#reader x ghost

[konigsblog]

gym-bro simon riley

cw: scent kink (?), dry humping.

he spends hours in the gym, especially in the morning, after getting barely three hours of sleep. getting up early to go for a jog, before coming home, lifting weights and deadlifting ‘til he's shirtless, sweaty with only his sweat shorts on. he grunts lowly and quietly, breathing heavy and laboured, putting down his weights as he wipes his forehead, heading towards the shower.

although, something caught his eye. you, only in a pretty pair of lace panties and an oversized t-shirt, bound to be simon's as it draped over your body, the smell of his cologne noticeable as he took a step closer. he found himself against you, bent over the kitchen counter and whimpering at simon's perverse touch. his breath hitching in his throat, and pressing himself behind you with his hard bulge against your cunt.

he's so musky; droplets of sweat running down his brute, burly chest and forehead, his hair messy and tangled, with his lips on your neck, and hands gripping your hips and waist firmly to hold you in place. he pushed and rocked his broad hips against you, the only thing covering his crotch being his sweat shorts. simon grinded his aching cock against your barely covered sex, humping you and sucking hickeys onto your supple neck while you whimpered out and moaned breathlessly, his scent prominent and sweat assaulting your nostrils, creating an even wetter mess in your panties.

simon pushed his hips against you, rubbing and grinding his clothed length back and forth, the friction causing him to groan out painfully, the tightness in his balls overwhelming and overstimulating.

“keep still, princess’... c’mon, that’s my girl, dollface.” simon's slightly rough, large hands run up your shirt, cupping your waist and your breasts, kneading the fat and flesh on your body as he continued to rub his now drooling, wet dick against the outline of your cunny.

simon's grumbles out, a guttural and hoarse grunt emitting from deep in his chest as he feels himself getting even closer. the sounds of your pleasure and delirium send him over the edge; gritting his teeth together and panting, his sore cock leaking and spurting ropes of white, hot cum, cumming in his tight boxers. :(

“so, so fuckin’ pretty. that’s my girl’...”

[ghouljams]

Cowboy!Ghost deeply regrets telling Soap years ago that he loves women that will actually just kill him, because now God is punishing him. You are the sweetest, softest, thing. Made for anything but killing. He saw you fall asleep in the pasture once and watched as cows cozied up to you for a nap like overgrown puppies, he couldn't believe you were anything less than an angel.

So it is shocking to him watching you handle a rifle. He is deeply concerned you're going to hurt yourself watching you tug frustratedly at the bolt, not realizing the safety is still on. You're frustrated, upset, he can see that when he takes the rifle and checks it over for something to look at other than your big doe eyes. Still, he sort of wants to see you shoot, just so he can point at something you're bad at as proof he hasn't dreamed you up.

Your hands are clumsy handling the rifle when he gives it back, and the recoil almost knocks you on your ass when you fire, going wide of the cans you must've lined up as targets. He corrects your position, knocks your legs further apart with his foot, adjusts your shoulders(God touching you is like a shot of morphine to his system). He uses your hand to drag the bolt forward and back, ejecting the last cartridge.

When your next two shots aren't any closer to hitting the target he throws caution to the wind and gets behind you, pressing against your back as his arms wrap around you. Fuck, you dont think anyones made you feel as small as he does just now in this moment. His hands go over yours, holding the rifle with you(for you?), his chin resting on your shoulder to try and look down the sight.

"Breathe" he tells you, and you try(how the fuck does he expect you to breathe when he's wrapped around you like this?) His finger squeezes yours on the trigger when you exhale. "Good." He breathes when you hit one of the cans, leaving you to stand back and watch again, "keep doing that."

"Maybe if I had a little motivation," you tell him over your shoulder.

"You want another sucker?" He asks, in a tone that tells you he isn't really asking about candy.

"I hit the target, you let me call you Simon."

"Princess, you hit the tabs off all those cans and you can call me whatever you want, but that's not gonna happen." He regrets it immediately when you grin and drop to one knee, twisting the rifle strap around your arm the same way he's seen Price do a thousand times. He's never been more in love watching you hit every tab off every can. He's also completely unprepared for how hard it makes him watching you handle a rifle so expertly. His angel, who can absolutely kill him.

[just-a-sewer-goblin]

Simon tries very hard to keep Ghost from coming home to you. Ghost has no place in your arms, in your shared bed or your bright apartment.

But sometimes Ghost clings to him. Sometimes the mission went on too long, was too intense and Ghost clings to him like an annoying tick that you can't get off without leaving the head in.

You know that it's hard for him. You know how much he tries to shake off the gruffness and distance he carefully builds up for missions. And you don't mind. Sometimes Simon's shadow, entereing your home with him, is Ghost shaped.

But Simon doesn't like it. Doesn't want to taint your light with Ghost, doesn't want to be anything than his best for you.

So you both found easy ways to convey when he is more Ghost than Simon. When he comes home and talks to you in short commands. When he comes home and flinches when you touch him without warning. He doesn't mean to. He knows you would never hurt him, but it happens anyway.

You started calling him Ghost when he's still in that mindset. And the shock of hearing your sweet voice use his callsign is enough to startle Simon back into existence.

He comes home, tired and weary, throws his bag into the corner and bangs his fist against the front door. Pent up, angry, aggressive, the adrenaline followed him home.

He hears your naked feet on the floor and sharpy turns around. He sees you, but can't shake off Ghost. You can see it in his stance and in his eyes, the rest of him hidden behind the mask.

He wants to tell you that he's back home but it's not Simon speaking when he says: "Mission complete." You smile, a timid, small thing. It tugs on Simons heartstrings. How much he missed your smile.

You take a step forward and see his stance get more defensive. The way your gaze softens even more cracks something inside of him.

"Welcome home, Ghost.", you say and he stills. Like a statue he stands before you and closes his eyes slowly. Deliberately keeping them closed long enough that if you wanted to you could hurt him. But you don't.

When he opens his eyes Ghost is gone. "Hi, sweetheart. Missed you. Missed you so damn much."

And you rush forward into his arms, wrapping yourself around him, protecting him from the cold and harsh reality of his life.

"I love you, Simon." It sounds so easy when you say it. As if loving him is natural to you.

With your arms around him, he rips off his mask and hugs you tighter, burrows his head in your neck. "I love you too, darling."

[granddaughterogg]

thinking about Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost doesn't think of himself as "emotionally unavailable." He doesn't read any self-help publications (in his opinion it's all bullshit) so I doubt he even knows the phrase.

He perceives himself as sensible instead. He is damaged goods - not quite right in the head, what with that mask and all. He's learned to rein the dysfunction in, to keep the lid on the crazy by sheer force of will. He is a creature of habit, because his spartan lifestyle, rigid workout schedule and unyielding set of rules ("friendship is not in the field manual") have been keeping him afloat. Those habits have been saving his life.

However the dysfunction is still there, and he'll be damned if he allows anyone...nice enough...to put up with him to witness it. The act of building walls around his bruised psyche, of putting on this abrasive, unfeeling exterior - his mask over the mask - is clearly an act of service to the community. To the world at large, apparently full of kindhearted idiots, ready to let him ruin their lives.

On the other hand, Simon Riley wishes he had it in him to show you one of those moments when he's dissociating. When he is not entirely sure whether he's actually alive. Maybe he remained buried inside that coffin back in Mexico, his sole company a decomposing corpse. Maybe his whole life afterwards have been but a dying man's fever dream.

He will never ask for it. He won't ever let you know that he desperately needs you to see him unmasked, in ways more than one.

That from the bottom of his battered heart he craves to be seen for what he truly is. The good, the bad and the unhinged. It's a need so childish and embarrassing, so utterly vulnerable that he'd never admit to it. He is only half aware of it himself.

it's up to you, his lover, to find out on your own.

Good luck.

[auspicioustidings]

Um sorry, single mum reader's kid def bedazzled Ghost's mask and he does not hesitate to put that sucker on. Argue with a wall.

[playbucky]

Operation Safe House | 1 |

Price needs a safe house, you have a safe house. Should be an easy deal, right? Well when he and the team appear in the middle of the night, you come across Ghost, Gaz and Soap, all who are unsure of you and the solitude that you have. The solitude that will soon beep broken when the people they are hunting show up unannounced. Characters – Reader (Reaper), Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz. Word Count – 2.3k Warnings – Mentions of rape, not stated out right but it is suggested.

‘Price.’ You greeted the man in front of you along with the other three men who were stood in the middle of your living room. ‘Reaper, you got space for four of us?’ Price asked, you rolled your shoulders. ‘Well you’re in.’ You commented, he gave you a shy smile. ‘Do you know your length of vacation?’ You asked, you could feel the three other men stare at you. ‘Unknown.’ Price replied, you hummed and nodded. ‘Very well.’ You said as you rolled your shoulders again and looked over the four men, their large forms seemed to take up the entire room. The door chapped and you watched as they all tensed up and moved to their guns. ‘Stay.’ You spat out, a finger stretched towards the two men, ‘Stay quiet.’ You warned them, the door chapped again, you walked into the small corridor before you opened the front door. Soap tilted his head as he watched Ghosts reaction and tried to listen to the conversation but all he could make out was mumbles. The door was then shut before your footsteps sounded and you reappeared. ‘You’ll have to bunk the night, they’re watching.’ You replied, Price nodded and stood up. ‘How many?’ ‘Three, two were in the van but I believe they might have a sniper and more in the back.’ You explained, Prince pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Let me shut the curtains then you can move freely.’ You told them and moved around them as you pulled the curtains over. ‘Price I don’t think this is a good option.’ Soap said, he cautiously looked in the direction that you went in. ‘It might not be but it’s better than taking our chances with them.’ Price explained, Soap ran his tongue over his dry lips. ‘What about Reaper?’ Gaz asked, Ghost was relieved that he wasn’t the one to ask. ‘She’s fine.’ Price replied as you appeared at the doorway. ‘Lights go out at twenty-three hundred hours, any later and the neighbours will notice.’ You said, the men nodded. ‘What about weapons?’ Soap asked, you tilted your head to the side. ‘Follow me.’ ‘Top drawer, left hand side, two cupboards above you,’ you pointed to behind Gaz, he turned and opened the doors to reveal the guns hung inside, ‘fruit bowl and then they two.’ You said, as you tapped the two doors, Soap walked over to the fruit bowl and moved the lemon and limes to the side before he came across hand grenades. Ghost opened the last two cupboard doors as Price appeared beside him, they stepped back at the makeshift armoury. Ghost looked to Price who looked please before he turned as you reappeared with a gun that looked comically large compared to you but you handled it with ease. ‘Bedrooms upstairs, don’t go snooping in my shit.’ You warned as you checked you gun, the boys froze as you looked at them from the doorway. ‘Why do you have so much?’ Gaz quizzed, his eyes wide as looked over the selection. ‘I’m in charge of safe housing and have a few jobs with contractors.’ You informed them, lowering the gun to your side. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t know your names, ranks or ages I only know Prices name since he’s been here many times and your code names, I stay away and protect.’ You added when you noticed Soap and Ghost share a look, you looked between the two men and Soap nodded

