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#simon 'ghost' riley x reader
ohcaptains · 6 months
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𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐚𝐲.
pairing. simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader.
synopsis. simon comes home. he's too tired to fuck you right. eventually, he manages to find the energy.
warnings. 18+ this is sexually explicit, do not read this or interact with my blog if you’re a minor. do not copy or use ai on my shit, i’ll find out. female receiving penetration, blonde simon lol, somnophilia, dry humping, pussy smacking, and crying during sex. i am not responsible for your media consumption.
an. :) life sucked so i found a new animated character to obsess over. please comment & reblog if u enjoyed !
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When Simon comes back, he’s dog-tired.
As soon as his feet touch the welcome mat of your quaint little apartment, he feels all of his muscles relax – as if they’re unpinning themselves from his bones – and he has to give himself a pep talk to muster the energy to drag his hand up to ring the bell.
But he doesn’t have to, because you’re ripping the door open – shining like the sun – and pulling him into your body, rendering all 6,4 ft and 240 pounds of the super soldier to complete mush.
For five minutes, you don’t speak. Just hold him, as you gently rub the corner of his jaw, and brush your fingers through his dirty blonde hair. He clutches you to him.
His fat, paw-like hands hold your upper back, and you hold him with the same vigour. His body – wrapped in his black compression shirt and army pants – is rock solid.
It’s a weaving of muscles that have been tensed for the last two months. It’s going to take a minute for them all to soften, but like he always does when he’s been away, Simon lets out a deep and resolute sigh.
The breath warms your neck, causing it to tingle, and you grasp him tighter, your body waking up.
It’s been a long two months.
He manages to push your intertwined bodies through the doorway, using his boot to kick the door shut. His house smells like home -- funny how you can’t smell it until you’ve been gone a while.
Vanilla and a citrus fruit, mixed with the savoury scent of his favourite meal. He hums again, and you scratch the back of his head, sending shivers down his locked spine.
He knows the route to your bedroom like the back of his hand, and he maneuvers the pair of you inside.
The curtains are closed and the bed is made. You know him. You know him so well.
You let him push you back onto the bed – a blur of familiar limbs and hair – and he settles lower, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Immediately, you drag your legs up and cross them over the curve of his ass.
You’re all warm and soft and pliable. Dressed in a pair of simple cotton shorts and a vest top, he wants to grab fistfuls of you and remind himself of how you feel in his palms. Wants to drag his lips over your skin, bully his way between your legs and remind himself of how you taste.
Fuck, he wants you, in a carnal, almost primal sort of way, and you the same. He can smell it. A sweet but sweaty longing that melts from you and causes his senses to wake.
But he’s so God damn tired.
You know. Know this routine. Know that he has to settle back in.
In the meantime, you’ll just have to wait.
You fiddle with his hair. “There’s dinner if you want it,” you whisper into the dark bedroom, looping the strands between your fingers, committing the soft feel to memory.
Simon shuffles just an inch on top of you, but still, the slight movement of his clothes and hard, clenched body against yours makes you take your bottom lip between your teeth.
It’ll be chewed raw by the time he has enough energy to take you. He grunts something into your skin, and after a second, you gather it’s, tired.
His scent clouds you.
When Simon comes back, he always smells the same.
The soap at the barracks is pine scented – shampoo a strict lemon.
But there’s always a leftover grit to him. A hidden layer the soap can’t clean off, and it makes you delirious. Makes you flex your ass up – just an inch, a sweet, gentle inch that has you feeling the hard lines of his thighs and the metal of his zipper, and Simon’s breathing hitches.
You freeze. With your hips pushed tight against his, you stare at the ceiling, hoping that your worn-out soldier hasn’t felt you move.
Simon stays quiet. His breathing settles. You go to apologise, but Simon doesn’t grumble or make a sly comment. Listening closer to his breathing, you gather that he’s asleep.
Jesus, you think, that’s a record. Barely in the door and he’s asleep, he must be burnt out. Figuring that you won’t be able to crawl from under his weight, you decide it’s your bedtime too.
Sleep comes fast.
Hours later, you blearily blink awake. Not much has changed – the room is still dark, Simon is still heavy on top of you, yet now, you’re sticking to him with sweat.
He’s usually a human furnace, but this is different.
