around, hoping to find you and engulf you in his longing arms. “As I told you, I’ll always find my way back… right?”

He kept speaking while he walked, checking and opening every door. Starting from the small kitchen to the bathroom, checking everywhere until there was one room left. He dreaded it, for no reason he was scared and yet he rushed,

He spoke, no—he goes on a tangent, 

“I'll take the month off. We’ll do anything you want, anything to make up for this. I promise we can even get a pet, I always say no, right? This time, I'll agree, anything for you, my love just—”

The silence rung,

Apart from the sound of the door opening by his force, there were no sounds made, not from him, not from anything. He simply stood, dumbfounded at what the room unveiled; at that moment, nothing mattered, not even the breath he had held unknowingly.

A ragged chuckle escaped his lips, though it was hollow. As if he was desperate to know that maybe this is all some sick prank. Maybe this was one of your silly games he always put up with, “Baby? What’s this? Why are you on the floor?”

“Jokes over [name] get up—”

When it all came to view, he was silenced. The second he stepped closer, he saw how your body lay lifeless, how you held that bottle, and how his eyes drifted onto the lone tear, which evidently dried along the hours. 

How long have you been here?

In this state? How long has it been since you left him?

He couldn't feel. He couldn't grasp his head around the sight before him. He’s well familiar with death. He’s seen it before, and he’s lost comrades before, but nothing comes close to what lay in front of him. 

How does one react when their lifeline lies lifeless before their very eyes?

He couldn't approach nor speak. He simply stood with weak knees, tempting to give out. It didn't take him long to crouch, eyes wide open with lips parted slightly. There were no tears, no emotions, the moment numbed him. It didn't feel like reality,

There he crouched, just a few steps away from you. It didn't feel like his heart dropped. It felt almost worse, as if you'd taken it with you. How could this have happened? Did he cause this?

If you had told him a day ago that he would witness the person he loved the most laying on the floor devoid of life, he would have laughed at your face, punching you even. This isn't reality. This isn't a reality he wants to face.

It took every courage in his body to bring himself closer to you, afraid of what more he’d discover. With slow steps, he drew closer, grabbing your hand was the first thing he thought of doing. “Oh god…” his voice broke,

Your body isn't as warm as it used to be,

Not as he remembered. The warmth he loved when he would hold you against him, it’s gone. You're gone.

He had felt countless of stiff lifeless bodies and yet yours hurt the most,

The mere thought of it destroyed him. It hasnt sinked in yet, but he could tell. He could tell his demise is near. The realization will hit him in a short while. 

“Baby, im home…” this wasn't him. This was not his voice. Stuttering over the easiest words, strained with pent-up sobs. His chest felt heavy, almost making it difficult to breathe. 

Yet with hitched breath, he picked up your limp body and placed you in his arms, crushing your icy body against him. He held you tightly, but his hands cradled your body tenderly. It was as if he’s afraid of hurting you more.

Ghost was forever fearless, always facing whatever challenge was given to him, even his mortal enemy would know that he isnt necessarily the easiest solder to crack, let alone destroy and yet he finds himself sat on the floor holding the lifeless frame of his lover,

Cradling whatever is left of you,

Desperately holding onto what he can possibly hold on to.

The lieutenant everyone looked up on, admired and viewed as an admirable man, sat on the floor with a weighing heart. Holding back the tears that had formed without his knowledge as he held your body, 

but right now, he wasn't lieutenant simon ‘ghost’ riley.

At this moment, he was just simon, the simon you loved desperately, the simon who loved you just as insanely.

This person right this moment was your simon,

He wasnt anyone else, he was yours.

As he sat on the hard cold floor, thoughts roaming with his heart screaming, he felt like a mess, but that didn't matter. Words can not describe the regret, remorse, and stupidity he felt,

If i didnt leave,

If i didn't walk out that door,would you still have been alive in my arms?Would i still have to hold you soulless?

He held you closer, bringing you closer to him, as close as possible. He felt nothing but regret, nothing but anger for himself. Why is it that the very grief he tried to protect you from, the same reason he left, the same grief he avoided you to feel, why is it that he’s feeling it now?

His ragged sobs filled the room, and the rest remained still as if everything sympathized for him. As if the world understood the hurt he carried. He sobs, holding onto you as if doing so would bring you back. He knew nothing well, and yet he foolishly cried, hoping you’ll hear him and come back to ease the pain.

Like you always did.

At the corner of his eyes, he saw the letters piled not far from them. Without standing, nor letting go of you, he reached for it. Reading the names addressed on each, until he sees the one for him.

Of all the few letters he saw, his was the only one with tear drops which ruined the ink in front, almost unable to read, he brought it closer, dropping the rest.

Simon,

I felt everything.

Thank you, and im sorry,

I love you :)

Swallowing the impossibly heavy lump on his throat, he opened the carefully folded letter. He was met with even more tear drops. The thought of you crying, alone, while you write him a letter to bid him goodbye, crushed his soul.

He cant imagine a greater pain,

It felt surreal.

How could I..

How could I have lost you this easily.

