#ghost mw 2

[alwaysshallow]

ghost x reader regency au, where he’s pretty much obsessed with the idea of being the one for you.

He's one of your suitors. Rich, big, respected in the community. a man that practically owns the town nearby and makes it his whole personality.

Would be a good suitor, if he wasn’t that controversial. He's being known for “tricking” people, but no one could catch him on that, so he was clean; in theory. Most of the people just feared him and stayed out of his business, for their own good.

Well, at least that was before. before he got interested in you in one of the balls where he spotted you. a gentleman, truly—a little bit stiff, but a gentleman with manners. Quick chit-chat with your mom, dad, even you, asking what you are interested in.

No one asked you this question ever so maybe that’s why it hit you.

Despite that, you ignored the pleas to meet with him, your father even helped you in that. Staying out of trouble, you thought, as you brushed your hair, staring at the sealed envelope with your name.

From Simon Riley.

Little did you know, he wasn’t having any of it. Not your ignorance, not your father’s awkward smile, when he met him in town and asked about you, how have you been. Simon wasn’t an impatient man, but sometimes he needed to take action that might seem risky.

Not like he cared.

Maybe that’s why the next day after this interaction, you see a package, carefully delivered by your maid to your room. It’s big enough, with an enormous ribbon around it—doesn’t take you long to open it, but the shock afterwards is longer.

A dress. Big, violet dress. Exactly your size, a lot of fancy lace there and there. 

You’re stunned for a hot second, feeling the hot splaying on your cheeks; then, you pay attention to the note on the bottom of the box.

“Hoping to see you in this,S.”

Carefully written, and in the back there’s an invitation to the ball. Organized by no one but him.

You think you might faint.

[cloudofbutterflies92]

Anyway I don't understand all this meanness in commenting on Sam's physical appearance, do you really expect Ghost to be a fucking Calvin Klein model in 20? He is a forty year old man, with wrinkles, scars and even a little fat. And as for Sam I can understand that everyone has different tastes but going on his live on IG or on social media to write "he has the Blue Eye stare xdxd" or "he's very ugly" or pushing in his live to leave his wife because you ship Ghost with Soap (or worse because girls think they are in Lolita and no, he won't get involved with you who are little girls)shows how much this fandom sucks.

[leftingbadly]

snow burning. pt 2 | simon riley

After a disastrous mission that goes awry, Simon Riley and Lyla come to the agreement of sleeping in each other's beds to ward off the horrors. They are the horrors.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x OFC

pt. 1

-;

Her eyes were covered by a thick, silk ribbon. 

Where Simon Riley had acquired such an item was beyond her, but she tried not to let herself think about the acquisition too much. There were more pressing matters at present, matters which required the full use of her mind and her hands. Simon Riley’s face was between them, her hands, to be clear. Smooth skin, a freshly shaven face. She could feel from the rummaging and the adventuring of her fingertips that he had shaved the sides of his head, as well. A small patch of hair sat atop his head, longer than the rest, but still short enough to maintain– did he go to the store and buy the ribbon himself?

His body was slit between her legs, which pulled him in as close to her body as he would allow her to. His entire weight tried to crush her, but she was often used to heavy things on her, whether it was due to the tactical gear, being buried in God knows what during their missions, or even the small fact that this was a situation Simon Riley often preferred to have himself in these last few days– did he request it in the quarterly inventory restock?

On top of her, she could hear the gurgling of the man’s stomach. He had skipped meals today. Maybe he had been skipping meals all week. Her hand tightened in the short locks of his hair, and she reminisced of the moments hours before the two of them had found each other in his bed again, for however-many days it had been since they began. 

He had been sparring with John Mactavish. Always John Mactavish, poor, wee old, John Mactavish caught between the fraying edges of Simon Riley’s slipping mind and Lyla’s hard gaze. That very gaze which watched the two men now, their arms grappled one another, thighs strained, feet dug into the earth like it was their birthright. There were precious few times where John wasn’t fighting his teammates, within the confines of comradery, of course. More so were the times that existed where John offered himself to be Simon’s punching bag. The Scot could take a hit, she had to give him that. More so, he could take a hit from Simon. And that, if nothing else, deserved respect. 

She tried to remember the time when he had taken it upon himself to challenge the goliath from KorTac, but every time her mind tried to bring forth those images, her eyes shut and she pushed them away. To give John credit, he lasted a fair few minutes given the absolute size of the man. John was fast enough to evade for some time, but not fast enough. 

A grunt from Simon caught her attention back to them then, her eyes widening as she noticed John had drawn first blood, signalling the end of their sparring. But Simon was angry. And Simon was fraying. And John Mactavish, the gorgeous little shit, with that proud smile on his face and his chest puffed in momentary, stolen glory, knew it too. He was on his back before he knew it, a puff of air escaping his body to refrain from feeling the pure force of Ghost. One fist landed on his cheek, then two, it was four in and a mouth full of blood from Soap’s end before the rest of the team finally jumped in. Captain John Price didn’t move, he rarely moved, but blessed Sergeant Kyle Garrick was there to save the day. 

Lyla hadn’t said anything to either of them that day, not like she normally would have. There was a small voice in the back of her mind that told her saying anything would only fuel the dwindling flame. The small, minute dwindling of the flame. So she got up, and she locked eyes with her captain as she walked passed. And maybe if she spoke “John Price” she would have been able to read him as clearly as she could read everyone else. Maybe if she could read John Price she would have taken note of the warning in his eyes, of the injunction he seemed to be trying to impose on her. But Lyla was a stubborn girl, and she looked away. Because no one was going to tell her what to do– rather, no one was going to tell her to stay away from Simon Riley. 

Which led her here, to his bed. Beneath his sheets. Beneath him. 

“Do you think we would have liked each other if we were civies?” 

There wasn’t a single pause between her question and his answer. “Can’t say.”

“Is that your nice way of saying no?”

“It’s my nice way of saying I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t this.” His answer was heartbreak, as was the stuff Simon Riley was made of. 

The ribbon struggled against her eyes as she adjusted her head on the pillow, and she raised her hand to pull it tighter, further down onto her nose. “Is it coming loose?”

There was a panic in his voice, if she had ever heard a panic sounding Simon. Maybe if she had more energy she would have teased him for it, maybe, if she had more energy, she would have just ripped the damn thing off from her face and stared at him, straight into his eyes, make him face her like a man. 

But she wasn’t so keen on another slap to the face-yet to be determined-at the very least she didn’t want to ruin their otherwise peaceful night. It had been a while since they had had a peaceful night.

“Worried I’ll see your ugly mug, Riley?”