Your skin prickles, vibrating at a frequency that has nothing to do with heat. No, this is…you feel a pulsating between your thighs, and wiggle, feeling your slick coating your underwear.
Fuck, why are you so wet? You clench, and the resulting ache forces you to hiss and push your head back against the pillows. What did you dream about? Thinking back, you come up short. Then why--
Simon shuffles on top of you. It’s a slight movement, but it continues, and all at once, your heart clenches.
Holy fuck, he’s—
“Simon?” you whisper, and your boyfriend whines into your neck.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, the words wet and desperate. The puzzle pieces lock into place.
He knocks his hips into your crotch once more, and you gasp, clenching, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Simon’s apology comes out again, except this time, it’s christened with a “s-shit – fuck.”
Blinking at the ceiling, you huff and try and glance down, and in the dark, you just about manage to see the outline of his burly body grinding into yours.
You take stock of the situation.
Feel his fat palm around your hip, and squinting, see that he’s got your shorts pulled down around your thighs, and has the band of your underwear looped around his fingers.
Jesus Christ. You fall back into the pillows. “How long have you?” you whisper. “Five – fuck – minutes,” Simon grunts, continuing to roll his thick hips against you. His bulge knocks the edge of your throbbing clit, causing you to gasp again. There’s been no build-up to your want, it’s just there, humming electric, and spread tight over your thighs.
Simon meshes his wet mouth against your chest. He’s tugged your vest top down, too, and his lips close around the skin of your breast. Jesus. He was undressing you as you slept.
“Thought about fuckin’ you, but couldn’t get my pants down, so – shit -- tired. Jus’ woke up and you were just so fuckin’ soft. And wet, Christ, felt you through my trousers.”
Your whole body goes numb. “You were gonna fuck me as I slept?” you whisper, belly flipping. You’d told him – ages ago – that he could, but he hasn’t been here. You’d forgotten.
The image of him pulling your underwear down as you slept streaks across your mind. Imagine waking up with him inside of you, so full and wet and just on the precipice of coming.
Simon grunts. He tugs at the band of your underwear, “I’ll fuck you right, at some point. Just –”
In your delirious state, you manage to finish his sentence, “Tired, I know – I know baby.”
You kiss the crown of his head and whimper into his hair. “Just use me until you’re ready.”
Simon groans out deep and loud. It rumbles against your chest. Echoes through your heart, and you’re so turned on that you begin fidgeting.
You try and squirm away from the stifling ache of your pussy, but Simon’s built like a brick shithouse, so you can’t run from it, just gotta take it and take it and take it, until you can’t anymore, and you break.
You’re so fucked that you don’t even announce that you’re coming, but Simon knows, shit, and as your pussy clenches up tight, he growls low and hard, mumbling, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it, until his movements go sloppy, and his breathing goes laboured, and he’s coming into his pants and mewling your name.
When he finally does manage to get inside of you, he doesn’t last long. No, he pushes all the way to the hilt, and you tighten up.
“Stay” you gasp, clenching your pussy around his shaft, and Simon grunts deep and long into your throat.
“S-Stay there,” you moan, then, in case he didn’t hear you, “Stay,” you whisper, and push the ball of your palm into his thick, scarred shoulder. 
You were teetering on a knives edge.
You’ve come once since Simon was home, and your second orgasm of his return was right there.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Simon groans into the shallow of your throat, “Did we do enough prep?” 
“Yes,” you immediately whisper, not wanting him to pull out. 
He’s thick and pulsing inside of you, hard and heavy on top, and God, he kisses at your throat — soft and gentle. You try to swallow down the ball that has swelled in your throat, but tears prick at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill. 
No no no no, you think. Not now. Not now not now. You try to stifle the tears, but you unconsciously sniff, and despite Simon being perfectly still, he still manages to freeze.
“Sweetheart?”
You inhale, “Yeah?” 
Simon looks up; and seeing tears on your cheeks, his face falls, “Did I hurt you?”
You furiously wipe the tears away, shaking your head.
“M’just overwhelmed,” you whisper, and he presses his forehead against yours, going to kiss you, but the movement causes his hips to flex against you, nudging his cock, and you whine, immediately gripping onto the back of his dirty blonde locks. 
Simon drops his face into your chest and lets out a pained rasp, “Tightening around me, kid.” 
You unclench, “m’sorry.” 
“Gonna come quick.” 
“S’okay.” 