With his blurry vision, he starts to read—well—attempt to. With every sentence, every punctuation, every meaning of your words, all of it felt like a slap to reality.

How could he have not seen?

How did he not notice? Not paying attention to what you were going through? How could he have been so careless as to leave you all alone.

The very fear you spoke of,

He did just exactly what your family had done.

If anybody could have saved me,

it would have been you.

He read the part over and over again, allowing your words to cut through his heart repeatedly. He left you, and yet, at the end of the day, you still see him as someone—the only one who could save you. 

Despite the war inside your mind,

Inside your mind and unwavering emotions, which he hadn't bothered to unveil, he remained the most important person.

May it be in your chaotic mind or the furthest crevices of your heart, he remained on both.

He read it all,

Understanding every single thing you failed to say in person,

Everything you failed to say while you still lived.

It hurts even more. He thought nothing could be more painful when he saw you laying lifeless. But having to read what you wanted to say,

How sorry you were, how thankful you are to him, and how he made you feel. 

It was surely another cut to an already existing wound. His mind flashed memories while he went over the tear stained letter you left.

He remembered everything as if they were as fresh as yesterday. When you first smiled at him, when you first held hands, when your lips first touched.

Your words were true. The story of you really is short-lived. But he couldn't help but think about the what If's

If he stayed,

If he hadn't walked out,

If he ignored his fear of abandoning you,

If he hadn't been so stupid and cowardly.

He gave up, and the heavy lump on the throat overcame him, letting the sting linger for as long as eternity. He read the last words on the letter, with a loud sob, with repeated pleads.

Repeatedly apologising, repeatedly begging for you to come back so he could fix things so everything could return to normal,

So you could return.

A childish wish. A high-ranking soldier held the lifeless body of his lover all while he begs for them to come back. 

"I'm so sorry." He whispers, voice too broken to speak normally. "I'm sorry for not noticing."

"I'm sorry you had to be alone." 

"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He repeats over and over again, holding you against him. 

At the back of the letter, he could barely see the words written with how blurry the tears clouded his eyes.

Thank you for making me feel.

The words only crushed him even more, sobbing and crying harder to no avail. 

"[name]..." He whispers, holding you close. "Did it hurt? I'm sorry, it must have been so hard."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm so sorry for not being here you."

He apologized, wishing he could have been with you. To convince you otherwise, wishing he could have been here to avoid this,

To avoid losing you.

Wishing he could have stayed to keep making you feel.

The thoughts of your words before he left suddenly entered his mind,

"Can I hug you?"

"One last time?"

Now it all makes sense why you looked so serene, why you looked so accepting. Why did you have that small smile on your lips,

You were bidding him goodbye.

That really was the final hug. 

The final touch he'd ever get, the final living affection he would get from you. 

He holds you now, but it wasn't the same, not even close. Back then, you were smiling and breathing, but now you're no different to an inanimate object. Stiff and cold, this is the person he loved so dearly?

It ached.

And it ached painfully.

The type of ache to never go away, the type of ache he'd keep forever.

The type of ache he'll willingly embrace,

As he held you that night, mourning for what could've been, mourning for someone beyond saving.

This was the ache he'd willingly feel forever,

If it means having you in his mind and heart. He would willingly hurt himself by keeping that ache if it means keeping you in his deceased heart forever.

As the remnant of your memories roamed the room, your presence which now passed, the scent of yours he dearly craved. It left a sillage pain to remember,

You left a sillage worth remembering.

"I'll keep you in my heart,

Even if that damage me,

Even if it kills me.

I'll keep you safe forever."

[l13]

Hi Robin can I request simon "ghost" Riley with a s/o that ADHD and has a hard time with staying calm but is always hyper. So, simon finds a way for his s/o to burn the energy (*cough SEX)

Tysm ❤️

Hellooo!!Thank you sm for the request<333

i re-wrote this 2 times help. it's still very lazy and messy writing but i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it

WARNINGS : NSFW, 18+ ONLY, female!reader, rough sex, ass/tit slapping, name-calling, ghost being mean/desperate

Simon never really had a problem with how hyper you were.

nah i'm sorry that's a whole ass lie💀 he found you exhausting and tiring to deal with the first time he met you

Whenever you'd get paired up with him and Soap for jobs, Ghost felt like he was babysitting two grown adults, but don't worry he grew to love and cherish that side of you with time (as he did Soap's)

you'd often have to take your energy out by training much more frequently- finding that punching something always took your mind off things, that way you could focus better while on the field.

but it also meant that you sometimes worked too hard- pushing your body to its limits, even going as far as to train a few hours before jobs,

not only was that draining for your physical and mental health, but you were also a liability to the team

so seeing how ghost was your superior and your lover, he suggested you let your frustrations and energy out some other way

"Ah-shit, you gonna let me do all the work then?" you panted, hands supporting yourself on his chest as you bounced up and down his cock. Simon grinned lazily, slapping the side of your ass, "You needed to burn off steam, sweetheaaah fuuck-" he threw his head back, gripping your hips tightly when you started to roll your hips in circles, and you laughed lightly.