“Worried you’ll fall in love with me, sweetheart.”

And so what if her heart skipped a beat. “Too late.” She sighed out, pressing his face further into her chest.

She could feel his entire body tense, and she had to sink in her cheeks and bite them as she tried to refrain from smiling. He was such… an easy man to make uncomfortable. 

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“No?” Now, maybe, she was gaining the energy to tease. “What shouldn’t I say, hm?”

He pressed hard into her sides, and her entire body lurched up in shock at the sudden feeling of electricity shooting through her. 

Now, this was why Simon Riley wasn’t a smart man. 

Because when you had a gorgeously divine woman beneath you, barely dressed in anything at all, with her legs and thighs wrapped so tightly around you that you feared there would be an indent in your own waist later on– don’t make her lurch up.

More specifically– don’t make her lurch up into you. 

“Fuck–” he gasped, because obviously. And his hands on pure, primal instinct, whether from an inherent understanding or, perhaps and more possibly, trauma, came to push her down and away from him by her hips. He lifted himself as much as he could on weak knees, his own core still throbbing at the sudden feeling of her heat pressed so tightly, so warmly, so fixed onto him.

“That was your fault,” she breathed out. Equally, obviously, flustered at having had felt him. “Simon–”

“I know, shut up.”

“You have to–”

“I. Know.” He gritted out. “Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

And this was why they were both idiots. 

Because while both of them had very clearly admitted their attraction to one another, at the very least on the most primary physical level, they still deemed it the best idea in the universe to sleep together in the same bed, curled up against each other. For healing. Of course. To ward off the demons. Obviously. Except it seemed that tonight in particular, the demons seemed to be their very own selves.

Because Simon Riley was still hard, and he was still on top of her. And her legs were still, however loosely, wrapped around his hips. 

“Do you want me to move?” Her stupid suggestion broke the air around him.

He grunted, because he was an idiot, and replied. “No, just…”

“Do you want me to list off really, really turn-off things?”

“For the love of God, Lyla, stop talking.”

“Stop talking?” She was offended, because with the silk blind fold on she couldn’t see the way he was looking at her. Because from her viewpoint she couldn’t see that her hair spread out around her like a crown, that one of the straps of her tank top had fallen off her shoulder, that her collarbone was on full display for him, that the baby-pink silk ribbon around her eyes and her open mouth did absolute fuck-all to deter his lower half. She didn’t stop talking because she didn’t know what her voice did to him, and he didn’t move because he didn’t want whatever it was about her to stop doing things to him. Because they were, as we’ve ascertained, both idiots. 

“Simon Riley, I really don’t know who exactly you think–”

“Lyla, stop talking before I fucking stuff that ribbon into your mouth.”

Noted.

Sure.

That was a completely moderate thing to have said. To be fair, the man was fighting demons. And to be fair, she didn’t know what was happening at all to him. And in a completely idiotic show of weakness, once the woman beneath him had shut her mouth and the voices in his head became louder, Simon Riley made the outrageous decision to slowly, gently, painstakingly lower his hips onto her again, juuuust where he had touched her before.

“Can I…” but there was no question to finish it off. “Just… just a little bit…” and his actions barely constituted a request. And yet, for some reason, her body answered in full. Her legs wrapped around his thighs then, not higher, not lower. Lightly, just enough to let him know she was there, she was accepting, she was willing. Not more than that, to not scare him off.

Because yeah, maybe the reason for their problems was the fact that Simon hadn’t fucked her yet. And–

Lyla tried to contain the gasp her throat let out, but when Simon, oh the man that he was, grinded his hips just so lightly into her that she could barely feel the outline of him, maybe even the devil could have forgiven her for the sounds she made. Because he was gentle, because he was kind, because he was doing it like it was the last thing in the world he deserved. Her hand raised to take hold of his hair, to bring him closer to her so that she could kiss him.

And his hips circled, pressing deeper into her clothed core as his bare stomach met her clothed one. When he pushed back this time, she thought he was going to grind into her again, and her stomach tightened in preparation for the feeling. 

But he moved back, and he moved even further back, and in the next moment she was left alone and cold. Shuffling sounded for a moment, and her vision came back. And Simon was putting the baby pink ribbon on the side of the bed stand and putting his mask back on in the same movement. And the last thing she saw that night was the view of his large, naked back, littered with scars and moles and everything else humans had that gave credit to a life’s existence, before the lights went out. 

pt 3.

[dracobrooklyn]

Meet Me In The Woods Ghost x Reader x König

|| MDNI || 18+

Summary: You finally are ready to marry, your suitor. Simon Riley The great Huntsman who hasn't really fallen for you (yet) but he very much an honorable man. You have fallen for the handsome, strong, and brooding man. As time goes on, You and Ghost have gotten Closer together and bonded getting close to your wedding day. But someone else is not too happy with your matrimony. König the wolf that hid in the woods watching your every mood when he met you for the first time... though. You never met him... but he knows you. He knows your route, your favorite flower, the conversations you have with yourself, and the basket you carry with sweets and goods you bring to your grandmother. He wants you... so much. Being the wolf you would be frightened. So When the time is right... he's going to take you as his mate. It is your choice... Stay with the Huntsmen your future Husband. Or allow the Wolf to court you into his den as his mate forever.

This is my AU Writing of Ghost x Reader x König on Red Riding Hood. There will be two POV. Through Ghost and König. So if you don't fancy the other you can read the POV of the other. There will be two different endings so Other Than That. Enjoy!

This will have Mature Adult themes. Sexual Content, Violence, Language, and Triggers that will be tagged in the Chapters. Please do not interact if you are under 18. MDNI 18+

Huntsmen!Ghost

Chapters: WIP

Headcannons: Ask's Open!

____________________________________________

Wolf!König

Chapters: WIP

Headcannons: Ask's Open!

[stray-cat-with-internet-access]

Sleeping with Simon Riley

I´m 100% convinced that this man is the little spoon.

When you both go to sleep he is inmediately laying on his side with his back to you; he is not ignoring you, he just sleeps better with that broken nose of his in that position, doesn´t want to disturb you with his snores.

He is a really big guy, so even if you wanted, laying your head on his chest or shoulder makes your neck hurt and if he is the one spooning you tends to crush you in his sleep or ends waking you up everytime his body spams.

So you climb in bed and cling behind him like a backpack. Throwing your arm around his midsection you place your hand over the soft pudge of his tummy, the broad expanse of his shoulders block any light to reach your eyes in the morning and his butt cushions your thights, keeping you warm all night. His hand rest on top of yours, drawing circles in your knuckles until you both fall asleep.