‘You don’t have to lurk in the shadows.’ You commented, your gaze didn’t break from the computer screen that casted a bright glare over your face, the glasses did nothing to protect your eyes from the glare that seeped off them. ‘I’m not.’ He said as he walked forward, he had ditched the plastic skull but still supported the black balaclava, ‘Plus, you’re not doing much watching.’ He accused you, you arched an eyebrow as you reached forward and picked up the remote before you pressed a button. The TV to his left light up and the multiple rectangles came to life, he turned and watched. ‘I take protecting the people that come in here seriously, I understand that it’s hard to trust but…’ you trailed off, flashes of the flames appeared and your grip tightened, ‘I don’t make it a habit of letting my employees die.’ You finished, his gaze moved over you before he turned to the camera. ‘You can sit with me if you’d like but don’t expect a conversation.’ You told him, you gestured to the couch which he took two steps over before he dropped into it, a groan escaped him as he rested his muscles.

‘Where you going?’ A ruff voice asked, Ghost he was still sat on the couch that he hadn’t left all night, his large arms crossed over his chest. ‘A run.’ You replied, the hoodie over you head. ‘You’re leaving us here?’ ‘My routine keeps you safe especially when the men are still outside.’ You stated before you walked away from them and shut the door behind him.

They all jerked when the key slid into the lock and the door opened, you said goodbye to someone before you stepped in and shut the door. ‘It’s just me.’ You called out as you chucked your keys into the small bowl and slid your shoes off. ‘Do you do anything other than sit around?’ You asked, the same somber looks as they took in your sweat covered one. ‘Are they still there?’ Gaz asked. ‘Yup.’ You replied, you removed your phone from your pocket, ‘I’m gonna go shower, then we can discuss the plan.’ You said and made eye contact with Price who nodded. You gave him a small nod in return before you removed your headphones and sat them on the kitchen counter. You then grabbed the bottom of your shirt and pulled it over your shoulder, you could instantly feel them look at you before looking away but the ragged scar started under your ribs and ended at centre of your back caught their attention. You chucked the wet T-shirt over to the washing machine and turned around, which revealed more scars, smaller but littered across your stomach, chest and across your shoulders. You ignored the looks, everyone reacted the same when they saw them but you continued the short distance to the bathroom. ‘How’d you meet her?’ Gaz asked when the door shut, Price lifted his head. ‘Seven years ago.’ He said his brows furrowed, the water was switched on, ‘She was a field officer before her accident but she decided to become a contractor.’ Price started. ‘Accident?’ Soap asked, Price hesitated he didn’t know if he should tell them or not. ‘Reaper was apart of a group like us, her and five others went on a mission, two months later she walked back to base covered in scars and refused to talk for a month.’ He said, Gaz turned and looked in the direction you went, feeling like he was hearing a dirty secret. ‘Turns out her heli was knocked out the sky, no comms or anything worked. The other members had died on or shortly after impact but she survived.’ He finished, Ghost lowered his head. ‘What happened?’ Soap asked, Price shrugged. ‘We don’t know, Reaper never told us anything about they months.’ ‘You’ll need to stay another night.’ You stated as you reappeared, the men watched as you moved to the desk you and Ghost had sat at last night. ‘Should we ask why?’ Price quizzed, you shrugged a shoulder before you pressed the button and the security cameras came up on the screen. ‘They haven’t changed out, they’re planning something.’ ‘Or they could disappear within an hour.’ Gaz stated, you raised a shoulder in a shrug, you focused back on Price. ‘That or they are waiting for reinforcements.’ Price said, his brows pinched together as you lowered your head. ‘Why wait? They’ve marked the house, watched it for two days but it’s only been me they’ve saw.’ Soap said, you rolled your wrists. ‘Infrared? They probably know we’re here.’ Gaz suggested, you shook your head. ‘Can’t use it on the house.’ ‘What the house is state of the art, comes with in walls and floor heating.’ You commented, ‘the pipes run below and above us creates a massive bubble.’ You explained, they looked shocked. ‘Windows?’ Soap asked. ‘Bullets can’t get through, might break at a rocket launcher – hasn’t been tested though.’ You told them truthfully. ‘I might need to break one rule Price.’ You said, Price turned to you. ‘What?’ He asked. ‘Who’s chasing you?’ You asked, focused on the computer as you clicked through programmes before you stopped. ‘The Russian’s.’ Price told you, your brow pinched together. ‘Why are they here in London?’ You quizzed, ‘Bigger trading area.’ Gaz said, you ran your tongue over your teeth. ‘Great.’ You sighed.

You held the gun with one hand as you lowered onto your knees and spread them out, you continued bending until the gun's legs touched the ground. You shifted to lie on your dominant side before you pulled that knee up, the handle of the gun rested on your shoulder and you breathed. ‘Reaper.’ The voice called out, you moved to find them, ‘Or should I call you Y/N?’ The Russian asked, your shoulders tensed up. ‘I knew you were familiar, I had friends raving about you over in Berlin.’ ‘Do the men that your protecting know that you willingly spread your legs for the boss?’ He asked, you lowered the rifle. ‘Enough about me,’ you shouted loudly, he smiled widely, ‘if you’re accusing me of this I feel like I should know your name.’ You said, the area was silent. ‘Percy. Percy Markov.’ He introduced himself. ‘He’s the lead we need.’ Prices voice came through the comms, he’s more than that you thought. ‘I don’t like talking up to you, it hurts my neck, could you come down?’ Percy asked, you tilted your head to the side and allowed it to touch the cold metal, and you groaned. ‘Reaper be careful.’ Price warned you, you pushed yourself up with a grunt. ‘Come on Price, he just wants to talk.’ ‘Don’t kill him.’ He warned, you scoffed as you passed him on your way down the stairs, Soap and Gaz waited in line with him. You opened the door, noticing the group of armed men that stood on the road. Your eyes darted around before they pinpointed on Percy, his hair had been cut since that last time you had saw him, his skin still pale but decorated with the tattoos. Percy smiled when he spotted you. ‘Step outside.’ Percy said, ‘no weapons.’ He added, you tilted your head to the side before you reached behind your back and pulled the dagger free from your waist band. You showed it to Percy before you turned and held your hand out to Ghost who was just behind the door. His gloved hand accepted it. ‘And the one of your ankle.’ Percy added, your eyes flickered to the side before you balanced on one leg and slipped your fingers into your boot and pulled the sharpened blade out. You lifted you gaze and met Ghost’s as you handed it to him.

‘Reaper.’ Ghost grumbled, your jaw clenched. ‘Come on Y/N I don’t have all day.’ Percy complained, you blinked slowly. ‘I want to savour my time alive.’ You called back, you gaze then locked on Ghost’s before you stepped forward. ‘I need you to trust me for the next five minutes.’ You whispered to him, knowing your conversation was blocked by the door, you pulled back enough to see him nod. ‘Why are so sure that you’ll die?’ Percy asked as you stepped over the barrier, he stepped closer. ‘Because I’m going to do a stupid thing.’ You admitted to him, his brows furrowed together before you gave him a polite smile. He ducked his head and returned the smile, but it was quickly wiped off when you stretched out, the side of your hand connected with his throat. Percy buckled over and you wrapped an arm around his shoulders, you pulled him tight to your chest as you grabbed the small pistol that sat on his hip. Emptying the clip out you watched his men drop, uncaring if you had hit them or not as you turned and kicked Percy into the house. He stumbled backwards and tripped on the small ledge, his back collided with the floor before you chucked his empty gun across the street and jumped in. Within seconds of you slamming the door shut and flipping the locks on, Percy was in handcuffs as you dragged him to the living room. ‘You bitch.’ Percy groaned, as Soap and Ghost hauled him up and into a wooden chair provided by Gaz. ‘Oh, he’s alive.’ You said as you squatted down in front of him. ‘We’ll start hunting your neighbours.’ He hissed out, you pursed your lips and tipped your head. ‘Hard chance.’ You replied, Percy and the group looked at you confused. ‘There are no neighbours, I wouldn’t put innocents at risk.’ You explained. ‘Now, these men are going to ask you questions and you’re going to answer.’ ‘And if I don’t?’ ‘I will peel your skin from your body whilst you watch.’ You told him calmly, this affected him as he glanced to the men before he looked back at you. ‘Do they know what happened to you?’ Percy quizzed, jutting his chin to them. ‘No, we’ve only just met.’ ‘Did you know she killed her teammates?’ He asked, the men didn’t react, but Ghost watched as you stood to your full height. He was sure he heard some of the bones cracking. ‘Her intel led the team right to them, watched as they crashed and burned before her.’ He taunted, you raised an eyebrow as you nodded, ‘Then she joined them, worked alongside them and spread her legs as her pay to them.’ You rolled your shoulders and stepped forward, your face void of all emotion. Percy’s eyes widened slightly before you smiled down at him. ‘The men have questions to ask.’ You told Percy, occasionally thumps connected with the front door as his henchmen shot at it.