"That's right, I did" you hummed, "But.. if we're gonna do this then I control the pace." you mutter, bending down to leave a quick peck on his mouth but when you went to sit back up he wrapped one arm around your back securely, pulling you flash against him and making you gasp.

"By all means, love" he utters against your lips, hand getting tangled in your hair as he spoke "M yours." you both moaned in each other's mouths as youleaned in for a bruising kiss, his hand on your ass softly encouraging your movements. "Fuck- say that again baby, Simon please-" you panted, hips rolling painfully slow, and you felt his cock jump inside you at your pleading.

"I'm yours, love. Only yours." he hisses when you bite the side of his neck, and he lays a harsh slap on your bum in reply. "Fuckin' move already" his nails dig in the skin of your ass as he tries to get you to do something other than this torture, and you grab his jaw tightly, "I control the pace, remember?" he snarls up at you, his hips snapping up suddenly and you cry out. "And I'm letting you, but if you don't move in the next five seconds, I'll bend you over and fuck this tight cunt until you forget your own name. Got it?"

A shiver runs down your spine as you nod wordlessly, "Yes, sir." He hums, pushing his hips up until he's filled you to the brim- your last warning. "Atta girl,"

You slowly start to set a new pace and five minutes later you're full on riding this man like your life depends on it- you can't complain at the fact that he's rutting up against you each time your hips comes down on him harshly because you're too busy lost in your own pleasure, eyes losing focus as you moan uncontrollably, his own groans muffled against your collarbone. "Pussy's gripping me so fucking tight, holy fuckin' shit." The sound of skin slapping skin is so loud that you can only hope no one's passing outside your room at this hour.

It seemed Simon was too far gone as well, forgetting his previous words as he holds your ass cheeks apart, chasing your wet cunt with deep plunges of his own, his low moans sounding like music to your ears.

"Fuck baby just like that- please please," he pulls your head back roughly by your hair, and you whimper, "What's the matter, huh? Not controllin' the fuckin' pace now, are you love?" "No 'm not, s'fine jus' fuck me, please fuck me harder-" he groans loudly, sitting up suddenly and you fall back in surprise, back hitting the sheets, mewling as his cock slips out of your wet pussy "Put it back in, put it back in",

He clicks his tongue at your whines, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock to line himself up "Shut up," he thrusts inside you in one go, slapping your tits for good measure, as he starts fucking you roughly.

"Fuckin' whore can't even ride me without getting dumb on my cock, yeah?" there's sweat dripping down Ghost's face, his arms flexing with how hard he's holding on to your hips, pushing them back to meet his cock each time he thrusts in you- and he can't take his eyes off of the way your pretty pussy hugs his fat cock.

"Yeahyeahyeah 's soo good, love it s'much" you're squirming under his hold- bringing your hand to your pussy to rub at your clit messily and he snarls when you clench around him tightly, "Fuuck- you love my cock so much you can't even speak, lovie?" he pushes your hand away and replaces it with his own, thumb rubbing your puffy clit as he bends down to spit on it, reveling in the sight of you writhing for him.

Your hand flies to cover your mouth as you scream, back arching, hips moving around messily as you try to escape his thrusts, and he growls when your squirming almost causes him to slip out of your pussy. "Take it. Take my fuckin' cock," you clench tightly around him as you finally come, and he moans loudly, eyes never leaving the way your body twitches and shakes, grinding his hips until you can feel his balls press on your ass, and he stays there as you ride out your orgasm.

"Did so well for me, lovie. So fuckin' good." you hum weakly, pushing your hips back on him, and he inhales sharply, "Want you t'come inside me, Simon. Please?" his cock twitches at your words, and he resumes his pace- pounding inside your cunt harshly, your name on his lips like a mantra- "I want it, please baby. I want your come so much. Deep inside my fucking pussy." you lick your lips, and he bends down to kiss you messily, "Yeah?" he whimpers lowly when you clench around him, and you nod,

"Yeah, baby." your hand comes up to scratch at the nape of his neck and he shivers, hips stuttering "Deep, deep inside me." you whisper and his eyebrows draw together as he looks at you, jaw dropping, eyes almost rolling to the back of his head when your other hand drops to fondle his balls softly "Want to feel you for days,"

Simon thrusts two- three more times, and then plunges himself deep inside your cunt, grinding as he comes inside you- all the while moaning loudly against your collarbone, drool dropping on your skin. "Fuh-fuck. Oh my fucking God, baby shit-" he whines as he tries to catch his breath, his own thighs shaking now- and you kiss his temple as you smile innocently down at him, as if his cum isn't dripping down your ass.

He grins up at you weakly, pressing a kiss on your jaw, "You still pent-up?"

"God, no. I can't feel my legs"

His shoulders shake as he laughs, breath tickling your neck and you join him, running your fingers through his dirty blond locks softly.

2023 © l13 | Do not steal, copy, edit, translate or re-post any of my works.

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

snowfall

summary: when she’s young and in between foster families, she meets a scrawny kid named Simon. Simon sits to the side while the other kids play, and she gives him her sandwich. When he leaves, forced to go back to his dad, she feels bad for him.