And he is never going to tell you, but everytime he wakes up at 4am to go to base he guides your hand to his lips and kiss it before getting up and sneak out of the bedroom to let you sleep.

You always noticed tho, your smile hidden by the way you snuggle against his pillow, trying to keep the ghost of his presence, just a little bit more.

[teyamsatan]

➸ ʀɪᴅɪɴɢ ʟɪᴇᴜᴛᴇɴᴀɴᴛ!ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴛᴀʀɢᴇᴛ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴇ

pairings: simon "ghost" riley x female!reader

a/n: i wrote this for the "praise/degradation" kinktober prompt and it could fit both jake sully and ghost so i decided to publish it for ghost. is it self-plagiarism to just copy paste it and post it for dilf!jake, too? asking for a friend

warnings: pwp under the cut (18+ mdni), pet names (doll, love, princess, kid), implied age gap, slight degradation, some praise, semi-public i guess??

wc: >400 words

ghost masterlist (x)

“Feels… so… good… fuck!”

Bouncing on your lieutenant's cock in a hidden bush after excusing yourself from target practice was not on your list of things to do today, but then again… it never was. But you just couldn’t help it, not when there he was, so fucking hot, giving orders, showing trainees how to shoot all the different guns in the army's arsenal, not when your underwear was uncomfortably sliding against your swollen folds, dripping in slick. The people will be fine practising on their own for a while, right? After all, the target was right there, all they had to do is… aim at it… right? 

“Fucking hell, kid…” Ghost's voice was gravelly and low, the thick accent mixing beautifully with the gritty groans that escaped him as you twitched around his length with every thrust that threatened to bruise your already aching cervix. It was maddening, the pace he set, the way he couldn’t help but buck his hips upwards to be even deeper in your tight, soaked pussy, the need to be closer, to feel you, to fill you, ever present and ever growing.

“You look so good taking my cock. So good.” 

The best you can do in response is a faint moan, so focused on maintaining the pace he set, thoughts overflowing with how good he felt, how much it all was, how when he pulled the mask slightly upwards and captured your nipple in his mouth, sucking while circling your sensitive clit with his thumb, it all made tears prick at your eyes painfully and free flow down your face as the orgasm drew closer and closer with each passing moment. 

“Couldn’t even wait 'til the end of practice, could you? My desperate, needy slut. Always have to have all your little holes stuffed, eh?” 

HIs words always had such power to bring you to your knees, or to your orgasm, the feeling overtaking all of your senses, white noise all you were able to see and hear as he continued abusing your convulsing cunt. 

“Squeezing me so well, gonna make me cum all over this pretty pussy. But I’m not done yet, love.” 

It took no effort on his part to pull you off him and manhandle you in a new position, barely managing to hold your own weight on all fours, so spent and overwhelmed from the onslaught of sensations he was so good at eliciting in you and for you. 

“Come on, doll. Face down, ass up. Gotta make sure to fill you up until everyone on that field knows how much you like being fucked until you’re dripping from all sides.”

[flosgaudium]

"I'm not gonna see him."

hi yes i'm aware that this happens during the 'alone' mission but... what if ghost crept up on these two lol

[a-gromova]

Going Dark

[tacticaldiary]

A Fighting Chance

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

Part 2, Masterlist,

"What're those?"

"Papers."

Ghost pauses halfway through opening the document, glancing up at the curtness of her voice. "Papers? She doesn't meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the table of the little booth they're sitting in.

The ice in her drink is long gone, watering down her coffee into something that tastes as bitter as her heart.

It had taken months for her to finally make this decision. Days of talking with her lawyer, crying alone at night and coming to the gruelling acceptance that this was for the best. It was best for both of them.

There's not many things that unsettle Simon. He's had blood stain his hands; his own, his comrades, and his enemies. Had almost any injury you could think of marring his skin, been prodded and ripped into, been the one on the opposite end of the knife.

But as he slides out the documents, turns them over, Simon's never felt more apprehensive.

He stills, reading the first few lines, clenching his jaw. "What is this?"

"I want a divorce."

And something in him crumbles at her defeated tone. Like she's already decided. Like he doesn't even have a chance to ask why or talk it through.

"No." He says tightly, putting them down and crossing his arms.

Her gaze shoots to his. "You can't just say that."

"I did. I won't sign them."

"I want this." She argues, and Simon swallows back the lump in his throat at how utterly tired she looks.

"I don't."

She's the light of his life, the one good, untouched piece of joy he gets to see. Something other than the bloodshed and violence he lives in.

"Simon," She says, shoulders sagging forward. "I can't do this anymore."

"This isn't the solution, love." He feels like his skin is crawling, the beginnings of unfamiliar panic clawing at his chest when she doesn't react to the pet name.

Doesn't smile, doesn't flush that beautiful red, doesn't squirm.

When she doesn't respond again, tight-lipped and clammed up and so determined to not look at him, he asks the question burning a hole through his tongue.

"Why?"

Deep down he knows. Knew this was coming but that part of him is buried under the thudding of his heart, and the rush of blood in his ears. Everything feels deathly still and moving too fast at the same time.

"Why?" She repeats, something in her stirring at the question. Her brow furrows and she switches from a cautious indifference to disbelief and frustration quicker than Simon can process. "Are you serious?" She huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're away for months at a time and I'm supposed to what? Wait for you at our doorstep and wag my tail all happy when you finally come back to me?" Her grip tightens on her drink.

"Even when you are home, it's never about us. Never about me and you. You lock yourself in your study with your work, don't talk to me unless you come out for dinner or lunch. When was the last time we went out?" She demands. "When was the last time we went on a date? The last time we slept at the same time in the same bed?"

Simon clenches his jaw but says nothing, at a loss for words. It only encourages her to keep going, spewing thoughts that have been boiling over for the past few years.

"You barely look at me when we're home, I had to drag you out of the house to get here! You left halfway through our anniversary dinner last year because work called you in. Sometimes...sometimes I feel like you're only with me because it's easier than leaving and starting over, and that fucking hurts. It hurts when you can't bear to spend five minutes with me away from work. I've been telling you this for ages but you just...you don't listen to me." She leans forward, drink completely forgotten and hits the final nail in the coffin.

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

"I never even know if you're coming home to me." Her voice cracks, and she hugs her middle, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "So yes, Simon, I want to separate. I'm not happy, not like I was when I met you." A sheen of tears she refuses to let fall.

"You can focus on work like you love to, and I can...I can move on."

It was so good when they started out. She found him endearing, dry humour and brooding and all. It was special, those first few years, and she'll always care about him but this...this waiting, this hurting, laying in bed at night alone and cold and crying...it wasn't right. It wasn't what she wanted and she wouldn't force Simon to want it when he clearly didn't want to.