‘The police will be here.’ Percy sneered, this seemed to stop the men from going any further. ‘Ask away.’ You motioned to him, Percy continued to fight the restraints. ‘The police?’ Gaz asked, you shook your head. ‘Unless I enter a code, no police come to this street.’ You said, you walked into the kitchen and poured yourself a drink. ‘So, you can get messy and he can scream like the pig he is.’ You told them before you downed the glass. ‘Heard you spread your legs for them.’ Percy said, Price and Soap looked at you as Ghost continued to stare at him, ‘Specifically the boss, had a soft spot for him didn’t you.’ You clenched your jaw and looked at him, the wide smile taunting you. ‘Two months was a long time to survive there, you must have some really good p -,’ ‘Why are you so fascinated with me?’ You cut, he looked at you, the bloody nose dripped over his lips. ‘I’m not fascinated with you.’ ‘No?’ You quizzed, he shook his head, ‘all you’ve talked about is me, my past and my wrong doings.’ You listed, Percy’s face dropped slightly. ‘Why are you really in London?’ You asked him, he looked at you as he raised an eyebrow. ‘Percy, you better talk or I’ll use my skills that you know so much about.’ You threatened. ‘Fine.’ You said, you almost heard his exhale in relief as you turned and opened a drawer. The items inside knocked against each other before you rummage around, the men watched as you smiled and stuck you hand in the drawer, you pulled it out with a wooden rolling pin clutched tightly. ‘I’ll give you ten goes to answer the question, then I’ll move onto your toes.’ You said, calmly whilst you chucked the rolling pin up and caught it. You walked over to him, he started to panic and you smiled, quickly you stretched a hand out and wrapped it around his wrist. You yanked it forward, he yelped as he tried to fight it. Carefully you moved your wrist down his hand, you pulled a finger free and rested it over the edge of the armrest. ‘Why are you in London?’ You asked, he glared at you whilst he remained silent. You pursed your lips and nodded before you brought the rolling pin down, his finger snapped loudly as he yelled, you ignored it as you extended his middle finger. ‘Why here?’

[storeecbrcod]

Orange Peel Theory

Ghost x Reader fic

“Give the damn thing to me, Lt. Thought you wanted an orange, not orange juice.” He glared back at you, an action most people would have stopped in their tracks from seeing. Instead, you plucked the fruit from his hands, easily sliding your thumbs into the hole he had made and peeling back the skin. He huffed at how easily you’d peeled it, fingers deft and graceful compared to his own.

“There,” you said with a smirk, holding out the fruit. “Now I don’t have to watch you fumble.” He scoffed, moving to grab it from you. You managed to steal a segment of orange, popping it into your mouth with a grin before moving away. He stared at your retreating form, the sting of citrus in cuts on his fingers oddly similar to the sting in his chest.

It was odd how you were always there to offer help with such mundane things. You were simply the FNG when that had happened, a bright force among such dire circumstances. A sergeant who, despite seeing more than enough acts of war and sacrifice, had managed to hold on to what humanity you had left.

Humanity that came as small actions no one expected or demanded, ones you just took to because you could. At first, Ghost found it annoying; always offering help, always checking in on him, always stepping in with his duties to try and make them go faster so he could rest earlier. It infuriated him. He’d never do things like that, it opened up way too many opportunities to be taken advantage of.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

A light rap on his door. Hesitant, shy.

“Lt?”

He sighed, getting up from his bunk and trudging over to the door. Irritability shifted under his skin, like he wore too many layers and they were bunched up under each other, not moving no matter how much he tossed and turned and pulled at them.

He swung the door open, a huffed, “What?” leaving him. He froze nearly instantly, seeing your face look back at him.

Dark undereyes, red capillaries pulling at the corners of dull white sclera like a mirror. An exhausted, yet worried pinch ghosting your features.

“Sergeant,” he started slowly, frozen in place. The irritability swelled, but he couldn’t find it in himself to take it out on you. “What do you need?”

A glance sideways, a shaky breath poorly concealed. Regretable, shameful.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” you mutter. “Just- just can’t seem to settle. Soap’s out field, of course, and Gaz is working with Price on recon-”

“Inside,” he said gruffly, leaving you at the threshold. He stopped halfway to his bunk before turning, looking at your surprised form with a raised brow. “Move your feet, sergeant.”

Eventually, it all evolved into a back and forth game. You’d find little things to do for him, little ways to make his day better. You’d visit his office during your rounds, picking up piles of paperwork or files he was about to deliver to someone else in the base, somehow always tricking him into telling you who they were intended for.

You’d find little bits and pieces he’d misplaced and put them somewhere he knew to look, smiling to yourself when you heard him huff in mild irritation when he eventually found something somewhere he’d ‘fucking looked before’. 

You’d bring him a tea, or a snack when he had spent entirely too long in his room or hunched over paperwork.

You’d fill his water bottle when he was training in the gym.

You’d peel his oranges.

You never noticed how he’d lead on your conversations, watching your cheeky smile as he gave you the name of the intended recipients of his work.

You never noticed how loud your smile was, even if you weren’t facing him in the same room.

You never notice how sometimes he’d purposely avoided being seen by you outside his office so that you’d assume he had been there all day and bring him treats. 

You never noticed how he left his water bottle out for easy access. 

You never noticed how Soap or Gaz would throw him a confused or knowing look when he grabbed yet another orange, days in a row when he didn’t even really like them that much.

It soon divulged into a game of hide-and-seek tag, really. You’d always do something for him, something small, and he’d always do so in return. He was a lot sneakier about it, managing to turn a lot of your own tricks back on you and never being caught. 

“I know what you’re doing.”

He looked up, his face neutral as the pen in his hand stilled. He raised a brow. “And just what am I doing, sergeant?”

A small huff, a cross of your arms. Defiant, playful.

“You’re taking my stuff just so you can say you found it when you return it,” you accuse.

He doesn’t know how he managed to keep a smile off of his face, even if his mask was able to hide it somewhat. He doesn’t know how his voice remains even, either, as he turns to you properly with a long sigh. “Why would I do that?”

“Well-” you splutter, suddenly falling short for a moment. “I wouldn’t know. Seems like you’re going soft.”

“Soft?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

Another silence. This time, he can’t keep a smirk from tugging at his lips, his eyes sparkling with mirth. He waited for your response, watching as you shifted uncomfortably. For an amazing and competent soldier out field, you sure were pretty awful at concealing your thoughts and feelings around him.

A shake in your resolve, a sideways glance. Flustered, cute.

Cute?

He couldn’t help but think of all the things you’d done for him over time. At some point, it had become the norm for you and him; helping each other out in tiny ways while never acknowledging them. Small boosts of morale and easiness provided that was eagerly accepted.

Like when he helped you get back to sleep after a particularly restless night filled with waking night terrors and the silent tears that he had learnt to not mention, rather swiping them away without another word. Like when either of you were sure you wouldn’t make it another day, either one of your heads resting on the other’s chest.

There were times where you would text him, his contact given to you purely for basic communication or emergency that quickly descended into the occasional conversation.

03/9/20-- 11:47 Heard you got caught in cross fire. What, bullets don’t phase through ghosts? I’m the one with the jokes love, not you Quit your bitching, old man You picking on the injured now, huh? New low And here I was about to offer to bring you some real food, not hospital food. But I guess I have a new reputation to uphold Not a reputation if only one person knows about it. I can keep secrets I’ll be there in 10 minutes Thanks, love

04/11/20-- 05:23 You up? No Yeah, good one. Slick Glad you think so, sarge. What do you need? Need a fucking coffee, wanted to know if you wanted a tea Are there sticks in the woods? Dunno, would have thought one was up your arse with your sunny attitude yesterday. Milk and sugar, like usual? Yes please

29/11/20-- 18:03 I’m glad you’re going home this time Why, need a break from me? Now that you mention it… But no, just think you deserve some actual time off instead of lurking around here like you always do I lurk. Yes, you lurk. You take your call sign too seriously sometimes I’ll keep that in mind

29/11/20-- 18:07 Did I do something wrong?

He struggled being away from you, he found. He hadn’t realised how much he enjoyed being around you, how much he took the little game for granted. Now, when he lost something, he found himself wishing you were there with him until his keys magically appeared. He missed waiting for the small knock on his door as you walked in with cups in your hands, maybe a paper bag with a muffin or such.

He hadn’t eaten an orange since he went on leave for the holidays.

24/12/20-- 22:58 Happy holidays, Sarge I should have said it earlier, but todays been hectic Not that you really care anymore

24/12/20-- 23:01 I wanted to invite you over for a drink or two, maybe a nice dinner, but thought it would be better for you to spend it with your family Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have family? I would have spent my holiday with you if you asked I should have asked

24/12/20-- 23:17 I’m sorry

24/12/20-- 23:23 I miss you

24/12/20-- 23:39 What a day to lose your humanity I would have helped you

25/12/20-- 00:01 Merry Christmas, love I miss you I love you, too A Christmas miracle, I guess

Thumbs plunge into tough skin, ripping and tearing. Yet, nothing leaks from the cavity. No, it comes away easily.

A chuckle, the burn of citrus in cuts on his fingers and in his chest. Ire, melancholy.

25/12/20-- 00:06 A Christmas miracle I peeled my own orange

[bloodycassian]

Just another body - Reader x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Reader's callsign is 'Leto'

18+ NSFW

Reader admits her feelings for Ghost on a mission, sex happens. PinV, oral, fingering, dirty talk. 

“You bring ‘em in like stray dogs. Leave it this time.” Ghost’s order is borderline amused when you eye the contraband sitting atop the server racks. He’d rolled up his sleeved coat after an hour of sweating in the server room,  revealing thick muscled forearms that sent your eyes darting for more than just weapons to loot. The man was distracting, with either the voice, the body or the way he commanded a room. He was turning into a liability, but you weren’t sure how to dismiss yourself from the team any sooner. You’d already asked Price for an out, which he guaranteed would happen as soon as they could manage without you.

Getting shot because you were busy staring at the lieutenant was not an ideal way to expedite the process.

“We’re going to have to find something to do here. I couldn’t even play Snake if I wanted to.” You mutter, toeing one of the eighteen massive steel beams just in the tech room alone. With the amount of tech they supplied, you’d been amazed at the lack of personnel guarding the damn things. Further stunned at the little time it’d taken to find the massive fans and cooling systems and shut them down. 

It’d taken only minutes for the basement to become uncomfortably warm. Half an hour in, and you’d stripped free of your coat and shoved it into your already full backpack. Simon had offered to carry it in his back on your behalf, but you declined. Going through his things, being at his back but not watching it was too intimate for some reason. Sure, he was your teammate, and sure, you’d swiped more than a few mags of ammo from the exact backpack, but the soft way he’d said it, how he’d eyed you a moment after taking it off felt like toeing a border that you were more than aware of.