Then, when she gets older, she realizes that Simon was the lucky one. He made it out.

notes: based on the song snowfall, bc I’ve been listening to it and thinking about this fic a lot lately

warnings: mentions of abuse, human trafficking and childhood trauma. Violence. Allusions to smut? Afab!reader

taglist: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins (hmu to be added to any taglist!)

masterlist | requests are OPEN!

You’re back to square one, where you always end up when a foster family lets you go. A big, grey house that was built in the sixties and not once painted afterwards, that’s square one. Makeshift beds and damp rooms, showers that smell of piss and food that has the consistency of cardboard.

The house is so terrible on the inside that everyone flees into the parking lot, a barely better place to be. In the dirt-poor areas of Manchester, it’s all anyone can ask for. The younger kids play with chalk or run around, chasing each other, while the ones your age pass cigarettes and other stuff to each other.

None of you know each other’s names, but you’ve all seen each other in passing. Kids that were left on their own, that don’t trust easy won’t talk to each other either. Not really.

It’s rare to see a new face, so the teen sitting off to the side while the others talk catches you by surprise.

He’s massively tall already, but scrawny as hell, his hair in the awkward stage between short and being grown out. His eyes flit around, meeting no one else’s.

“Haven’t seen you before.” You greet, and he barely looks up. You offer him your name, and he pauses before he responds.

“Simon.” He says finally. There’s a short silence, broken by his rumbling stomach, and you hand him your sandwich without thinking twice. You’re not a big fan of tomatoes. He hesitates, inspecting it before he takes a bite. He barely nods as you tell him you don’t like tomatoes, and you doubt he even heard you.

“What are you doing here? Never seen you before.” You attempt, trying to make conversation. He shrugs in response, and you don’t pry further.

Simon sticks to you like glue in the days afterwards, a silent shadow that towers over you. Timmy, a kid that joined a gang after feeling overly confident, tries to approach you twice, but apparently, Simon’s glower is more intimidating than his stature.

After a week and a half, a social worker interrupts a game of Uno between you and Simon, pulling him away for a conversation. That usually means one of two things: going home, or going to a family of strangers.

You never get to find out which one it is, because Simon doesn’t say goodbye. You tell yourself that he made it home, or at least made it out. He seems like the type.

***

Against your hopes, and in line with all odds, you don’t make it out. Bouncing between foster families leaves you frustrated, angry and alone. A recipe for disaster, and you know it. Two years after Simon left the grey house that smelled like a germaphobe’s nightmare, you did as well.

Barely eighteen, with no one to back you up and not a single penny on your name, that went to shit quicker than you might have thought, and you found yourself exactly where you did not want to end up: the crime scene of Manchester.

It started off with little favors. Timmy convinced you. He said it wasn’t hard to sell drugs. That you’d only have to do it a few times, and then you’d have enough money to start yourself off with a real job. Something honest.

Something that would finally get you some real security. A sense of permanence.

Over the years, little favors turned into bigger favors.

Timmy, of course, didn’t know batshit about anything, and he certainly did not care to look into things more than he had to for you. And by the time your idiot, barely not-adolescent brain realized that, you were in too deep.

You’d done everything wrong, because selling drugs for a few days ‘wouldn’t hurt anyone’.

That was how you ended up as the cliché character of anti-everything prevention movies they showed you, back in the grey house. Abused, beaten-up, trafficked, sold, and not even out of your twenties.

Each time you thought about it, you wanted to laugh at yourself, to try and stop yourself from missing the gray house and the exhausted social workers that weren’t paid enough to care for any of you.

Just this time, you couldn’t go back to the gray house. You weren’t a child anymore. This time, people came for you to make sure that you’d pay them back what you owed them. Technically, what Timmy owed them.

They, whoever they were, took you away from Manchester, the only semblance of home you’d ever known. You found yourself in an abandoned cargo hall, freezing cold. From what you could see, it was snowing outside, the chill creeping inside. The girl next to you was out like a light, either from drugs, exhaustion, the cold, or a combination of all three.

You could make peace with the fact that you would never get out. You could just accept it, like you’d accepted everything else in your life. A voice in your head screamed that it wasn’t fair, and it felt like that scream was becoming more and more real. There was a ridiculous notion in the back of your mind, telling you to get up.

It bled into the screech from the gates of the cargo hall, protesting as they were opened. Your captors pointed their guns, but thick, white smoke filled the building, and you felt yourself become suddenly sleepy.

The last thing you saw were shadowy figures storming the hall, gunfire ringing out, smoke filling your nose and mouth.

***

When you came to, the smoke had dissipated, but you were still in the cargo hall. A group of men in camouflage walked around the hall, checking the men that were lying on the floor. One of them approached you and the others.

Almost automatically, you slinked backwards, out of his reach, but he gave you a soft smile.

He was young, too young to be in a place like this, with a sweet expression on his face that felt too saccharine to belong in the midst of this violence.

“I’m Gaz.” He said. “I’m with the British army, and we’re here to take you home. Are you hurt?”