"Fucking hell, I love you." Simon says quickly, stumbling over what to say. He reaches out for her hand on the table, but she pulls it away before he can grab it. It stings more than he can convey, makes the reality crashes down onto him.

He's about to lose her.

Because he couldn't fucking bear to pull himself out of being 'Ghost'.

It was always a rough couple of weeks during his leave. The adjustment to civilian life was a slow one for him, but that's not really an excuse at all.

"I don't think you do."

Simon blinks at her like she's slapped him. "You...you don't think so?" He repeats, running a hand through his hair. She nods, one nod, quick and so sure that it makes his chest ache.

Fuck. He's absolutely messed up.

"Everything's finalised on my end." She says. "You just need to sign them." Her voice is soft, almost like she's coaxing him.

If there's one thing he knows, it's that he's not touching those fucking papers. He's not losing someone he loves again.

"I'll take time off." He says, the intensity of his gaze makes a shiver run down her spine. "We can work through it, yeah? You can't spring this on me and not give me a chance to protest."

She shakes her head, "You're only taking time off because I'm upset." She tries to explain. "What do you think is going to happen? We spend a month together doing what we used to, and when everything's a little more stable you leave again. Distance yourself. Shut me out. Then we're back to square one."

"Won't happen." He says like he hasn't been doing it for the past few years already. "You...I can't lose you, darling." He leans forward. "Let me make it better. Give me a few months-"

"Simon-"

"A week."

"A week?" Her eyes widen. "A week to...what, prove that you'll change?"

"One week."

She worries her lip between her teeth, considering. One week wasn't a long time, but hope was dangerous in a situation like this.

"I'm not letting you go over something like this." Simon says. "I can't."

"This isn't about you." She crosses her arms. "You really think you can turn just...reverse the past few years in a week?" Maybe it's foolish of her to want him to say yes, to fight for her and realise that she's been hurting, but goddamn doesn't a small part of her scream at him to do it anyway.

"Not trying to reverse it." He folds his arms, and she can see the tense line of his shoulders as he takes in the situation, gears turning in his head as he plans how he's going to work his way out of a situation so precious and daunting as this.

Part of him didn't think it would ever come to this. Yes, he can be cold and aloof but Simon thought she knew that he loved her through it all. No matter what.

When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?

Fuck if that doesn't tear through his chest more painfully than any caliber bullet ever could.

He takes her in quietly for a moment.

The woman he fell in love with. The person that gave him a reason to keep going, a motive to feel anything other than the cold efficientness of loading a gun and firing. Soft touches and warm smiles, something so at odds with the rough life he's used to.

Sitting there in front of him, she looks more beautiful than he remembers, and it only proves to make his stomach sink like a stone at the notion of seeding any doubt about his feelings in her heart.

A right fucking bastard he was for it.

"I'm sorry." He breathes out, much softer than the gruff voice he's been using with her. "I'll do better. Just give me a chance, yeah?"

For one horrible moment, Simon thinks she'll decline. That she'll slide over the papers again and demand he sign them.

But she considers his words for a moment before nodding once.

And it's all he needs.

A fighting chance.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

Part 2

(11/10/2023)

[divine-draws]

please draw more lovely bits of ghoap being all cuddly and domestic, maybe one of them laying on the couch playing with the hair of the other?

oh to be tenderly embraced...

[ramvur]

the best task force out there

[available on InPRNT!]

[mentoskova]

"Watcher-1 to Bravo 0-7, you in position?"

"Nearly there."

[cloudofbutterflies92]

Do you think I have forgotten about you?

Ghost x f!OC Angst/fluff

Thank you @cassietrn for this request💕, I hope I have met your expectations. This au is a bit inspired by Fatal Frame, one of my favorite games and a bit of mine and is set in 1920(so I apologize if Ghost is a bit out of character if it bothers some). After that I'll let you read, good luck <3

Tw:Blood and graphic description of violence

Divider by @saradika-graphics

The job was simply: to have to explain the paranormal phenomena inside that mansion and capture them with her camera obscura. The owner had been clear with the woman: "Drive that idiot away or I will lose my money."

Eden had always been passionate about that work; her father had always taught her well. Then at the age of 12 she received her camera, with the power to capture ghosts and seal them forever. She had made a name for herself and now at 28 was one of the most famous ghost hunters in London, but she had never seen anything like it.

Poltergeists, possessions and even the disappearance of several people, and only for one ghost. No one knew his name; most of the time he just called himself Ghost. It sounded like a joke but it was, and she already imagined it would be hard.

"I need to be alone, let no one come in" was Eden's warning, the three men and the woman with her raised their hands and like Pontius Pilate wanted to wash them completely. It was going to be her responsibility.

"You can do it" she stepped firmly enough to flutter her long skirt and the brunette reached the entrance to the mansion.

From the way it was composed it looked like the classic place where a family could spend their quiet days, with that almost manic order. The owner's wife surely wanted to make an impeccable impression with the future buyers of that mansion.

With the camera lens, the young ghost hunter began to capture as many angles as possible, before setting up in the center of the most haunted room: the living room. One of her theories might have been that many of the objects there, bought from some flea market in the Covent Garden area channeled the spiritual energy of whoever possessed it. More than plausible considering that many of the objects present were of Egyptian or Mesopotamian origin.

With salt Eden began to create a seal made in the shape of a pentalfa that could protect her. She had already felt the presence of the 'being.

"Show yourself, I'm not going to do anything to you" in a firm voice Eden called the spirit's attention.

Or rather the glass that almost was smashed against her, leaving a small cut on her cheek.

"Why do you bother these people? They simply want to help you."

A thud followed the female's words, as a kind of earthquake all around Eden began to move.

"Help me? You are just so stupid, these bastards have accomplished heinous things in this place" a mighty, angry voice made the glass of the room vibrate. Eden's fingers were trembling, held tightly around her faithful companion of a thousand adventures.

She swallowed, she could have run away but was now entangled in the situation. The only option seemed to be to make the spirit speak and capture it.

"Atrocious things? Why don't you tell me about them?"

A gust of wind blew out the candles, the house descended into that darkness, so oppressive that it seemed almost as if one struggled to breathe, and it was useless for Eden to try to light another candle.

The crunching of stairs caught her attention, from it a figure emerged, bulky and mighty came within inches of the border of the seal. A skull mask covered his features and a long hooded coat covered the rest of his body. He could have been about 6.4 ft.

But what struck Eden was the 'intensity of his gaze, she had never seen anything make her shiver so much and penetrate her bones.