“We’ve got two hours before our bird arrives, you’ll be fine.” He dismisses your complaint, shrugging his shoulders and shifting the pack around. You step towards him, forgetting your own rules and boundaries around him for a moment, and raise your arms to unbuckle the chest strap of the pack. His hands catch yours and his brows narrow behind the mask. You suddenly are distinctly aware of how easily he could break your hand in a hundred different ways, but the warmth and gentleness of his gloved touch is the most distracting part of it.

“You should take a break, let me carry it for a while.” You fuss, hoping that it comes off as helpful and not nagging. You’d already insisted he buy a balm for his shoulder and knees at the shop closest to the safehouse. Was your concern for him too obvious? “So I don’t have to hear you complain about how sore you are later?” You press, noting how his eyes dart from your eyes to your lips, then to where your hands meet. 

Your stomach rolls, and you fear for nausea with the intensity of it. With the way his dark eyes somehow see through you and into what your words really intend. “Let me take care of you. Let me touch you.”

And it’s a miracle he doesn’t see the way you watch his every movement, that or incredible stupidity. But you know he isn’t stupid. You know he reads others like the damned menu he’d stolen from your hands once you’d arrived here. The Intel Target had reserved a time with a particularly well known black market dealer and their joint decision to dine out had resulted in one of the best meals of your life.

He knew you couldn’t read the language, and had taken it upon himself to just know you. To know exactly what you wanted and how you’d wanted it cooked.  He’d ordered your meal as fluently as he held a gun, and you’d nearly forgotten about your mission in the bliss of the taste of it all.

He nods once, a slow movement before he’s slinging his rifle strap over his head and removing the pack with lethal efficiency. 

“What’s that look about? What’re you thinkin’?” He asks, eyeing you as you push the memory away. 

“How good that damned dinner was.” You answer truthfully, wondering if losing him isn’t worth the safety it would ensure. The pack weighs heavy on your shoulders, along with the guilt.

He rolls his neck and sigs as you adjust the straps to your body, clicking the chest buckle into place and tugging it tight. “Maybe I’ll convince Price to keep you ‘round.” He said, and you can hear the mocking in his tone. 

Your words come automatically. “I’m needed with second squad.” You lie. It’s what you’d been telling Soap for the last three weeks, no more detail, no more emotion than that. But Simon… he knows something is wrong with the quipped words and selective tone. But it’s the only thing you’re able to tell him, really. His brows twitch together for a moment at your short explanation, and he turns to you fully, taking his eyes off the exits. Your heart thunders, blood pounding in your ears as loud as the servers begin to whine around you. 

“Second squad-” He practically spits the name. “doesn't deal in your expertise, Leto.” His voice rumbles and your mouth falls open as he steps closer, towering over you. For a moment you can only marvel at the brutality of his build. A tank of a killing machine he is, tall and built and ready for you to climb. A True, full blooded warrior, to the very core. 

And behind that mask, and those eyes that pierce through to your very being - He knows. Oh God, he knows you’re lying. Your eyes go wide, and like a fool you forgo all your interrogation training. “What isn’t Price telling me?” He growls, his hands going to the radio at his hip. 

You stammer, trying your damnedest to put on a show of innocence. “Nothing, he wouldn’t-” God now he’s thinking Price is going to betray him, you’ll tear the team to pieces if he thinks-

“Guess I can ask for myself-” He pulls the radio free, his eyes still boring into yours.

He raises it slowly, giving you time to lie more, to come up with a shitty excuse for why you’d been avoiding missions with him for the last few months. Why you’d had to beg Second Squadron to open a spot for you and your expertise as he’d called it.

“Stop-” You gasp, hands catching his before he can make the comms live. His finger brings the small screen to life, the green glow reflecting in his eyes. “Fuck Simon, christ. Okay, Okay stop.” You breathe, and surprisingly he allows you to take the radio from him.

“I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. With you-” The words feel like poison as you release them, it aches deep in your chest to know how real they are. His eyes flash wide, then his features harden, his mask adjusting to what you’d imagine to be a flexed jaw and thin lipped grimace.

“I asked to be switched. You’re… distracting. I- get distracted around you, I mean.” You sigh, and your sweaty hands leave your weapon, a dull reminder of the real reason you’re in the sweltering basement beneath miles of concrete. 

He stills, body going taut and flexed in that way he does when he’s listening for enemy footsteps.”Go on.” He insists. In this moment it wouldn’t be so bad if enemies found you. It’d save you from having to explain further. 

“Goddammit Ghost-” You push a hand through your hair, tugging slightly. “I’ve had it a rule for myself for my entire career to never get involved. And here you are, ruining it.” You spit it out, like your feelings are somehow his fault. At least he knows now. At least you don't have to go on lying to him when he can tell your words are false. 

There’s a long pause, the only sound the whirring struggle of the tech around you. His eyes don't leave yours, and you duck your head in shame.

“‘M’not Ghost to you, though, am I?” He steps closer, closing in around you, making it so you’re forced to stare up at him and arch backwards against one of the boxes behind you. 

“What-” You shake your head, confused at his question. 

He leans down close, and you tense, ready to fight him if needed. But his words had no intent of violence in them, not even a hint of it. Still, your muscles bunched, ready to attack if he so much as raised his voice. Ready to fight. Ready.. For what? He’d been the guarding your back for the last four years, since you’d been assigned to 141. He’d never hurt you, physically anyway. Was your body preparing for his rejection? Was it truly ready to try to fend off the man twice your size that had bested you in every sparring competition you’d ever had with him?

His mouth is on the cusp of your ear when he speaks. “I’ve heard you whinin’, moaning my name.” He says slowly, and your heart stops for a moment. Heat surges from your neck to your ears. Your eyes prick with embarrassed tears. “Oh Simon, ooh fuck.” He mimics, rolling his hips forward, his thigh brushing the inside of your own.

“Ghost-” Your words are choked, and you’re relieved when he interrupts you.

“We’ve not shared a room in some time, but I still hear you.” He pulls back,only enough to look you in the eyes and he smiles, his eyes crinkling when he stares you down. “I still..listen for you.” He nods slightly, his eyes flicking from yours to your lips.

Your breath hitches in your throat, and you're on him before he can say anything else. His mask is warm and wet with sweat, but he lifts it up enough to expose his mouth and the stubbled chin and jaw. His lips are magnetic, pulling you in and keeping you there as he palms your ass. He flicks the front strap of the backpack off and in a moment you’re shedding layers and layers of gear and armor plates that suddenly seem ridiculous to be carrying in the first place. 

If he’s the one getting you killed, dying may not seem so harsh. 

He’s tender and giving until you nip at his lower lip and scratch down his back once he’s removed his vest, then he’s teeth and demanding hands that you knew could do exactly this. What you’ve dreamed about, apparently. 

He picks you up with ease, bringing you back to a windowless room where you’d downloaded the server information. He sets you stop a cold desk and swipes an arm across the surface, sending office supplies and monitors crashing to the ground before he’s on you once again. His tongue traces yours slowly, rhythmically as his hands search and pull and bite into your skin. Calloused, strong fingers brush over your breasts and grip every part of you’d been imagining since you’d joined 141.

He’s feral and somehow controlled at the same time, a balance of will and want. Only you’ve been waiting for this for years. You’ve been dreaming about him, and the want for him outweighs your will and control. “I need you.” You gasp when he lifts your shirt over your head. You pull his up as well, marveling at how solid he is, how built and perfect every feature is. 

You want to taste it all. 

But he’s controlling the pace, and you have no problem with it. His tongue traces masterfully over your skin, along the column of your neck, sending a new surge of fire to your core. Maybe you would retract your request to move to Second Squad, if it meant you’d get to be with Simon. 

He rips your pants down, dragging your panties with them, exposing your swollen cunt to the air. “Fuck me-” He breathes, working his own pants to the floor around his boots. He kneels before you and spreads you apart, his eyes dragging over the most sensitive parts of you.

“Intend to.” You gasp as his bare hand circles your clit. He pulls his other glove off with his teeth and lets it fall to the floor, never looking away from either your pussy or your face as he learns you in a whole new way. 

“Filthy fucking girl.” He growls approvingly, before burying himself in your pussy. The first stroke of his tongue from your center to your clit has you gasping, rolling your hips forward for more, and his eyes flash to yours, his pupils are enormous, his brows lowered in a look you’d previously describe as deadly. Now, you understood in those moments he was looking at you with desire. Your thighs clamp together, but he only groans and pushes harder on to you, his tongue lapping and flicking over your clit wildly. 

He pulls away only to lap at his middle finger, making sure you watch as he coats it in his own saliva. Your hips rock upwards, keening for his touch again. His other hand is pulling slowly at his cock, now freed from the black pants that are only held on by his thigh holster. “Ghost-” You whine, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him better.

“Patience.” He warns, then finally lowers his finger to your entrance, his eyes devouring the way your body reacts to his warm digit. Your head lolls back, the burning ache for him relieved slightly while he works you open. He swears and adjusts his positioning. Then His tongue begins a slow pattern on your clit again, and he swears he’s never been so close to coming just from the feel of someone. 

“Fuckin’ perfect for me-” He hisses when he slides deeper inside of you, reveling in the warm wetness there, his cock surges and he swears under his breath. He curls his finger and thrusts it forth, prodding your insides and searching for the things that’d make you tick.

“Ghost- Simon-” Your breathy moans have him coming undone too quickly, so he removes himself from you, damning every god he’s ever heard of for the horrid timing of your confession. Shit, if he’d just asked before the mission - when he’d first heard price talking about you moving teams… No, not now. His frustration is put into a box to be used later. 

He grips the base of your neck and hauls you upward, smashing his lips into yours in a bruising kiss that he hopes leaves a mark on himself. At least then he’d have the proof for himself to know that this was real, and not another of his fantasies. He pulls back, and smiles at your confused, pouting expression. Then, before you can talk back like he knows you want to, he laps at the finger covered in your wetness, wishing he could have the taste permanently ingrained to his mind. 