Varying reactions came from the people around you, and you felt yourself numbly nodding. Home. Had a God heard your prayer and then decided to turn it into a joke?

The doctors arrived a while later, taking a look at everyone that had been with you. Some of the girls around you were drug addicts, and going into withdrawal was never pretty. The cargo hall quickly filled with the stench of vomit and cold sweat, but it meant that you got the time to look at the men that had stormed the hall. A gruff man with sideburns, a Scot with a mohawk that was chattering away with Gaz and-

He was hulking, a mountain that wore a skull instead of a face. You’d never met someone like him in your life, but he paused when he saw you, and you knew that he’d seen you before, this behemoth of a man.

***

It takes two more days before you’re back in England, but it doesn’t feel like a homecoming. Some of the girls have people waiting for them, parents, children, boyfriends, girlfriends to run into their arms and hold. Some are like you. No one comes, and they leave on their own.

You want to follow them. You can’t go back to Manchester. You’ll only return for your papers, if those still exist, and then you’ll leave.

You’re about to finally lift your feet from the cold, concrete floor when you feel a pair of eyes burning into your back.

Turning around, you see it’s the one they call Ghost. He’s standing off to the side, and it reminds you of something. You can’t figure out what it is, even though you try so so hard to just remember.

“Thank you for getting us out of there.” You blurt out, and he looks like he wants to say something, his jaw almost cramping together as he makes a tiny movement. You think it’s towards you.

“I owed you for the sandwich.” He says. The shrug looks forced, and you know that he can’t bring himself to say something more honest. “No tomatoes, of course.”

The seconds it takes you to understand seem to tick by outside of your brain, like a clock hammering with each moment passed. Then, your jaw falls slack.

“Simon?” you ask, too loudly, and the Scot named Soap snaps his head around to stare at you.

He doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t have to. You recognize his height, his eyes, the awkward standing off to the side so suddenly that it hits you like a fucking train. How couldn’t you see it before?

This is Simon. The kid that-

“You left without saying fucking anything!” you accuse, and you’re sure the others think you’re exes.

He just nods, and that almost infuriates you. But he made it out. He made something of himself, and you have to respect that. It’s all you want, always slipping away from your grasp, and Simon got it. Carved it out for himself, by the looks of it.

And finally, after an eternity, Simon steps forward and holds out a bag with the yellow-and-green subway logo on it.

“Hope you like it.” He mumbles, and it’s an almost adorable gesture. There’s no tomatoes, as he promised. Someone remembered something from your childhood.

You take the bag, and then you take the step separating you and hug him tightly. Are you overstepping a boundary? Is he going to push you off roughly?

He doesn’t hug you back, but he does allow you to wrap your arms around him (or, as much as you can do that with his new size).

His teammates stare, but you don’t let go. Not for a while.

“You got a place to stay?” he asks, when the others have gotten over the shock of your interaction. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, and a part of you hopes that you’re special in this, because you helped him too. Somehow.

“McDonalds is always open, and I’ve got…” you reach into your pocket, finding a crumpled note. “Enough for a large drink.”

He shakes his head. He offers his apartment, his home up to you and you should say no because he could traffic you, or rape you, or hurt you just enough to make you drag yourself back to Timmy.

You get into the car with him, and your mind screams danger. Your gut’s feeling alright though, so you ignore it.

The first change beyond the obvious of his massive frame that you notice is that he’s gotten even quieter. While you drag yourself up the dark staircase with some effort, he stays true to his name, not a single scrape coming from his combat boots.

In the apartment, he switches on the light, and you take in the spartan interior. A small kitchen, a sofa, a TV, a coffeetable with a mug still on it. No dinnertable, but three pictures on the refrigerator.

A young boy, a woman that reminds you of the younger Simon (maybe his mother?) and his teammates. Gaz, Soap, the older guy, two men that you don’t recognize, standing in scenery that looks almost tropical.

He lets you stare, before he quietly shows you the bathroom. You let the lock click behind you, even though you know that wouldn’t make much of an obstacle for the person he’s become.

You shower as quickly as you can, slipping back into your underwear. You hesitate for a moment, and then you grab the big, fluffy bathrobe hanging over the towel rack. Someone had vomited on your shirt, and you refused to put it on again.

The robe was too big for you, black with white skulls on it, and you highly doubted that Simon had bought it for himself. Maybe the Scot that cracked jokes with, or rather at him, had bought it for him and he’d caved to using it.

When you walked out, Simon was pulling clean sheets over the bed in his bedroom. He lifted his head when he heard you, and even through the balaclava, you knew he was lifting a brow at you.

“You’re wearing Soap’s bathrobe.” He commented.

“Someone vomited on my shirt.”

Simon did not reply, but he did turn around to rummage in his closet, throwing you one of his old shirts. You went back into the bathroom to put it on, and decided to not comment on the fact that it looked like a midi dress on you.

He closed the door behind him when he went to sleep, and the click of the lock felt a little insulting to you. Yet, you couldn’t expect him to trust you.

Sleep did not come easy to you, and when it did, you only had nightmares.