“I’ll fuck you right, just gotta…” he trails off and grabs fist fulls of your hips.
“Fuck,” he huffs wistfully, “This pussy. Missed this fucking pussy.”
You go dizzy with need. Shake your head, and bend to kiss him, tasting his wet and swollen lips. Gently, you knock your hips up into his, and when he lets out a surprised grumble, you flex your hips higher, trying to stuff his cock deeper, further – till you can see it pressing into your belly.
Catching onto your plan, Simon grunts and pushes your hips with his fat palms, pinning your ass to the mattress. 
“Stop,” he orders, and the demand goes straight to your cunt. Jesus. He hasn’t been very dominant since his return, and that little instruction has you chomping on the bit.
“Want you, Si.”
“One stroke and I’ll be fucked.” 
“Just gotta practice.” 
He chokes on a laugh, muttering, “Practice.” 
You try another tactic. Clench around his cock and pout, “Want you to come inside me.”
“Fuck,” Simon cuts. You curl your legs back his back and push your foot into the dense muscle of his ass, at the same time rocking your hips up. Simon lets you. Let’s you try and fuck yourself on his cock. With wet lips, you push your mouth into the shell of his ear, shakily uttering his name.
“Gonna fill me up, Si?”
“Fuckin’ filthy, you know that?”
Simon pulls back, and your heart stutters.
You think he’s going to pull out, until he uses your hips to pull you tight against his cock -- your ass nearly sitting on his thighs. His thick, scarred chest is puffed up.
Cheeks red, and he’s got that animal glint in his pretty eyes.
It knocks you for six.
“Where you want it?” he asks, and you’re confused, until he presses the heel of his palm into the middle of your tummy.
“Shoot my load here, huh?”
Your body goes numb. Eyes white out. It happens so suddenly that it scares you, and you’re a mixture of turned on and frightened, but the fear turns you on even more.
All you can do is blearily look up at him as he slides his paw to the other side of your tummy, “or shoot it here. Fuck it so deep that you can taste it.”
He pretends to think about it. Even hums, before he drags his palm up and stuffs his thumb into your mouth. “Or just directly here, huh?” He snarls a smile, “know you like it when your mouth is full.”
You suck at his thumb, and tighten your cunt around his cock, causing his mouth to open, and eyes to flutter, and just like that, you’ve won.
He comes in record time.
But Simon keeps his promises.
A couple of days later – on the seventh day he’s back -- he fucks you so good, that when you wake up the next morning, you get shy just thinking about it. 
Lay in bed, staring at the ceiling – your boyfriend fast asleep on your chest -- remembering the debauchery you’d gotten up to the night before. 
The pair of you are a little tipsy, drunk on beer and wine, but all it’s done is heighten your senses, and made you fully aware of your desires, so much so, that they pulsate behind your eyelids like a migraine.
Simons got you face down, ass up, and as he pushes you face first into the mattress, he presses his thumb against the tight, fluttering hole of your pussy.  
“Gonna let me inside, baby?”
You sink into your thighs and spread yourself wider for him, humming into your crossed arms. Simon watches your pussy spread further, and he can’t help himself, he has to slide his thumb deeper.
He presses, just barely pushing the tip of his thumb into your wet hole, and you gasp, trying to chase the feeling by inching back against his fat palm.  He laughs at you. “Look at your pussy sucking my thumb in, baby. Wish you could see what I’m seeing. So fuckin’ sexy.”
You hum, the words making you wetter – dripping over his thumb.
“Been dreaming of fucking you right, gonna take you whenever I want.”
“Okay,” you whisper, so delirious that you’re not sure what you’re agreeing to. Simon raises a brow,
“Yeah?” he asks, tone breathless. Thought he’d get some pushback on that one, but for a second, he forgot that you said the nastiest shit with his dick inside of you.
You nod into your crossed arms, and Simon laughs again, “Free use pussy,” he sounds, then lightly smacks your sodden folds, causing you to flinch, bucking forward. 
“Oh fuck,” you choke, eyes rolling back. Heat ricochets through your crotch and swamps your belly, before settling back in your aching pussy. Once you manage to collect yourself – and it takes a second -- you huff. “Bein’ mean.”
Simon snorts, grabs your hips, then rams the underside of his cock against your pussy, grinning so big that his scars stretch, “don’t know the half of it, babe.” 