He hadn’t been keeping an eye on your hands, and your touch to the base of his cock has him stiffening in surprise. He stumbles forward when you pull him, hissing when you rub the head of his cock against your needy cunt. He can’t help but lean into it, his breathing only coming out in short puffs while he regains his self control. “Slow.” You say, relaxing as much as you can while he slides forward. You lay back and embrace the sweet stretch his thick cock brings. His thumb finds your clit and he circles it slowly while he fills you.

 His eyes flick to yours for assurance with every inch, but all he can see is the red marks along your throat and collarbone from where he’d bitten at you. More, he wanted more. The thirst for your skin on his tongue is insatiable. He gazed upon you, reveling in the feel and sight of you around him. The swollen, red lips that he wish were on his own throat, but he cant bring himself to request that of you when your body was laid out before him like this. With every inch he pushed into you, he finds something new to marvel over. The scars, the freckles and stretch marks, the callouses and tan lines - every part of you that seemed like a secret before now. He silently vows to himself to memorize them all, to take stock of every one of those scars so he could be sure he wouldn’t miss any new ones.

He bows over you, planting wet, sloppy kisses across every feature he could reach once he’s fully buried inside of you. Your walls squeezed around him, and his cock twitches again. He bites into his lip, the pain distracting him from the pleasure for a moment. He pulls back slightly, and slides back in. Your moans are synchronized. You chant his name like a goddamn prayer, and he could swear he bit a hole in the side of his cheek. 

“How d’ya want me?” He asks, leaning down, hoisting your leg up over his muscled and forcing you to take him even deeper. You cry out, but with the movement his cock brushes over the spot inside of you, hiking your need to a new level. Close. So close with such few movements. This man was a god. Or a demon. Most would likely say a demon of some sort. 

“Tell me sweetheart, how’ve you dreamed this?” He asks, sliding out fully and spearing himself back in. Your eyes roll back and an animalist sound claws its way from your throat. Your insides clench around his length, pulling him in, in in, and somehow you still need more. You need all of him. The demanding heat inside you requires it. You fumble for his chest, where his tac vest usually would allow you to haul him forward, but his hand catches yours, and pins it back beside your head. 

You arch and preen for him, rolling forward though he’d bottomed out. He’s swearing and practically purring with satisfaction of watching you. God you’ve never felt so desperate for something, never felt like you needed another person this badly before. A demon, definitely a demon.

“Such a pretty fucking show for me.” He rolls his hips back, then thoroughly back into place. A sound you don’t recognize leaves your throat in response. “In my head, I’ve taken you on top ‘a every inch of that safehouse.” He pulls out, and snaps his hips forward again, leaving you quivering with need. “I’ve had you comin’ on my face,  my hands,  my cock, on whatever toy you want…” He hisses, pulling back slightly to watch his glistening member re enter your wetness. “Is this all you want - my cock buried in your pretty pussy?” His hand squeezes your thigh, then goes to your clit, and for a moment you can’t believe you’ve held on this long. Your body trembles beneath him and your knees pull together, but it doesn’t stop him. 

“Yes Simon, yes god, yes-” You pant, then pull your joined hands to your face, he’s still playing over your clit when you suck his pointer finger into your mouth and his eyes fly to yours. You can’t imagine the sight of yourself, but something changes for him in that moment. He moves, leaning over you fully, one hand cupping the back of your neck and forcing you to look into his eyes, the other on your hip, holding you firmly in place. His forearms barricading you while his hips snap forward at a brutal pace, forcing the tip of his cock into that sweet spot that makes you come nearly instantly. 

Your eyes go wide, mouth open while obscene sounds spill from you. His breathing, the way he bites his lip, all of it is too much. 

You’re coming, and coming and screaming but everything has gone quiet in your head. Only his darkened eyes matter, the way the paint black has started melting away, the way his brows pull together and how his eyes graze over every one of your features admiringly as you gasp his name over and over again, his cock forcing your orgasm like he’d fucked you a million times and knew exactly what to do.

Only the waves of ecstasy exist to you, that and the smell, the weight of his body over yours, the heat of him. Your legs shake, hooking around his backside and pulling him deep into you. Within a few more strokes he’s gasping, his body shuddering and your stomach is suddenly covered. He brushes hair back from your face, and a wry smile forms on his lips. He pulls the mask back down, over his reddened lips and pecks your cheek before shakily pushing himself up. He grabs the backpack, pulls a sweater from it and begins wiping you clean. 

[konigsblog]

stoner simon?? STONER SIMON???

CW: PORN LINK, MENTIONS OF WEED AND DRUG DEALING, INTOXICATION. 18+

stoner-simon riley who gets his sweet girlfriend high, just so you're pliant and obedient, spreading your soft thighs so eagerly, just for simon and allowing him to flip you around and onto your stomach, his calloused and large hand nestled in your hair, whilst he forces your tight ass up in the air.

the thought of him rutting his slicken, throbbing cock into a little thing like you, the smell of marijuana thick, sticking to your sweaty skin as he holds your face down into the bedsheets, slamming his muscular and broad hips against your rear ‘til you're wailing and mewling through the ache of his hard, veiny shaft fucked deep inside your drooling cunt.

each prominent vein on his shaft grinds against your gummy insides, feeling how fleshy and soft you are – how tight you are when your puffy folds are latching onto his meaty girth, taking each inch with drool spilling from your swollen lips.

you can smell the smoke coming from simon, holding a cigarette between his teeth, grunting and huffing and puffing as he takes long drags, the smell of the thick, tobacco cloud assaulting your nostrils, his eyebrows furrowed as your walls pulsate and clutch onto him. you whine for more in that comforting, sweet voice that simon has gotten familiar with – the voice he gets off to like a perverted loser, listening to your desperate pleas for more, as the head of his leaking dick rubs against your gummy cervix, pre dripping from his sensitive, thick tip like a faucet.

your face is a complete mess; mascara smeared down your wet cheeks, and your lips coated in drool, mixed with your tears. your body longs for more of simon's roughness and cruelty, giggling stupidly and biting your bottom lip – enough to draw blood – when he holds your hips with a firm grasp, sinking even deeper inside of you, his fingernails bound to leave indents along your thighs from his achingly tight grasp.

he grabs a firm grasp on your jaw as you're forced to look at him over your shoulder, maintaining eye contact with simon as he smears the crimson down your chin, dripping from your bottom, cut lip.

you're addicted – to the feeling of his fat, heavy balls against your cunt, smacking against your pussy with each brutal thrust, his pace increasing as you moan out, broken cries for more and more, a greedy mess waiting for your desired orgasm.

[ghouljams]

Short blurb with Cowboy!Ghost being an absolute bastard, because he is the worst when he gets what he wants

Your hands press flat against inside of the stall fence, forced up onto your toes as Simon works his cock into you in the middle of the barn. You're having to remind yourself to breathe, the burn of accommodating his girth, the slow slide of him letting you feel every vein as his cock drags against your walls, it's heavenly, it's maddening. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you held where he wants you and forcing you to support yourself without the use of your legs. You have no leverage to push back against him as he snaps his hips against your ass. He hits you so deep, the gasp that escapes you is as sinful as his answering groan.

He treats you like a toy, pulling your hips to meet his thrust. He's keeping you unsteady, just barely out of view of the open doors. You're soaked, slick coating the inside of your thighs, the sound of his cock plunging into your cunt sloppy and squelching fills the barn. The threat of being caught like this with him makes you clench desperately around his cock. Your breath heaves in your chest, you whine and drop your head forward against your arms as Simon laughs at your struggle. Your skin prickles with embarrassed heat, the force of his thrusts making you jolt against the fence.

"That's it Princess, this' all you need isn't it?" He coos, watching you nod against your arm, "Oh, sweet girl," one hand leaves your hip, fingers tightening in your hair as he pulls your head back, "I want to hear you say it."

[sd2006]

Soap as soap?

Answer to drabble request: Thank you, @igotbloodonmyhands for my first request!

READER MISSES SOAP AND GHOST COMFORTS THEM:

Reader x Ghost x Soap

Johnny's away on a mission. One you and Ghost weren't selected for. Just Johnny.

You miss him. You miss him so much that you decide to find a way to make an alternative until he gets back.

You walk into your shared bathroom and see the pink bar of soap on the sink, fresh, and hasn't been used to wash dirty hands yet. Perfect for what you need. You grab it and take it on a journey to the desk in your room.

Once at the desk, you open the draws, top one; not what you're looking for, middle draw; all your craft stuff, just what you need.

You grab a couple of googly eyes and your bottle of superglue, then proceed to attach the eyes to the bar of soap.

Whilst you're digging through the craft draw, Ghost walks past and does a double take. Walking into the room as silently as always. He stands behind you, a hand sitting just above your shoulder.

You see it in the corner of your eye. You do a small nod of your head, letting him know he can place his hand.

"What y' doin'?" A long pause as you add the finishing touches, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. In answer to Ghost's question, you hold up your finished product; the googly eyes moving slightly with the fast movement.

"His name is Soapy!" You exclaim with a grin.

Ghost just looks down at you from where you're sat, an almost sad look in his eyes. "You miss him, huh?"

"Yeah..." You reply, voice lowering to a soft whisper, "I do."

Ghost tries his best to comfort you with an awkward side hug. You know he's trying, and you appreciate the effort.

"I miss him too, love."

[granddaughterogg]

You Let Me Complicate You - Part 1

This is a love story about Simon "Ghost" Riley and you, starting with a random hookup and later navigating your increasingly complex feelings and desires towards each other.

~~Reblogs are always Greatly Appreciated!~~

PART 2 HERE

SUMMARY: You're all alone in London because of Reasons. On a particularly dreadful, windy, rainy Halloween evening you venture outside for a quick pint - but find Simon "Ghost" Riley instead. He's a consummate fuckboy who uses fleeting trysts to blow off steam collected at his deadly job, and you're a cynical, world weary girl who nonetheless very much enjoys no-string-attached sex. None of you are prepared for the horror of Actually Falling In Love. Also - the mask stays on for ridiculously long. What, oh what will become of this fateful encounter?

Chapter 1: SKULLFACE

As with many other adventures in your life - this one started only because you wouldn’t quench your curiosity.

It was an insatiable force, one that has driven you into a lot of shit over the years. On the other hand, you could call your life path - that collection of irregular zigs and zags off the beaten trajectory - anything but dull. And you owed it to that ever-present itch at the back of your head.

Let’s go back to the very start, shall we?