After a particularly bad one, you woke up with a start, only to find yourself face-to-face with one of your captors, face hid behind a balaclava, and you screamed.

Only after a few moments did you realize that it was Simon.

Between your panicked apologizing, and his nervous tea-making, it took a while for either of you to speak.

“I’m sorry for not telling you I was leaving.” He said finally, sitting across from you on the sofa, and still managing to take up three fourths of it.

“You didn’t have to. You didn’t know me.” You replied.

“I clung to you.” He said under his breath, as if it was an admittance of weakness.

“I liked it. Made me feel less alone.”

Your hands found each other in the dark, his fingers curling around yours and you swore that you could feel his heart hammer in his wrist.

“I don’t want to go to Manchester alone.” You whispered. It was an admittance of defeat.

“I’ll go with you.” Simon replied. He had no incentive to.

In the dark, it didn’t feel as preposterous or dangerous to move closer to him. He stilled when your knee bumped against his leg, and you held your breath, waiting for his rejection.

It didn’t come, only a shaky breath from Simon that gave the smallest of hints about how he was feeling. His hand was still holding yours, warm and a little rough, but it felt real. It made you move closer, to try and lean into his touch.

His hand slipped from yours, and for a moment, you thought that you’d done something wrong, but then you felt it on your waist, and Simon pulled you onto his lap. Your hands flew to his chest to steady yourself, and you could feel his hammering heart beating under his shirt.

Simon was so massive that he engulfed you, drowned out everything around you, and you loved it. There was nothing but him, and that didn’t scare you. It made you feel unfathomably safe.

He hugged you suddenly, a mirror gesture to what you’d done at the airport, his thick arms wrapping around you, pulling you even closer, until your lips were almost on his and he looked up at you with something in his eyes that you couldn’t place, because no one had ever looked at you like that.

You couldn’t help kissing him. Slowly, asking, almost begging, you peeled up the lower half of his balaclava, waiting for him to tell you to stop. Instead, even in the darkness, you knew that the stubble on his jaw was blonde, because it was impossible to forget someone like him. Your lips found his and it felt so right that your hands snaked up to his jaw, cradling his face in the hope that he’d know you cared for him.

Simon returned your kiss equally as hungry, demanding the air you breathed from you, his embrace swallowing you, and you wanted to give it all to him. Your hands shook as you reached to slip them over the band of his sweats, still unsure if he’d reject you, or let you do it.

Cautiously, your hands slipped under his t-shirt first, his skin feeling like it was burning in comparison to your cold fingers, warm to the touch, and safe.

“I thought about you a lot.” You admitted between kisses. “Wanted to know what happened to you.”

Simon stilled at that, his gaze shifting, warping from one unreadable expression to another.

“Nothin’ good.” He replied finally. You felt like an idiot. Like you’d just ruined the moment.

“I’m sorry.” You said, because you had no idea what else to say. His hand found yours, and you felt like whatever was going to happen to you, it was going to be okay.

[feralforfrank]

biker!simon picking you up.

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY X FEM!READER

cw biker simon riley biker simon riley biker simon riley biker simon riley (tojisun's biker!simon has me in a chokehold), NON-DESCRIPTIVE READER

a/n saw this on my timeline, and it was inspired by THIS picture... and i just had a thought. idk.

biker!simon picking you up from work. he's sitting on his bike, helmet off, balaclava lifted just a tiny bit, so he can take drags from his cigarette. (a panty-dropping sight, imo) manspreading kinda. idk. i just have thoughts.

biker!simon, who consistently looks around to make sure his surroundings are safe for when you've closed up shop and are ready to come out. he's glancing at the door you're supposed to be coming off any minute now. he's impatient, he hasn't seen you all day and tbh, he hates your boss for making you close up so late at night.

biker!simon, who can't keep the smile off his face when you walk up to him and smash your lips on his with such force. he can tell you've had a tiring day by the way you cling to his shirt, and your body melts when his huge palm finds the small of your back.

"long day," he asks and hands you the spare helmet you've decorated and now call your own.

you just hum, licking your numb (from the force of the kiss) lips, pulling your helmet down and hopping in the back. biker!simon, who can't wait to get home and make out with you, because fucking hell, you look so good getting on the bike behind him, your soft hands find their place around his waist and grip his jacket, and they're so close his dick. hee has to stop and focus on driving.

—

bonus. biker!simon running his gloved hands up and down your thighs while waiting on the red lights, reminding you he's with you. you tighten your hands around him, silently telling him you're there too.

you bumping your helmet on the back of his when his huge hands travel further than they're supposed to (in front of other cars and pedestrians).

[moon-fics]

Pretend-Simon Riley/Ghost

A/n: I found another old fic of mine and decided to post it just to have it back up! I hope you all enjoy it!

Summary: You and Soap are forced to pretend to be a married couple on a mission. Ghost doesn't enjoy this in the slightest.

Warning: Swears, angst, jealous Ghost, bad jokes, Gender neutral reader

You wander the streets hand in hand with Soap, gripping his as tightly as possible. You hate going undercover in situations like this because you’re barely armed. You have a single knife in the purse you were allowed to bring while Soap is unarmed. If things go haywire you’re stuck defending the both of you in an impossible situation. You’re just grateful that Ghost will be watching over you two. 