You sob, real tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Your desire is visceral, enough for you to taste it on your tongue. Simon pulls back, and your slick coats the length of his dick, earning yourself another light smack to your cunt.
“Soakin’ me,” he grunts, and you sob into the sheets. “Please,” you whisper, then, please please please, and Simon hears your breathing hitch. 
This time, instead of checking up on you, he chuckles, “Crying again, baby?”
You sniff and wipe your eyes on your wrist, face heating.
“No,” you mumble, and Simon sighs.
He reads you like a book. Always has. Always will.
“Lying to me,” he grumbles, then he steers the uncut head of his cock between your folds, whispering, “Lie to me again, and I’ll give you something to cry about,” before bottoming out in one thrust.
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frogchiro · 11 months
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Pervy!Ghost who is a gross and nasty lil freak :<
Especially after a particulary intense mission when adrenaline is still high and he's pent up with it, his muscles jumping and flexing, testosterone is buzzying and he can get quite aggressive and unpredictable in this state so just imagine poor hacker rookie who greets the guys when they got onto the heli for exfil and congratulates them on another successful mission and she's like :]
And Ghost...well let's just say he didn't take the sight of soft lil you too well. He can literally feel his muscles flexing and almost lets out a growl when you sit down between him and Johnny who's in no better state. Simon can basically smell you, your clean perfumed smell so different than all these sweaty dirty men and he can see all of the guys looking at you with wide blown pupils and smelling you like bloodhounds.
And he can't help it but feel so...angry. Angry and pent up and frustrated and the other men leering at sweet you is making him go crazy so he does the next best thing and decides to assert his dominance and 'stake a claim' on you, and what better way than making you smell like him?
So with a deep grunt Simon swings a heavy arm around your smaller form and brings you close you him, basically squishing you against his side, his gear digging into you and making you let out a pathethic little noise that makes all the men perk up even more.
And Simon smells so strongly :< it's not terrible per say but it's just...overwhelming; it's a clear masculine smell, heavy with sweat and dirt and blood and his own musk combining into a heady smell that makes you swoon. It's definitely nit helping that the smell is literally rubbing off on you too, Simon is tightening and moving his arm around you and you could swet that when he leaned down to your hair that he rubbed his mask on you before taking a deep breath like a predator smelling his sweet prey and being very satisfied with what he smelled♡
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moondirti · 18 days
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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 [18+]
familiar! ghost × witch! reader
you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( PART 1 of 2 )
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DEAD DOVE. RATED R. HORROR/SMUT. 6k. – AO3
please please please read the warnings under the cut before reading. this is leagues darker than my usual work. it is a dark fic, and you know your limits better than i do.
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warnings: discussed cannibalism. graphic depictions of gore. vomiting. killing/butchering animals. violent thoughts. malnutrition. alienation/isolation. manipulation. corruption. mentions of somnophilia. dark!ghost – i.e. simon does not conform to human morality. afab reader using she/her pronouns.
inclusivity note: the reader is described as smaller than simon, but he stands at 250 cm in his true form (8"2), so i assumed everyone – if not, most – would fit that category. she's also malnourished/sick at the start and so there are some references to unhealthy weight loss
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Situated between a dense network of ancient oaks, a lesser demon would have mistaken the cottage for a boulder had they spawned further than ten metres away. Save for the warm orange glow illuminating its arched windows, the home married perfectly to its surroundings – disfigured and hideous, walls warped by unevenly stacked stone and a roof bowed under a thick blanket of snow. Overgrown bushes stick out from under its gnarled fence, dead branches desperately reaching, and the ivy he assumes was once adhered to its front has since been ripped out by the storm, whipping in the howling wind. 
But Ghost is no lesser demon; in fact, he’s far above this whole affair. Something of his rank answering the summons of a novice who could offer no more than sheep’s liver buried in their front yard was an occurrence practically unheard of. For good reason, too. He’s dangerous in the right hands, willing to resort to lengths that even the devil wouldn’t dream of so long as he receives proper payment. Most power-hungry neophytes would slaughter, have slaughtered, to have him as their familiar. Even then, he is above their grovelling. 