The start was unpromising. For one, it was Halloween evening, but you were on your own and it was pissing it down outside.

You sat in a tiny squalid apartment, its walls painted a nauseating shade of green and stared at the darkness behind your windows. Cold water splashed against the glass. Technically speaking, those windows weren’t yours. Nothing here was. You’ve just Airbnb’ed this hovel for a few weeks. The thing is, you’ve been awaiting news about a job.

They haven’t contacted you yet. You’ve been paying through the nose for this musty abode, bristling at the prices of groceries – at the prices of anything, really. London’s famous charms were lost on you. You hated this city. To you, it felt as if someone had squashed a dozen smaller towns into an amorphous heap. You didn’t know a single soul in those streets and you weren’t sure if you wanted to change that.

But how long can a lonely girl sit on her ass, browse youtube and marinate herself in misery?

And it was All Hallow’s Eve after all.

You always loved Halloween.

The weather discouraged kids from trick-and-treating. Yet you could still hear multiple footsteps going every which way on the wet pavement below, snippets of conversations and muffled laughter. Londoners decided to enjoy themselves tonight, weather be damned. 

You paused the video (it was about a groomer, tending to a particularly matted, hissy cat). You stood up with a sigh, slammed your laptop shut and went to the suitcase lying in the corner.

It’s been a week here and apart from your sensible job interview clothes, (which have been hanging on the door, properly steamed) you still haven’t found it in yourself to unpack.

Never mind that now. You unceremoniously threw the suitcase’s contents on the wooden floor and fished one particular object out of the pile; a little velvet dress, as black as the night.

You stood in front of the dusty mirror and pulled the garment on. It was one of those strappy numbers which start late but end pretty early. Hugged all your curves, not leaving much to the imagination. Your dear mother would’ve described this dress as „slutty”.

Just the way you liked it.

You’ve learned before that excessive preparations only dull your enthusiasm for the unknown. So you’ve slid your feet inside your trusted combat boots, smudged some black eyeliner here and there, put your hair up in a French twist with a simple metal pin, and threw on a jacket - and you were good to go.

Wherever those streets would take you.

***

It turned out that the streets wouldn’t take you far. Because it was raining fucking hard. 

It's one thing to merely observe the skies opening, and another to withstand their fury. You were trudging the pavement under your flimsy foldable umbrella, almost bent in half because of the gusty wind. You walked turned to the side, trying to avoid getting ballistic rainwater in your eyes, one half of your face damp and cold already. The light jacket offered little protection; soon you were soaked to the bone, and furious.

Screw it, you thought. I’m just gonna get inside any old place, have a pint and then go home.

You turned the corner and came upon a narrow crooked staircase leading below the street level, as was usually the case with pubs in this area. Some people were just leaving the premises, laughing and talking as they went. You caught a glimpse of bluish light, pouring from the inside along with some muffled bass beats.

Good enough.

You descended down the staircase; concrete steps crumbled under your tractor soles, threatening to throw you off balance. You passed by some folks on your way, squeezing yourself past them on a narrow path cutting through an overgrown courtyard. You pulled the handle of a heavy iron door. It was covered in graffiti and layers upon layers of old stickers. 

You stepped inside.

Your first thought was: This is not a pub.

You weren’t a local – hell, you weren’t even British – but after some time spent in this country, you’ve more or less become acquainted with the trappings of this cornerstone of any local community, what with its cosy nooks, mandatory fireplace and dark polished woodwork. Those kinds of places you knew. The beer wasn’t half bad, the tunes were usually tolerable and bartenders had this well-practiced cordiality to them. You liked the atmosphere of an English pub.

This, however, was different. Like, much noisier.

Your ears got filled with the metallic beats of dark industrial music. You couldn’t name the song that was playing. Deep inside there was a small dancefloor, where bodies swayed along with the slow, reverberating rhythm. 

This place was so dimly lit, that you had to squint just to adjust. The walls were raw concrete, with exposed brass piping running up and down in complicated patterns. It reminded you of a bunker. All the furniture seemed to be worn down and mismatched as if someone scavenged it from various vacant buildings. The bar counter was one giant slab of concrete too, its greyness punctuated by rows of tiny lights hanging from the iron truss under the low ceiling. 

The patrons all wore black. Not just your basic, nondescript black, oh no. You looked around (as much as you could while drifting in this neon blue semi-darkness, which revealed so little) and noticed some people in gothic finery. Velvet, lace, the works. Others chose leather or elaborate corsetry.

Ah, it’s one of those places.

You got your shit together, folded the damn umbrella, shook your damp hair to get at least some of the water out of it, and beelined to the concrete bar. At this point of the evening, you’d kill for a hot beverage.

The bar area was not too crowded, thank fuck. You clambered gracelessly onto one of the free barstools and smiled at the bartender. He was completely bald, with a ginormous nose ring and a thin face, eternally crumpled into an expression of faint disgust.

"Hello! One hot tea, please", you said breathlessly.

Dude looked at you as if you’d just spat on his mother’s grave.

"Tea? You sure 'bout that?"

"Well yeah", you answered. "It’s bucketing down out there, and I got chilled to the bone..."

The bartender wasn’t moved by your plight. 

"This is a club, not your Granny’s living room, see? We serve adults here..."

"Give ‘er a damn tea, Geoffrey. Don’t be a cunt."

A man’s voice rang out from your left. It was low and throaty, but also perfectly even in tone. It cut through the music and the bustle like a knife wielded by a steady hand. Your ears twitched pleasantly at this sound.

Geoffrey blinked at whoever it was that scolded him. Then he made a face and turned away to fulfil your order.

"I’m just saying, we’re trying to run a business here…" he muttered, putting the kettle on.

"I see that”, you assured. "Make that a tea and a glass of Scotch then. I could use both."

"Right." The bartender was seemingly placated by your offer.

When he put the drinks in front of you and turned towards other customers, you emptied the sugar packet inside the cup, stirred your tea for a while, finally sipped it - and sighed with delight. It all took a while. When the life-restoring elixir started to course through your veins, you stole a glance at the man who spoke earlier.

"Thanks for putting in the word for me", you said with a slight smile.

"Geoff's not a bad bloke. Just overworked." 

The stranger was tall and dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. He was looking straight ahead, away from you, cradling his whisky glass in two large, strikingly pale hands.

"I can imagine, with the place being so busy on Halloween and all...Anyway, I’m feeling better by the minute." 

"Drink up then, and that whisky too. You look like a half-drowned cat."

That voice was something to behold. So deep and guttural, with a thick accent that made short work of most of the consonants. As your ears helpfully suggested, it was probably Mancunian. One doesn’t simply grow such a voice. One earns it through incessant smoking and other recurring bad life decisions, no doubt. It was kinda hot.

...Wait a moment, did this perfect stranger just smack-talk you?

Your head darted upwards. 

"Did you just say that I look like shit?" 

Your tone was still playful - if underlined by a suggestion that you’re always ready to drop the playfulness.

The hooded man must’ve heard that undertone because he chuckled. That rumbling sound reverberated somewhere deep within you. Probably in your bones.

"Don’t be so hard on yourself, love. You're just a little worse for wear, is all."

That impassive tone of his stabbed you in the solar plexus. You've straightened up as if pulled by a string. The teaspoon fell into your tea, making a soft clatter, while you spun around on your stool to look this insolent git straight in the face.

"How do you know?" you bit out. "You weren't even looking -"

The following words got stuck in your throat.

Not only was the man hooded, but he also wore a mask. A tight black one, covering his head and the lower part of his face. A balaclava, your brain hinted helpfully. It looked like a part of the regulation equipment of the armed forces, and that's where the similarities came to an end. For the mask has been printed over – or painted, maybe? - with the image of a skull. Mainly its lower jaw. White paint glimmered in the bluish light, forming a wide, ghastly smile which grinned at you.

But even more striking were his eyes, large and protruding. Your stunned stare met two opaque irises, as dark and dense as a black hole. You weren't able to decipher their expression. That cryptic intensity of his gaze seemed to bend space-time. 

His eyelids and skin around the eyes have also been blackened, but his long lashes remained pale as frost.

You stared at this vision with your mouth ajar, like a dead fish.

"What?" He asked calmly and quietly. "Do I have something on me fuckin' face?"

You were always quite outspoken, but at that moment words eluded you.

"Cool mask,” you said finally because something needed to be said. „Cool...disguise. Is it for Halloween?"

He didn't blink. It was unnerving.

"I don't do 'alloween, love."

"So you wear this thing 'cause it makes you more interesting and mysterious and shit?"

The tall man leaned towards you, his eyes creasing in a smile.

"Look at you, sweetheart. It's clearly workin'."

"That's because of that stare of yours. It could pin a person to a wall...", you murmured.

"I could pin you to a wall. Just ask nicely.”

You felt suddenly weightless. Out of breath. 

"For how long?" you quipped, trying your damnedest to sound flippant. 

The nerve of this fucking guy!

"For as long as you'll need me to. I'm a dedicated man.”

There was no bravado ringing in his gritty voice. Just a calm statement of fact.

You cut a look at his arms. The black cotton of the hoodie did little to conceal their immense size. 

He could probably deliver on his promise.

You took a long breath, trying to regain your lost composure. It wasn't easy when this hulking freak stared you down, but you'd been in tighter spots before.

Goths, amirite, you thought. Ever the contrarians, regardless of their age. They tended to be good in the sack though.

You studied this new specimen very thoroughly - and there was plenty to stare at. The man was built like an industrial-sized fridge. Ridiculously tall even while sitting down and broad-shouldered, with a firm chest stretching the plain black cotton of his sweatshirt. Which, by the way, he wore zipped up almost to his very chin, like a layer of protective gear. Weird.

Those dim little lights over the bar made it hard for you to discern the details, but you also noticed the width of his torso and his powerful thighs, clad in simple blue denim. He was by far the plainest dressed patron of this edgelord cellar joint. Apart from the mask you didn't notice anything even remotely Gothic about his style or bearings. Although he sat motionless, cradling a glass of whisky in his long, strong fingers – he still exuded that kind of primal strength which you've learned to associate with the outdoorsy hiker type or the avid sportsman.

"Like what you're seein', love?”

You winced, a bit perplexed that he had caught you taking stock of his impressive physique. But you weren't about to let him know that.