“This is the market we’re supposed to stake out, see if anything is fishy.” Soap reminds you, pulling you forward. He stops at the first stall where the fruit is being sold, some you’ve never seen before. You have to pretend to be madly in love with Soap and the idea makes you sick, you’d much rather have someone else in his place. Preferable a tall British man, but you can’t swap now.

“Aren’t these beautiful, honey?” You give Soap an adoring glance and he smiles at you. He agrees, picking up an apple from the stall and handing it to you. You pull out your wallet and hand the seller a random amount, and he thanks you gratefully. You assume you gave him way above the price, but you don’t mind. 

“Would you like to look at those wooden sculptures?” Soap offers, pointing to a stall where a woman is carving into wood. Her stall consists of wooden figures of a large variety. Your eyes land on a small skull sculpture and you instantly think of Ghost. “I’ll take the rose-carved one,” Soap speaks up. The woman stops carving and picks up the rose-shaped wood. She gives Soap a wide smile as he hands her money. 

“Of course, he would.” Ghost’s voice cracks through your com and you have to stop yourself from laughing. You’ll enjoy Ghost’s commentary on Soap’s actions, it’ll get you through this awkward mission.

“What a lovely couple!” She hums, handing over the figure. You can hear a grunt in your earpiece that’s hidden by your hair. She congratulates you and your eyes are still on the skull. “Oh, do you want the skull?” She asks, picking it up gently. You nod, digging for your wallet again. She holds up a hand and places the skull into your palm. “No need! It’s a gift for your wedding!”

You walk away from the stall after thanking her, taking Soap’s hand again. You’re about to drag him to another stall near a sketchy alleyway you want to check out. Before you can tell him about it Soap grabs your waist and pulls you against his chest. He places a finger over your lip and plants it on the other side of his thumb. Your lips don’t touch but it would be easy to assume you’re both kissing. You can hear more noise through the coms, but you can’t make out what Ghost is saying over your pulse rising. You aren’t attracted to Soap in any way, but the closeness is intimidating.

You want to ask why he suddenly decided to do this until a group of men in enemy uniforms stomps past you. You realize it was his way of blending into a crowd, because who wants to stare at a couple displaying PDA. He pulls away once he believes it’s safe, wiping his thumb off.

“Rude!” You tease as Soap rolls his eyes playfully. 

--

You’ve scoped out any suspicious activity in the area, to the point where you can name every stall with your eyes closed. Your feet are killing you and the heat of the day is making you too sweaty to be comfortable. You’ve already eaten your apple from that one vendor and yet you’re still starving. You just want to get back to base and eat an actual meal. 

“Are you ready to leave?” You ask, stretching your legs to give them a break from your weight. Soap gives you a mischievous look before grabbing you and picking you up. You don’t know what cogs are turning in his head but you know he’s planning something. 

He pushes his face against your ear where the com is, whispering as sweetly as possible, “I’m so glad you’re finally mine. Marryin’ you was the best day of my life and I’m glad we met.” Your eyes widen at his words. You don’t know where this romance came from and honestly, you’re confused about whether he’s being serious or still playing his part.

“If I knew any better I’d assume you’re whispering sweet nothings to Ghost.” You joke and earn a laugh from both men. Soap begins walking away from the market with you in his arms. 

“Just trying something out.” He explains vaguely and a part of your stomach drops. What does Soap have planned and why did he have to make sure Ghost heard? You’ll probably never get your answer from him.

--

Once you get close enough to the safe house without any risks of being seen, Ghost joins you. His attire stands out from the clothes you and Soap chose for your fake date. His mask is clinging to his face, the skull covering what the rest of the balaclava can’t. He’s looking straightforward, silent as a mouse.

“See anything we should know about?” You ask Ghost, Soap’s interest peaking. Ghost’s eyes look at you through the corners of them, the usual dead look in them. You honestly find his get-up interesting, it’s unique. 

“A few cars slowed down while passing the market.” His voice is monotone and you miss how he’d comment on Soap’s acting. You thought it was hilarious how he’d mock Soap and make quips whenever he spoke to you. Now he’s barely talking and you feel disappointed. If you’re being honest, you imagined Ghost being your date instead of Soap. 

“I invented a new word recently,” Soap speaks up and you just have to hear the word he’s going to drop on you and Ghost. “Plagiarism.” You let out a giggle but Ghost remains cold. You’re worried now, he usually enjoys these types of jokes. 

“I saw a guy spill a bunch of Scrabble letters on the road once,” You start your joke, hoping Ghost will join in after you. “I asked him what the word on the street was.” Soap pats your back with a grin.

“Tha’ was garbage!”

--

You sit on the bed of your room in the safe house. You were lucky the safe house was pretty big, but not a place you’d enjoy staying. It’s an abandoned house filled with cobwebs and rotting wood. Since the sun has set the house is ten times worse. Every shadow looks like a person and right now you really want a snack. Sadly, Soap left his protein bars on the first level of the house. 