"Silly ghost hunter, do you really think that ephemeral object can do anything to me?" With only the strength of his hand the creature flung the object away, for the first time in her life Eden was frightened. Scared that she could do nothing. She fell to her knees, reciting the prayer that exorcist had taught her during her stay in Rome a few months earlier. The demon's dark, low laugh seemed to suffer the opposite effect.

"You are fighting against those whom you should not be fighting instead, these people wanted me to enter their house" he lowered his hood, with Eden's blank stare that was helpless. With his finger he commanded her to step out of the circle, and she like a poor lamb stepped out of it, almost as if she must be ready to be sacrificed.

"I want you to be able to see the truth" Ghost laid his hands on the ghost's hunter eyes. Various images of people of all ages, desperate for them not to be sacrificed to that demon. Blood flowed inside those walls, reaching to the feet of Eden, who with her mouth open began to tremble.

"Please stop, I don't want to see anything anymore!"She began to cry, all the pain of those victims was affecting her both physically and spiritually. Unusually mercifully he let go, seeing her and her face wet with tears. What had those horrible people done? Had they used that place as a homeless shelter and sacrificed victims to enrich themselves?

"I have my reasons for this place not to be sold. I was the first victim."

"May I know how you died?" The question seemed ridiculous, but seeing him open up like that maybe Eden could help. The stern, angry gaze of the being did not seem to be of the same opinion, however, grabbing her by the chin. His breath, cold as death went to touch her rosy-colored cheeks.

"I'm not going to tell you a damn thing, you've already seen it all" he then left her, retreating his pace. Eden simply wanted to understand.

"Are you so afraid to talk? So afraid of a human that you don't want to give him reasons why you act this way."

Ghost's hazel eyes soon began to turn crimson red, like the blood of all those victims.

"I am not afraid of you human, get it through your head!Your bullshit doesn't work on me" Pacing back and forth he studied her.

"I" Eden released a tired, somewhat pained breath "just want to help you and all the people who lost their lives here."

A collection of people, of all ages surrounded the two suddenly , in that sort of tornado made of fog. She felt herself being sucked in and was motionless and afraid. She did not know what to do. The demon approached her, taking off the mask he had kept until then to conceal his identity.

"Simon" Eden's heart stopped beating for a 'moment, she could not believe it.

Simon, had her Simon died in that place? They had never found his body after he had said he was going on a trading trip, being the manager of the antique store with Eden, his wife.

"That's why I didn't want to tell you the truth!" at the center of the tornado Simon took her hands, the spirits around them were breaking free, ready to make the owners of that house pay. But what mattered to Eden was that now she knew, her husband was there before her.She would have liked to ask him why.Why him of all people?

Instinctively she closed her eyes, finding herself in a different place--a huge green plain that smelled of melancholy, she looked around.On various hills surrounding the small valley were the spirits of the people who had been saved by that revelation.

"My dear" a voice that smelled of longing called her back, behind her as soon as she turned around was her husband. He was no longer wearing that sort of black suit, no longer possessed by that demon, he was the same man she had married. The one with whom she had built their antique store, her gentle giant.

"I would have wished" she began to tremble, tears flowing "to save you and find your remains."

"Don't blame yourself you don't have" his fingers went to graze the heart-shaped pendant he had given her as an engagement promise, before they were married.

"I'm glad you still wear it."

"How could I take it off? It is an integral part of me. As are you."

Just feeling the contact of her skin against his fingers, reaching then to her brown locks. How could she not have him with her every morning beside her?To smell his aftershave scent as he rubbed her nose against his neck? And the words of love of how lucky he was to have her as his wife?

"Remember," he placed a hand against her chest, his touch definitely calming her, letting him rest his forehead in a relaxed manner against hers.

"You managed to save everyone in that mansion. And you saved me from that demon, you did darling"

That way he pronounced it, Eden knew she had to momentarily say goodbye to him but she didn't want to.Now that she knew the truth about his disappearance she wanted nothing more than to hold him close to her.

"What will I do without you?"

"I will always be with you, I will not leave you. And in the next life I promise I will look for you."

"I won't make it, I can't make it" sobbed the brunette whose tears he wiped away before giving her that kiss, the last carnal kiss before their paths parted. At least in this life.

As Eden watched him walk away to join that procession of souls, Simon from high on that hill looked at her wistfully. He would find her again, in whatever life he would be reborn he would be with her.And she would look for him in the corner, even if it took her centuries to be with him together. Forever.

London, June 1920

Eden was sitting in that garden quietly, newspaper in hand was reading the article "An 'entire family arrested for the' murder of 60 strangers, sacrificed to the god Pazuzu in exchange for wealth and prosperity" read the headline.

After her investigation inside the mansion the brunette, returning home had immediately told the police everything, who investigating had discovered the remains of the victims. Among them were those of Simon, who could now finally rest in peace.

"We did it did you see?" She whispered as she raised her eyes to the sky, it was definitely a sunny and clear day, one of those early June days not so hot and not so cold.Just at the thought that her husband could now rest in peace she smiled, especially thinking of the promise he had made.

From a tree Eden heard cawing, a raven had alighted on a lamppost. That signal was clear to her, Simon was there.

Tag: @chloekistune @graveyard-party666 @alypink @kaitaiga @corvosattano @onehornedbeast @themotherofhorses @alexxmason @carlosoliveiraa @socially-awkward-skeleton @thewanderer-000 @thedeadthree @sinclxirx @simonxriley @marivenah @strangefable @captastra @aceghosts @kikiharinezumi @katsigian @voidika @pvnkesttt @starryylies

"I will always be with you, I will not leave you. And in the next life I promise I will look for you. That's a promise."

[leftingbadly]

snow burning. pt 3 | simon riley

After a disastrous mission that goes awry, Simon Riley and Lyla come to the agreement of sleeping in each other's beds to ward off the horrors. They are the horrors.

[author here, sorri this is soOOoooOOOoOoOO later than last one (words, what?) i've been writiing an OG work that i want to have published by the 20th and it's taken up all my time (spoiler it s about demons and childhood friends to lovers and tails and hORNs bwahahah) horororororo. but here you stinkies go. enjoy!11!!1111!] {also omg ps i saw so many motorbikes on campus since uni started i want to cRY that should be meeeeeeeee}

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x OFC

pt 2.

-;

“Thou who hast shared the guilt must share the woe.”

Head tilted back, eyes closed and feet splayed out along the chair in front of her, Lyla was having a rough fucking day. That, in tandem with the fact that she had barely gotten a decent night’s rest since she’d been back in her own room, under her own blankets, she was in a sour mood. 