"Yep”, you blurted out instead, staring boldly into those eyes, as dark and impenetrable as a shark's. "Do you?"

"I do, yeah."

Aaand here we go, you thought, relaxing immediately. For now, you were on a beaten path.

"You've said that I looked like -", you chuckled accusingly, leaning back on your stool. His stare was gliding all over you without any shame, probably filing the best finds away for later.

"I know what I said," he cut you off calmly, leaning closer. The height difference between you two was striking.

"Your mascara got smudged and ran off...to there."

You stilled as this complete stranger traced a pale finger across your eye socket. You drew in a deep breath as he touched your zygomatic bone, where nothing possibly could've smudged. His fingertip travelled even further, brushing over your sensitive skin and freeing a lone strand of hair from behind your ear. It was still damp from the rain.

He did it very slowly. Very gently.

You let him. As if you were hypnotized. Attempted a smile, but the corners of your mouth felt strangely numb.

"See? Now that's perfection", he stated in the same hushed, impassive tone of voice before turning back to his drink. The whisky glass disappeared in his hand.

You were silent. Your head was buzzing as if someone had set the radio inside to a non-existent channel.

The thing is, you knew perfectly well who you were dealing with. When it comes to seasoned fuckboys like Skullface here, it's all very simple; they're nothing to be afraid of. Such men are what a high wave is for the swimmer. An opportunity for a fun ride.

Back when you were a teenage girl, you liked to spend hours on end in the sea. At the time you'd like to imagine that this cool, salty, malachite green vastness was your lover. You drifted in the water, letting the wave carry you, surrendering yourself to its tender ruthlessness, allowing the element to hold you for a moment without dealing any harm, to guide you like a dance partner, and then to pass by and disappear into the distance.

It is just like dancing. As long as you know the steps, something beautiful can come out of it.

And you haven't had the chance to let loose on the dancefloor for so long.

You calmed your body by taking a few deep breaths. You couldn't calm your heart. What you could do, though - was to let your audacious spirit take the wheel.

You grabbed at your glass and emptied it in one sweep. Vile whisky did as it always would; it burned your gullet only to flare into a ball of pleasant warmth once it reached your insides. It was not a connoisseur-worthy beverage, but its aggressive sweetness suited your current mood.

You threw your head back and exhaled slowly.

He was watching, you could tell. He tilted his head slightly. Amusement emanated from behind the black mask.

"Say..." you drawled, leaning towards him with your eyes sparkling, for you felt a surge of vigour and boldness along with a freshly bloomed, alcohol-induced blush. 

"Does your mum know that you being a goth is not a phase?"

Skullface snorted softly.

"I am not a goth, love."

"Then why are you in this den for kinky weirdos?" You gestured around the dark interior, including the bare walls, the blue neon light and the throbbing, metallic, dark rhythms pulsing around you.

"I like goth chicks”, he admitted. Cheeky git.

"Why?" you prodded.

"Tattoos in fun places."

"Animal”, you chided him, setting your empty glass down with a bang.

"Excuse me, sir!" you called out to the bartender. "I shall have another."

"Like you came here for some lofty purpose. Wanna discuss the works of Kierkegaard...dressed like that?” The masked man snorted, summing up your entire scantily clad person with one tilt of his chin.

You chuckled quietly, taking no offence.

"I'm surprised that you even know how to pronounce his name."

He remained silent, so you fired away again, buoyed by the alcohol in your veins: 

"Weren't you supposed to add something scathing after the 'dressed like that' part? I'm still waiting for that burn to sting."

"If I did, I'd be a fuckin' hypocrite", he muttered. "Cause I very much enjoy it."

That solemn note of appreciation in his voice made you smile and nod. What an earnest freak.

The bartender came over and took away both of your empty glasses.

"What can I get you?" he asked, his gaze moving from his face to yours.

"Two glasses of bourbon, Geoffrey", the masked man said.

He noticed that you were opening your mouth and nipped those objections in the bud by raising a finger.

"Hey. Bear with me here. If you don't like it, you might drink whatever you want next. Even more of that fuckin' coal sludge you've been having."

"Excuse you, Scotch is hardly a sludge".

"That's what the bloody Scots would tell you. In much more...colourful terms, I s'ppose. I have a Scottish coworker and every time that we go drinkin', he gives me a bloody earful about the superiority (he pronounced this word rolling his r's) of the local distilleries over that Kentucky brew."

"You're friends with a highlander?" you asked. "Does he curse at you in Scots whenever he gets agitated?"

"All the fuckin' time. He's a twonk." A smile laced his words.

"You sure are passionate about your liquor choices." 

You propped your chin up with your hand, smiling at him.

"If I wanted to taste a fuckin' fireplace, I'd chew on a burnt log. Bourbon is the way to go. Much sweeter."

You couldn't help but laugh at his sudden fervour.

"You don't seem like the kind of lad who pursues sweetness," you quipped, trying to look into those impossible eyes of his and not blink. So far, it was a downhill battle. 

The bartender came back. Two glasses full of amber liquid landed on the counter with a dull clink. You didn't have the time to focus on them, because Skullface leaned towards you, shading you with his powerful torso and obscuring the source of the blue light. Your nostrils were suddenly filled with his pleasant manly scent, mixed with the fragrance of fresh laundry, some kind of a woody-citrusy aftershave, and a hint of something you couldn't decipher even though you knew that smell. Its memory, devoid of a name, tickled at the tip of your tongue. Fireworks?

"Sweet and rough things should go hand in hand in life. That's how you make it all bearable somehow."

"Somehow?..” you asked absentmindedly, mesmerised by his deep voice. By the promise tilting at the edge of those slowly, intently enunciated words.

"Hey, true balance is hard to find, 'cause life's a fuckin' mess. It's chaos, it's cruel. No point to it at all."

Holy mackerel, you thought. A goth girl admirer, an apparent powerhouse of a man and a homegrown nihilist in one. With eyes like two abysses and a voice like grit. This was going to be an enchanting evening.

Don't go crazy just yet, you admonished yourself. Don't let this stranger in a mask get the upper hand on you. Keep your calm so that he doesn't sweep you off your feet prematurely.

"So," you murmured, your tone casual, "What did Kierkegaard have to say, exactly?"

Dark eyes twinkled. 

"Many things. Like that our whole existence is absurd. It doesn't really matter what we do, so we might as well do whatever the fuck we want. And right now, I want to do...this."

He dipped a finger into his glass of bourbon and glided it across your lower lip.

You parted your mouth without protest, giving in to the shamelessness of this gesture.

"Just taste it."

[mal731712]

listener x ghost x konig

for you thirsty mf (me😊)

[playbucky]

Wifey.

You and Ghost have been colleagues, some might say friends even lovers if you listen to the rumours, since you both joined the army.  Characters – Ghost x Reader, Price, Gaz, Soap, Laswell, Graves.  Word Count - 1.7k.

He slowly made his way into your room with heavy steps, ones he purposely did to make sure you heard him. Anyone else that looked into the room would assume that you were focused on the book on your lap, you followed his steps around the room, the routine that he always had. He made his way to the kettle and switched it on, you had filled it with fresh water when you came back. When the kettle boiled he grabbed his mug, the tea bag, sugar and milk before he made his concoction. You had tried to make it once, he drank it but the way his lips twisted with every sip you left it to him. He removed his out layers and welcomed the way his sweat cooled against his body even if he felt sticky and horrible, he made his way over and lowered himself into the couch beside you, the mask pulled up to rest on the bridge of his nose. The familiar scars on show for you and you alone. ‘How long?’ You asked, hands warmed by the mug in between them, you hadn’t drank the tea you made earlier. ‘Six months.’ He grumbled, your pouted. ‘I won’t be here when you come back, being sent on tour.’ You told him the news you got at eight am sharp this morning. ‘Again?’ He quizzed, you nodded as you turned to him. ‘The Lieutenant had an emergency, he’s taking my next one if he’s back.’ You said, Simon grunted next to you.

‘Where is she?’ You recognised his voice, it bounced off the walls, a quieter response came from someone but you couldn’t hear it. Incoming footsteps stopped outside your door, for once you were glad you were in a room by yourself when the door was pushed open. Ghost stood in the middle of the room, dark narrowed eyes searched the bare room before they landed on you. Simon made his appearance, the wrinkles between his brows smoothed. ‘Lieutenant Y/L/N, I tried to stop him.’ The nurse apologised, her eyes wide with fear and concern, you waved her off. ‘It’s alright.’ You told her, a weary glance was sent to Simon before she nodded. Once the door was shut behind her, Simon’s shoulders dropped, his eyes softened as he took you in. You had yet to see yourself but with the pain across your face, the wound ran down your cheek and was surrounded by a slow forming bruise. ‘I’m alright.’ You spoke, his gaze narrowed on your face. ‘Bullshit, I read your intake report.’ He admitted, ‘busted ribs, concussion, fractured eye socket, broken nose, broken leg - want me to go on?’ Simon quizzed, you shook your head. ‘No thank you, I can feel them.’ You replied, he narrowed his eyes at you. ‘What did you do, cannonball off the building.’ He commented, you didn’t respond, ‘Please tell me you didn’t.’ Simon almost begged you as his stomach flipped. ‘I didn’t.’ You replied, he glared at you ‘well it was either that or get blown up by a grenade, what would you rather?’ You asked, he grumbled some response as you tried to smile but the wound stopped you. ‘You’re an idiot.’ He breathed out, the hand on the edge of the bed wrapped around your hand. ‘I know.’ You replied, he played with a finger. ‘Did you succeed?’ Simon quizzed, you shook your head. ‘No,’ you inhaled, ‘Laswell’s coming in later to discuss it.’ ‘It wasn’t a tour, was it?’ He asked, you looked away from him. ‘Can’t say.’ Your fingers played with the blanket.  ‘Y/N.’ His voice deepened, you narrowed your eyes at him as you turned. ‘It’s still open, you know the rules.’ You reminded him, he crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I don’t care about the rules when you end up here.’ He said. ‘Simon.’ You said sternly, you were sure he pouted underneath his mask. ‘Can I have a cuddle?’ You asked, he huffed but stood up, his large frame seemed to take up most the space. ‘Move over.’ He commanded, his voice soft as he motioned at you. Carefully your moved over, you face scrunched up and Simon jerked forward, you held a hand up. He huffed again before he watched you roll onto your side, he rested his hands on the blanket that had been draped over you. Slowly he snuck in behind you, once he was on, awkwardly but as comfortable as he would go without his worry of hurting you appearing. He wrapped an arm over you, hand across your chest as you hugged it. Warmth spread all over and you relaxed, Simon followed soon after.