So, to be lured out of respite by sheep’s liver, of all things… 
He supposes he has no excuse for it, not that he has to explain himself to anyone. Perhaps he’s here only to satisfy his curiosity. The call hadn’t come from the lips of someone who’d been practising – sharp and sure, roused by a brand of audacity special to cocksure practitioners – but from someone softer. More sceptical. It’s unusual that an occultist would have both knowledge and skill to summon a familiar, yet still be suspicious as to whether they even exist at all. He’s not so much offended, then, as he is morbidly interested in what reaction his appearance would incur.
Disgust. Terror. Reverence. 
Warmth pools in his belly, blood oozing in fat globs to fuel the flame that compels him to head into the small home. It’s hard to make out what’s inside merely by looking through the windows; the glass has glazed over from the contesting temperatures on either side of it, painting a bleary picture of a fire silhouetting vague shapes. The doorstep creaks under his heavy foot, but nothing – from what he can see – moves in response to the disturbance. It’s late, he knows. If it weren’t for the thick clouds shrouding the sky, he would see the moon sinking towards the west horizon. Anyone with any sense in this world knows to be asleep during witching hour.
The doorknob is round. Brass. Worn by a hand that’s gotten very good at grasping it in the same manner every time. Ghost takes a moment to digest what that tells him about his new client before turning it and ducking inside. He was right to assume it’d be unlocked. While he’d have been able to find a way in otherwise, the silly little oversight manages to elicit more excitement in him than necessary. Their mistake is added to his quickly growing character evaluation. A routineer. Garden-variety mortal, too naive for their own good. Someone isolated. Someone– 
Small. 
Size has always been relative for something of his stature. At two and a half metres, he’s able to tower over even his own. But it truly hits him, right there, how long it’s been since he last encountered a human. He tries to tally the decades in his head, only to fail and fail again by fault of distraction. It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. She fulfils every bit of what he expected, after all; plain, though younger than the typical practitioner of familiar-summoning ability. Fast asleep on a threadbare couch. Drowned in clothing, skin dewy with sweat. A book abandoned, open on her chest, stuffed with spare pieces of parchment and illegible annotations. Ink-stained fingertips.
But his hand could crush her head if he was truly compelled to do so. He could scoop the bare ankles currently peeking out of her quilt and throw her over his shoulder like wild game, skinned and simple to carry back to hell. He remembers the fallow deer he’d feasted on just last week, belly soft as he sunk his teeth into it, and considers letting his appetite get the best of him with the one that’s unwittingly made herself available tonight. Crack open her ribcage to gorge on the gooey insides that no doubt taste like honey to a monster with his appetite. Bury his snout into her sweet-scented neck and get a sense for prey that can fight back, if just barely. 
But the moment passes. In her slumber, she shifts to lay on her side, spooning the grimoire closer. The minor hint of life reawakens another, more primaeval urge in him, last felt aeons ago when he was a younger fiend and the world had been a much more vulnerable place.
(The urge to take, to bend and break to fit his fancy. Chewing on cartilage until it smacks like gum between his maw, flossing the foul curl of his canines. To sink his claws into tender calves and carve an irreversible Ghost-shaped hole in her home, a haunting so stubborn she’ll turn to a fake God to try and expel him.)
And it’s violent. A rather restive longing. But placed next to the patience he’s learnt in the centuries since, he makes his choice. A natural conclusion to a creature who’s always gotten what he’s wanted.
Yes, he’ll stay. Be here when she wakes and revel when those eyes widen at the sight of him, darkening the corner of her room. He’ll stay; trail around and observe as she tries to make sense of her routine in light of the beast looming over her shoulder. He’ll stay, maybe ravage what's between her legs, devastate her sense of preservation and instead make her beg for the damage. Fall short on his duties as a familiar. Stay until he gets bored, when he’s had his fill of the crying and the quaint box she calls home. When playing with his food any more will lay the morsel to waste. Only then will he finally tear into the temptingly delicious meal in front of him.
For now, though, his neck aches from having to stoop under such a low roof. He resorts to a bygone human form instead, one he consumed ages ago – bones snapping, flesh dimpling, folding, morphing into a much smaller thing, a man – and waits.
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Morning finds you doubling over the side of your couch to retch up what little food you had scavenged the previous evening. 
The loss is sore. Your stomach protests as the stale bread and water emulsion punches up your throat, emptying out onto the hardwood floor. Acrid. Bitter on the back of your tongue, sharp like the cramps that erupt in your abdomen once you lay back down. Sweat plasters baby hairs to your forehead, crawling down your back and pooling underneath your bandaged breasts. You wipe it off with trembling hands, kicking the suffocating quilt until it slouches off the armrest on which your feet lay. 