She couldn’t help but to think back to the night prior to all of this. She couldn’t help but remember how Simon’s door was locked the next night. The rattling of the door handle was a sound she didn’t think she’d be forgetting any time soon. There was a distinct noise to it, coupled with the sound of her heart lurching in her chest. Shadows from beneath the door frame moved for a moment before they stopped, and something tightened in her chest even more. She was a smart woman– and this was why. 

Because she knew if Simon Riley didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be. And she knew that if he truly wanted to avoid someone, he could. There was no way he didn’t realise that she would have seen that shadow of his from beneath his door. No– he wanted her to see it. He wanted her to know that she was being ignored. 

“What is it?”

Her eyes snapped open as her head lifted up. Jolting for a moment, at the deep foreign sound of a foreign voice that had entered the room. Her eyes followed him as he walked, deft fingers running along his chest and sides to unstrap, unbuckle, unchain. 

It was common enough for them to share similar spaces on missions, but she had thought there was a clear indication from the man before her, from their prior missions, that there was no interest in bridging any distances with her. 

“It’s… my affirmation.” She supplied cautiously. 

Because she didn’t know what she was dealing with, and her body was still in fight or flight from the mission before. It had been successful, barely so, and it had cost them more than what they were willing to part with. “It helps.” 

For some reason, she felt the need to defend herself.

“It is sad, for affirmation.” 

Her eyes narrowed at the goliath before her, his harsh sniper’s hood no way near as disconcerting as the skull mask she often found herself faced with. But for some reason she had grown accustomed to the white bone and hard edges of Simon Riley’s mask. König’s was, well, strange. In the sense that there was nothing at all to latch onto besides those eyes. They were blue. She knew that much. But there was a tugging in her that wanted to know what, exactly, sort of shade of blue it was that belonged to the goliath in front of her. Maybe that at the very least would allow him some personhood. Maybe that at least would give her an advantage over him. To know that he had blue eyes, to know that he got it from someone-mother or father?-to know that there was a thing he was connected to and that he showed the world so wholly this part of himself simply because he couldn’t hide it away. Simon Riley was much the same. For all they hid, their eyes betrayed all else. 

“Yeah, well, it’s mine.” She snapped. And maybe it was the agitation from the mission, but maybe it was because she wanted to know the colour of his eyes. But maybe it wasn’t about the man in front of her at all. 

Lyla lifted her legs off the chair and placed them in front of her, but the goliath spoke up again before she could stand. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

And what the fuck sort of question was that?

The woman looked up to him. And she stared. And he stared back. And she still couldn’t fucking tell what the colour of those damn eyes were. 

“What?” She asked dumbly.

“Are you leaving?” He asked back.

“I was.”

“Because of me?”

“Does that bother you?” 

There was a pause then, from his side. And if she had any less confidence in her observational abilities maybe she would have second-guessed the way his shoulders slumped and the lowering of his eyes. Still he kept eye contact, still he refused to allow her to know the colour of his–

“Yes,” he relented to her shock, moving closer to her. And maybe if she wasn’t such a masochist she would have felt afraid. “Tell me why you left that night.”

A lump began forming in her throat, and images flashed of bare throats and weight she loved–pressing, pushing, parting. König was in front of her now, tall and demanding, his mere shadow overtaking her entire presence in the room. And she was thrilled for it. 

Her mind reminded her of the image of the man before her, only then, at that time, he was much smaller. Men often are when they’re reduced to their knees. Men often are when they’re begging. She remembered the whimpers that left through his mouth that day on the field. It was their first meeting, the first time she had ever seen him so up close. Of course, she had seen him here and there. But that particular day the goliath before her now had taken a particularly nasty shot to the abdomen, reducing him to half his height, half his stature. 

She had thought he was an enemy first. He had thought the same.

It wasn’t until one of their other allies had come over, a medic, to inspect the half-goliath that they realised they were comrades. At least for now. At least for today. Later, though, when he slammed her against the wall of her bedroom and rutted against her like he hated her, she wasn’t so sure. 

She’d left him that same night, when his body had utterly given up on concealing the tiredness that overtook him, like the hounds of hell had been on her trail. Maybe they had been. Maybe they are. 

Her eyes shot forward and focused now when he took a closer step towards her.

She heard his mouth open again. “Stay. And tell me–”

“Soldier.”

Another voice, this time not foreign, this time not rough. 

Two pairs of eyes moved from one another to the Lieutenant positioned at the door. Lyla felt a surge of annoyance rush over her, despite nothing having happened yet. She found herself wondering when ghosts had come to haunt her. A pregnant silence filled the room, and maybe if she had cast a glance to König before her, she would have seen the daggers thrown at her commanding officer. Maybe, if he had allowed himself to move his eyes from hers to Königs, Lyla could have seen the hate in Simon Riley’s, too. 

There was too much happening in the silence between the three of them that Lyla almost gagged on it. Her mind was reeling, her body felt like it wanted to do the same. 

It didn’t take long for König to move. His large footsteps thundering as his gear rattled, his leg brushing against hers as he moved passed her and sent a vicious thrill through her body-she was almost embarrassed for it-and left the room. 

A ghost stared at her, and she stared back. 

“You and the big boy seem to be getting on.” 

Silence.

“Guess you do have a type–”

“Why did you lock your door?”

Maybe if he was smart enough he’d be able to hear through the anger to the question she was actually asking.

Why did you shut me out?

We promised to allow ourselves to need each other–why did you break it?

In the dull silence, she heard him swallow hard. Maybe if he had that damned balaclava off his face she would have seen the way his throat bobbed. All she could see, though, were the hard set eyes as he stared in front of him, not even looking at her as he remained silent. He had been so full of words before, she mused, why now did they seem to be choking him. 

Lyla wasn’t a young woman, none of them were. Even if their ages denied it, they had lived lifetimes of grief and pain that simply didn’t allow for the precious faults of youth to take hold. Those delectable turnings of emotions and imaginations of whatever it was that being outside of war allowed, Lyla and her ghost were deprived of them. And because of this, she knew when to walk away from things. So she stood up eventually, but when she moved to walk past him, he held onto her arm. 

She stilled. Because of course she did. Because what else would she do when he was casting that silent plea out into the world around them? For all his faults, Simon Riley was a man hard to say no to. But she was hurting.

And when she was hurt, she hurt. 

“You asked once why he and I can get on so well?” She turned to Simon as he looked at her, nodding. And perhaps if there wasn’t an anger clouding her gaze she would have seen the vulnerability in his. “Maybe because he’s not scared to fucking kiss me.”

The harsh intake of Simon’s breath caught her off guard. 