You gather your courage to walk down the creek stairs. You feel like a child as you grab your flashlight and a knife. You shouldn’t be scared of the dark, you’ve spent a lot of time in it. But this house is terrifying to you. 

You exit your room, slipping down the hall past the other bedrooms. You get halfway down the stairs when someone clearing their throat startles you. You trip a bit and use the railing to stop yourself from falling down the rest. You spin around to see Ghost standing at the top of the stairs with an amused look in his eyes.

“You need a bell on you!” You hiss and Ghost chuckles. The tension inside you disappears at the sound of his laugh. It’s nice to hear it every once in a while, even though it’s not a full laugh. You’re just pleased to see him in a better mood.

“What are ya doing up this late?” He questions, still not moving from the top of the stairs. You have no idea how late it is, you assumed it was about 10 PM but from the way Ghost phrased his question you’d change your guess to past midnight. 

“I got hungry and Ghost left his snacks in the kitchen.” You answer. You conclude that he won’t bother you anymore and begin down the stairs again. You enter the kitchen and see a small bag that Soap uses for food. You zip it open and pull out three protein bars. You know Soap will complain to you once he realizes you took food from him.

You sit down in one of the rotting chairs, open a bar, and take a bite. The taste is nice but you miss the meals you’d be able to make yourself. You shut your eyes from exhaustion, mindlessly biting into the bar again. You rest your head on your hand, hoping you don’t fall asleep like this.

“You’ll choke if you aren’t careful.” As if he’s a profit you choke on the bite from surprise. You’re getting pretty pissed about how silent he is and you’re genuinely thinking about getting him a bell. You clear your throat and glare at Ghost. He’s no longer wearing camouflage and is instead in a black t-shirt and jeans, the mask still on but the skull is gone. His arms are covered in veins poking out, the moonlight from a window illuminating them perfectly. You can see his tattoos and they’re hard to see from how chaotic the scene on his arm is. You can make out a skull and a soldier, barely able to confirm dog tags. 

You both sit in silence while you finish your second bar, already full. You quietly hand him your extra bar and he stores it in his pocket for later. You stand up and begin heading back to the stairs.

“Do you like him?” His voice stops you. You spin on your heel but he’s not facing you. You’re not sure what he means and he must pick up on that, “Soap.” You wonder what happens if you lie or tell the truth. What are the consequences of your choice? It's not like this is any of Ghost’s business.

“Why does that matter? It’s not like anything will come of it.” You test the waters. You want to see his reaction being answering him. There has to be a reason he’s asking you besides curiosity.

“It doesn’t.” He responds. You’re not satisfied. He can’t just as a personal question after being so closed off and why even ask if it doesn’t matter? You’re upset now and you can’t pinpoint why exactly. Because he asked a personal question or because he doesn’t seem to care about you the way you care about him?

You thought you were close enough to consider yourself a friend of Ghost but now you’re not sure. You’re beginning to doubt if he even likes you or if he’s tolerating you. Have you just been making up answers for yourself this whole time?

“Then why ask, huh? Why are you so interested in my love life? For all you know, I’m madly in love with Soap!” You taunt and you can see his arm muscles tense up. You don’t stop though, “I get that you’re the lieutenant and all but what do my feelings have to do with this mission?” You huff. He abruptly stands up and marches over to you. His eyes are dark even with the moonlight reflecting off them. You stare deep into his eyes, trying to figure out what his issue is. 

“Are you?” There’s a long pause where your breathing can be heard. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly at the position you’ve put yourself in. He’s so close to you, you can feel the heat radiating off him. You want to reach up and touch his face even while angry, but you close your fists instead. “Are you in fucking love with him?”

“No.” You answer right after he finishes his question. You furrow your brows and frown. There’s no change in his eyes and you’re certain he’s going to scold you. You hate how many pauses you’ve taken in this conversation so you speak again, “Someone else.” You bite your tongue at your response, hating how it came out.

He steps away from you and cold air rushes to your skin. His eyes no longer harbor anger, instead, there’s a distance. As if he’s pulling away from you mentally as well. You can’t describe the emotion his eyes are presenting you but it makes your chest ache. You reach out and grab his hand, staring at the connection.

You partially believe he’ll rip his hand from yours and reject you in every way possible. Instead, he adjusts his hands to fit your better. “Me?” He mutters softly. You nod and avoid eye contact with him.

You hear fabric moving and your eyes are swiftly covered by a hand. His hands are rough but you don’t mind it. His other hand lets go of yours and grazes over your lips. You swear you can sense him smirking.

“’m gonna erase his kiss from your mind forever.” His voice is low, dangerously low. You don’t have the heart to tell him Soap faked the kiss, not wanting to ruin the moment. Ghost slams his lips onto yours, and crosses your cheek. He’s rough at first, hungry for anything he can get from you. After a while, he slows down and his kiss is more gentle. His thumb rubs up and down your cheek and your heart skips a beat. He removes his lips from you but his hand remains over your eyes, “You’re mine.”

“Who said I wasn’t?” You tease.