Ghost followed Price, Soap and Gaz into the small conference room. The overhead lights had been dimmed enough to see the projector clearly. ‘Afternoon fellas.’ You greeted them, leg up on a second chair, the white cast stuck out. The others smiled widely at you but Ghost glared, silently he went to his seat whilst the group quizzed you, having not saw you for almost two weeks. ‘It’s nice to see you but we’re here for work not a catch up.’ You told them, they reluctantly walked away and lowered themselves into their seats, attention on you and the screen. ‘I told you my latest assignment was a regular tour, six months of drills and searches but I lied,’ you started, you watched their brows dipped, ‘Although I was with a team I was there for an alternative reason who I can now name as Phillip Graves.’ You informed them. ‘Very funny, we killed him two years ago.’ Soap said, you remained silent and rolled your neck. ‘You never.’ ‘Upon further investigation the person in the tank wasn’t Grave, he had a scapegoat and managed to escape.’ You explained, they looked confused and angry. ‘Laswell caught wind of him again about eight months ago.’ You said, all their attention snapped to Laswell who had her head lowered, ‘I managed to get close enough to watch him, the team he’s gained is supporting a few terrorist organisations.’ ‘So, when’s the attack?’ ‘Not sure, but three of his members flew into to Heathrow this morning and Graves, or Andrew Smith joined them two hours ago.’ You explained. ‘You got a plan for us?’ Price asked, Kate nodded and stepped forward to take over. Everyone looked at her to pay attention but you knew Simon was watching you, you turned to him and you were right. The dark eyes appeared to be glaring at you but they weren’t. ‘I’m sorry.’ you mouthed, he dipped his head before he turned to Kate. ‘You know, your girlfriends pretty good at jumping from roofs, she’s beautiful as well.’ Graves said, he was trying his best to get under Ghost’s skin but he tilted his head back to make contact eye contact with him. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’ He responded, his voice emotionless. ‘So, who’s that pretty thing then?’ Graves quizzed, Ghost stared at him but he noticed something click in his pea sized brain. ‘She’s your wife.’ He stated, Ghost didn’t react but Soap and Price glanced at him cautiously, one of them knew the answer, ‘I mean, I heard all the rumours when I was with you for that short time and truthfully, I see it.’ He leaned back in his seat. ‘Big bad Ghost who’s said to be unbreakable and the pretty little thing who breaks herself.’ He said, Ghost narrowed his eyes behind bis mask as Graves chuckled to himself. ‘No wonder she turned me down how many times.’ Graves commented, in order to annoy Simon but truthfully he already knew about the attempts. ‘Maybe you just need to listen to women, or anyone in general.’ Soap commented, Graves’ eyes snapped to him with a sinister smile. 

‘They found out.’ He whispered into your ear, his grip tight around your back. ‘What?’ You asked, he pulled back as you looked at his face. ‘You’re married.’ Soap exclaimed, Simon huffed and you could see the annoyance on his face. ‘Yeah.’ You sighed, you looked at Gaz who looked shocked and confused as well. ‘You never told us.’ He said, you crossed your arms over your chest, Soap stopped. ‘Wasn’t a need to know.’ You commented, Simon stood next to you as the men tried to interrogate you. ‘Bullshit.’ He spat put. ‘Soap.’ You snapped, he looked at you, ‘I apologise that we never told you or Kyle, our jobs, especially mine means I can’t flaunt any relationships no matter how important they are to me.’ You said. ‘Can we ask why?’ Soap asked. ‘Yeah, doesn’t mean we’ll answer.’ Simon quickly replied. ‘Simon,’ you started, ‘it was for support or convenience. None of us had family so we came to the conclusion it’d be easier and here we are.’ You held an arm out, Soaps eyebrows had raised. ‘Explains why he listens to you.’ Gaz commented, you chuckled as Simon stepped closer.  ‘He doesn’t listen I’m just the voice of reason that he knows if he breaks it, he’ll get into trouble.’ You told the group, Simon rolled his eyes and his grip on your waist tightened slightly. ‘I think we should go the pub.’ Soap stated. ‘Why?’ You asked him, head tilted to the side. ‘To celebrate the real death of Graves.’ He commented, you saw the glint in his eyes. ‘And?’ You quizzed. ‘There isn’t an and.’ Soap commented, you arched your eyebrow but the smile spread over Soap’s lips gave you the answer. ‘There’s always an and with you.’ Simon commented. ‘Fine,’ he sighed, ‘we should celebrate your marriage.’ He said hopeful, you silently chuckled. ‘Soap we’ve been together for almost twenty years.’ Simon admitted to the group, their eyes widened. ‘All the more to celebrate.’ Gaz commented, you lowered your head now that he was joining in. ‘I mean, I could use a drink.’ You stated, Simon’s head snapped around to you before he sighed and nodded. Soap cheered before he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and lead the pair of you away. Price and Gaz followed closely but Simon watched, his heartbeat quickened as he looked at his family. You looked over your shoulder and looked at him, an eyebrow raised before you stretched a hand out inviting him to join. 

[storeecbrcod]

Through the Rubble (Pt 1)

Ghost x Reader fic (TW: Death, crushing injury)

“[Name], how copy?”

“[Name], do you copy?”

His voice was distant, barely reaching your ringing ears as the weight of the world settled on your chest. You could feel your lungs heaving against the weight, an arm struggling to grasp at your vest to respond.

For whatever reason, only one of your arms moved as you fumbled with your radio, grasping it with shaking hands. You oriented it so you could squeeze the button and respond.

“Copy,” you choked out, struggling to breathe. Your chest didn’t let you inhale, but your eyes were so blurry and filled with debris that you couldn’t make out why.

Why?

The question repeated in your head as you tried to focus on the radio, on the voice on the other end. It sounded… desperate, angry. Fearful.

“Location, [Name]. We need your location. Where are you?” the voice crackled through the speaker.

You didn’t know where, all you knew was the word why. You weren’t sure if it was the gasping breaths that slowly became more of a struggle, or the lack of ability to remember, remember where you are, remember what you’re doing, remember who he is, and why your heart throbs every time he speaks.

“[Name], for fuck’s sake, where are you? I’m coming, I promise, but I need to know where you are. Focus,” the voice was growing more desperate, huffs of breath sounding over the radio. He was running, you could tell by the way his voice jumped with every step he took and his laboured exhales.

You looked around, blinking your eyes a few times as the world came back into view around you. Broken glass, crumbling walls, splintered wood. Smoke, fire, sky poking through the blown building, dark and moody. It reflected about how you felt; suffocated.

Why?

“In… in a… house,” you wheezed. Every time you breathed out, the weight got heavier. You finally have the thought to look down, and only when you saw the concrete pillar crushing your body with blood oozing from under it, did the pain start.

So, so much pain.

“[Name]? [Name], where are you?”

The voice was close, so close, but he didn’t see you. Your face pulled into a grimace as you tried to force air into your lungs, a last ditch effort at something, anything, to get the voice to come near.

“Ghost!” you yelled his name, the sound struggling and cut off as the pillar depressed your chest. You heard footsteps run past again before rounding a toppled wall. They stopped abruptly behind you as you tried to look up to meet his gaze. After a moment, a figure slid next to you, looking between your face, your crushed body, and the pillar.

“Fuck…” was all he muttered, over and over again as his hands hovered over your body, trying to figure out what he should do. His eyes were wide, the rich brown shadowed with the clouds of worry and guilt.

Why?

You knew from his frantic nature, the weight on your chest, and your waning thoughts that this wasn’t good. You could feel the life being squeezed out of you as your consciousness bled out like the red puddle surrounding you. It was only a matter of time.

“Ok, [Name], please. Please stay with me while I… I get help. I need you to stay calm, ok? Stay awake,” he said, his cold tone wavering into terror as his pants soaked up the growing crimson bed you laid on. He reached up to his radio, messing with it to call in, to get help.

“Why?” you gasped out. His panicked eyes turned confused for a moment as they looked into your own. The question confused him, catching him off guard.

“Why? To get you out, [Name],” he said with a failing sternness. He tried his radio. “This is Ghost, we need a med exfil right now.”

That is, until you reached up your free hand, placing it loosely and heavily on the radio, pushing it from his face. You looked up at him, eyes unwavering as you attempted a smile through your laboured gasps. He looked back, his eyes hard but stormy.

“Why, Ghost?” you asked again. “I’m done.”

“No, no you’re not. You’re getting out, you have to,” he shook his head, grabbing your hand over his. His voice turned angry. “You have to, [Name]. I won’t fucking let you lay here and give up.”

His words were sharp, but even they didn’t cover up the building lump in his throat that he spoke around. You smiled wider, your breath starting to leave you as your head became light and unorganised. The pain started to numb.

“Go, Ghost,” you said softly. “Go while you can. I’m done.”

Your repeated words made him shake. He didn’t want to believe it, he couldn’t. He looked around, his movements sharp and angry. He stood, grabbing under the massive cement pillar and grunting as he tried to lift it, using all of his strength.

His eyes were wrenched closed, his breath held as every single muscle tried to lift the immovable weight. He continued to strain as you watched, your heart stuttering on empty veins.

He pushed and pushed, his body trying to work as hard as his mind did, the fear of losing you, his teammate, his partner, his lover unbearable. A scream tore from his vocal chords, booming, deep, and carrying the weight of his plea with the universe that rang in his head over and over and over again.

Not now. Not [Name]. Please, anyone but my love.

He fell to his knees back beside you, knowing but not wanting to believe that his efforts were useless. He took your hand, cold and limp.

“[Name?]” he muttered, the sound barely reaching you. “[Name], please, not yet love. They can… they can get someone to help, they will get someone to pull you out. Please.”

His pleads filled your ears as the ringing rose, your last shuddering breath leaving your mouth in half formed words.

“I love you, Si.”

The weight from your chest dissipated,

Peace.

The weight on his heart crushed,

Grief.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 (Final)