“Did you let him?”

The question sounded so wrong in his mouth, to him, it felt like a poison wrapping around his tongue, sliding down his throat. The words felt foreign even in the air that distanced between them. Because why did he ask that? What right did he have to her, to ask a question like that? Something that sounded more like a demand than anything else. Did you let him kiss you. And maybe if he was bolder, the words would’ve sounded more like did you let him kiss what was mine. 

Because she was his, wasn’t she? At the end of all things. His to hold at night, his to keep safe. His to kiss. But he hadn’t, and she was fraying, too, at the edges and the ends of all things. And Lyla would be damned if she broke herself waiting for him to piece himself back together. Simon Riley was a man unloved for the vast majority of the years he had lived, even more so, he was a man unwilling to do it. He had told her that, in so many ways, on one of the nights they had been lying in his bed together. 

“So you’d never get married?” She had asked him, the pink ribbon around her eyes again as her hand traced circles and stars onto his bare chest. It was something Simon liked to do as soon as he got back, to shrug off his coat and his shirt and everything else he had been carrying on his back. It was something she liked to do, too, to lay on his naked chest and run her fingers through all the cracks and the scars and the valleys he made known to her. 

It brought her a strange sort of pride, and comfort, to know that despite his body keeping score of all the knife wounds and the bullet holes and the punches and gashes and slashes, his body took the score of her soft fingertips, too. She could feel the way his stomach caved in when she touched a particularly sensitive spot on his side, she allowed the pride to settle in her gut. 

“You’d have me as a husband?” There was an amused tone to his voice. His fingertips digging into her sides as well. His pride settled in his gut, too, when she shivered.

“Why not?”

“I’m a broken man, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” She snuggled deeper into his chest. “I’m a broken woman.” 

Unlike the other nights, whenever she mentioned something so domestic, Simon didn’t keep quiet. This was something that had shocked the woman now laying halfway on top of him, with her leg bent over his and her entire front pressing into his side. “Would you actually?”

“Hm?”

Her head tilted up with the guidance of his hand, and despite not being able to see him, she could feel his eyes on her. 

“Would you let me make you my little wife?”

The memory lurched from her when Simon’s current grip pulled her from it. And she stared now into his eyes. These eyes, these blue eyes, oceanic, rain-filled, grief-leaking. 

“Do you think you deserve to ask me something like that?” Her voice seethed. 

“You think you can come here and chase away the other boys like a fucking bully, like someone who owns anything here? You think you can rut into me and lock me out the next day?” She snatched her arm from him. But she remained still. 

And then she allowed herself to ask something gentle. “Didn’t it feel good?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully. “That what you wanna hear? That rutting into you felt good?” A sense of pride washed over her as he bent his head and leaned forward. “But don’t humour yourself too much sweetheart.”

Something dreaded took home in her heart. “It did feel good,” he said honestly. “But not because it was you.” He lied.

[ghostaholics]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn medic!Reader (same reader from here, but this is a stand-alone) ➸ SUMMARY: You kiss Simon's very minor injuries. And then some. (Or, alternatively: He's not actually wounded. He just wants to see you.) ➸ WARNING(S): some graphic descriptions of old injuries ➸ A/N: Need to preface that this isn't smut despite how the title and summary sound. Anyways, Jo knows I listened to Hozier's Other Voices 2020 version of "Work Song" for a week straight while writing this. ➸ WC: 2k

❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃, ❞ he admits, low-timbered. It feels intimate, especially coming from him. Simon's sitting on the cot; it sags under his weight. He curls his hands over the edge of it as he leans forward. No casualties post-mission means he's got free rein to pick wherever he wants in the medical tent.

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

"That I should probably do my best to avoid injuries so I don’t keep pestering you. Can always just tell me to fuck off, y’know.”

“You’re gonna break my heart if you stop coming around.

“Mm,” he says in agreement. “Can’t have that can we?”

You nod your head earnestly. “I like your company.”

“Tryin’ to say that you’ll miss me?”

“I would.” More than he knows.

It’s routine now. He gives you just enough room, adjusting his position. You step into the space made between Simon’s splayed knees, his massive legs nearly bracketing yours with how close they are. He’s bigger than you. Well, considerably more mammoth-like in his proportions compared to an overwhelming majority of the soldiers that you’ve encountered, to be quite honest.

Simon acts as though he’s acutely aware of his size. You suspect that he purposefully makes himself smaller in your presence. Like now, how his shoulders are rounded forward, the column of his spine not as straight-arrow in that standard, militaristic posture most servicemen have adopted. As if he doesn’t want to appear too intimidating. Not that Simon could, to you. Hours doing his stitches and idle chitchat on your part have taught you that he’s much less ruthless than people seem to paint him as. But you appreciate the thought anyway.

You conduct the assessment – a typical evaluation normal for combat casualty care, more in-depth than the one you’d done when he initially stopped by and you did a quick once-over for any obvious injuries. Though given the complete vacancy in the medical tent, you find it hard to believe that you’ll come across anything on him since the mission went that smoothly.

The first thing you notice this time: he doesn't smell like spilled blood. It's different. Not that sweet, rusted iron of wet tackiness – the one that reminds you of a generous stack of two pence coins held between a pair of hands cupped together. He comes in that way a lot. Reeks, because war means that he's no stranger to charging through a shower of copper and lead-forged bullets out on the field. Everything else is still there, though. Maybe a dying campfire – crackling logs and blackened earth. Soft dirt excavated from a foxhole for cover while under enemy fire. All gunpowder and Marlboro Lights and diesel-fuel smoke. Fresh rain and a blue-violet sky after a storm. Victory without consequence.

You'd breathe it in if you could, pull the collar of his jacket up to your face. At this proximity, it’d be easy.

He drops the act when he’s in front of you. Lieutenant. Ghost. Battle-hardened, gruff. A natural-born leader. The kind of person to rip this world apart brick by brick – scraped up palms clutching onto broken pieces – to make sure that the plan is executed accordingly, no matter the cost. It’s hard for him to shed that layer. A drop in the bucket of information that you’ve gathered about this man.

You’ve seen him at his best. But you know him at his worst.

The laundry list of injuries over the years: blows to his torso and his back and his limbs that were brighter than technicolor – purples and reds and sickly yellow-green shades – deep, blotchy medals of violence decorating his skin like some kind of fucked-up kaleidoscope that was nothing to be proud of; when some bastard drove a knife right into his upper thigh, that dirty blade wedged through tissue and muscle which was sure as hell going to induce the nastiest infection without serious TLC and a tetanus shot; rib fractures 7-9 because he aborted an exploding heli, seconds to spare before landing on his side wrong from a height that was equivalent to three stories tall; old GSWs dotting his body the same way you’d shove push pins into a paper-flimsy map to mark the places you’ve been to.

And then there’s no contest for the top contender. 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 #𝟏: when he was rushed in on a stretcher, barely clinging to life. Lower abdomen shredded by exploding shrapnel. He was outside of the window of opportunity. Too far beyond that golden hour, so his chances of surviving plummeted to a single-digit percent.

He’s more than just a patchwork of scars. There’s a complex person underneath the surface. A miracle in the flesh to have toughed it out through all of that. Resilient. Perpetual. His callsign makes sense. Ghosts really do live forever.

Several seconds pass before you speak again. It’s a silly comment, teasing – poking fun at him. You don’t have any reservations when it comes to picking on Simon; he’s good about taking these things in stride. Funny, actually. He’s got a dry sense of humor. “I think… you like the idea of someone taking care of you.”

His response isn’t immediate. It’s delayed, said with intention. He doesn’t ever waste words. “Not just anybody.”

You nearly reel back at that. Warmth floods your face. You aren’t quite sure what to say, didn’t expect it. So you let the comment hang in the air between the two of you, busying your hands with slipping off his tac vest, triple-checking for hidden wounds, doing anything to keep yourself occupied while you stand this close to him in the wake of that remark. You’re engrossed in your work, in search of a distraction.

(He’s a distraction, isn’t he?)

And then your eyes stop in their scan. Right there: a small nick on the exposed sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve – open to the direct path of some wayward debris that happened to graze him. So tiny. You’ve seen paper cuts more harrowing than this – wouldn’t have even registered on your radar, especially if it’s being dwarfed by other critical wounds that hold decisive sway over somebody’s fate when it comes to your average life-or-death scenario.

Of course, you take your job very seriously.

You feign a sharp inhale. “Ah,” you say solemnly, guiding his arm up to your face for a closer look. “Found your problem.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he echoes, voice laced with amusement.

“See, you came to the right place. Anybody else would’ve missed it.”

“The verdict, then?”

“So terrible. Earth-shattering, in fact—”

Simon starts pulling away. “Alright, that’s enough of you takin’ the piss outta me,” he gripes.

You chase his arm to recapture it into your grasp. “Wait!” you say, huffing out a laugh. Your mouth sprouts into a wide grin that makes him roll his eyes.

“You gonna treat me or what?”

Your humor bubbles away as you come back to your senses. Those once-loud peals of laughter start to die down when you take his question into consideration. Because there’s really nothing for you to do; he doesn’t need you.

The realization is slow-moving. It washes over you, rolls like waves as you finally begin to sober up.

Simon wants to be here, and he’s looking for any excuse to stay. He just can’t find the courage to own up to it.

“I dunno. Might be unconventional,” you throw out casually, playing along. “Risky, maybe – never been done before.”

But he’s undeterred. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

You pause for a beat, fingers still wrapped around his forearm because you haven’t managed to let go yet. His skin is warm under your palm. You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to do it – emboldened by his encouragement, given complete carte blanche; he’s leaving this to your discretion. So you press your lips to that area where the cut is, right over his pulse point. If you had lingered for longer, you probably would’ve been able to feel it thudding, that solid rhythm and easy strength reminding you he’s alive.

You expected him to withdraw his arm in bewilderment. He should’ve kicked up a fuss about you violating his boundaries, should’ve told you that you overstepped. Something, right?

But he doesn’t do any of that. Simon’s studying you. Dark pupils. So chasm-deep that the ground beneath your feet might slip away. Ocean trenches, midnight-black like the charcoal smudged around his eyes. When they land on you, his gaze goes molasses-soft. He’s fond; there’s little room for doubt. The way he looks at you says everything. None of that usual coldness he harbors during an op. Instead, relaxed and more human than you’re used to seeing – all of his attention focused solely on you.

“Where else, Simon?” you whisper.

He’s thinking – carefully weighing his options – the same expression that he gets when a crossroads lies ahead of him and he knows his make-it-or-break-it decision will invariably affect the outcome of a mission.

After several moments, his hand comes up. Simon’s fingers curl underneath the hem of his mask; he’s been wearing the fabric balaclava more often since you’ve fixed the stitching on it. Then he lifts – not the entire way. Just to reveal the bottom half of his face. There he is. Sandpaper-rough stubble. The sharp cut of his jaw. A mouth that you’re convinced wears a scowl 24/7 behind his mask but is now slightly twitched up.

Even though you’ve seen it before, the sight of him never fails to steal your breath away. Feels like meeting him for the first time again. With how rarely he does this, it might as well be – that slow, heart-melting sensation is steadily filling the cavern of your chest.

And you lean in. Your lips brush against his; it’s a chaste thing – the kiss – if it can be called that. Gentle. Like how you’d stitch up his wounds with a light touch and kind intent. He’s built of sterner stuff, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s capable of breaking just as easily as everyone else. You always handle Simon with care: unequivocal compassion and empathy when there’s so little of those left on this side of war – privileges that he’s never taken for granted.

“Better?” you ask quietly, tipping your head in question.

Simon hums his approval – this pleased, low sound in his throat. His hand slides across your lower back. He tugs you towards him. “Wouldn’t mind some more attention,” he murmurs, before slotting his mouth over yours. And then he kisses you like it might heal him from the outside in.

[yawnderu]

cr: @ave661

You watch in amusement as Simon sits on the floor with your daughter, a pink handkerchief grasped on his large, calloused hands.

“I must say, Lady Elizabeth, this tea is scrumptious.” From a thick Manchester accent to a posh one, Simon does his best to impress his little princess, taking another sip from the tea she served him in a tiny plastic cup.

“Mm. Is the secret ingredient gold, my beloved Lady Beatrice?” He changes his name again, making the splitting image of him laugh as she nods her head, letting him adjust the tiara she's using before she goes back to serving him another cuppa.

“Well, sir Edwin, the secret ingredient is... a secret.” She tries her best to imitate a posh accent, even going as far as to change Simon's name to something fancier. He looks away, trying to hold in his laughter the moment his sweet daughter plays along.

“Ah, pardon me, Lady Ophelia. How daring of me to ask such a question.” He dabs the handkerchief on his lips a few times, using the opportunity to hide the smile on his lips the moment your crinkled eyes meet his.

“May I have some more tea, Ms. Cecilia?” He's unable to hide his smile the moment your daughter giggles, getting up only to try and put a matching tiara on his head, planting a small kiss on his forehead the same way you both do to her after putting her to bed every night.