Last night’s fire is little more than smouldering ash. Still, the cottage maintains a pervasive heat, the air buzzing with an unnamed vigour. It’s unlikely that the blizzard has ceased long enough for the snow blanketing your home to melt – and given the walls’ remarkable ability to release warmth faster than they absorb it, the current temperature is enough to confound you. 
Likely a fever, you think, pressing knuckles to your temple. The timing is unfortunate enough, though something about your conclusion falls apart when tested against the churning of your gut. You’re clearly unwell, that much is apparent by the bile spoiling your floor, but you’d be a fool to miss the supernatural root of it. Like a perpetual tremor, never waning despite the way your muscles flare. A delirium that unfurls from your nape to slowly embrace your ears. You blink, trying to make sense of the queasiness that continues to wrack you. 
You’d run out of herbs two days after the blizzard snowed you in, the remaining potions lining your pantry ones best left untouched. It couldn’t have been anything you took, then. Nor was it a spell; the last one you’d cast was an ignition charm you’ve performed so often you know its effects like the planes of your cheeks. You cycle through yesterday's happenings with febrile imprecision, sipping long gulps of oxygen to tame the queasiness lapping up your chest. Like bailing water out of a quickly sinking raft. Cupping it in your palms and throwing what you can overboard. You get nowhere, and your nausea only worsens.
You’d gone to sleep with your grimoire in hand. Had you cast something while in a hypnagogic state? Possible, though rather uncharacteristic. Your fingers dig into the cushion gutters, poking for any sign of the thick book. As a migraine begins to tear at your skull, your search borders on unhinged. Pillows fly across the room, cushions following suit. The quilt billows as you air it several times over, providing some fleeting – yet much needed – airflow. 
You’re so focused on finding it that you almost miss the fact that the charred voice behind you is not your panic made material. Not the voice inside your head.
“Under the couch.”
This one is hoarse. Deep. It almost instantaneously shatters the heavy atmosphere cloaked over your shoulders, breaking your pyrexia with a sharp shiver down your spine. Pure ozone injected into the bubble you’ve made for yourself, the one you thought was so secure. Where the knife you taped to the underside of your table has remained untouched in the years since you moved in, unneeded. Hunched the way you are now, you can see it. Glinting as a mocking smile does; all teeth. Too far for you to retrieve without alerting your intruder. Too far for it to be an option. Your instincts rear.
Slowly, you crouch lower, hand skimming under the couch. Your pinkie grazes the well-loved leather of your grimoire’s cover. It manages to ground you to the situation at hand, though the reality is far more horrifying than what you could’ve conjured on your own. Distorted still, rippling with the impact of your fear. Paralysis battles adrenaline – your mind freezes with the shock of drowning, your body championing for survival. It doesn’t give you time to catch up.
Wood splinters under your heel as you twist, springing in the general direction of the voice. Heavy book in both hands. Your shoulders square, steadying as hinges to your attack. The figure is just visible; you barely make out the silhouette of its head before you aim for it.
But it grabs your wrist and flings your grimoire across the room in a fraction of the time, the spine splaying open onto an adjacent wall. Your stomach capsizes. The raft tips, flips, sends you crashing into frothing waves. Migraine blinding you for a brief, horrifying moment; one where you can’t see the thing shackling your wrist, or anticipate the hard kick it gives to your ankles. You buckle with the pain, held up by one heavy paw. A low whine syphons from your chest.
“Enough of tha’, now.”
Your vision comes into focus several seconds later. Still watery, brine spooling over your eyes, readying them for pruning, but clear enough to make out the depth of this ravine you’ve shipwrecked over. And it’s–
Uncanny. Teetering the thread between jarring and inhumane. Nothing about it – you’ve a hard time believing the moniker of ‘man’ – strikes you as superficial. Nothing skin-deep. Like a mountain seen breaking the horizon line from continents away, its rocks humming a song too closely resembling a banshee’s shriek for it to be alluring. Something concealed within its caves; underground, bubbling, molten. An impetus for myths, undiluted by tired parents using it to scare their children into bed. Still crowned by its original savagery, conceptualised centuries ago by a peasant who made the mistake of getting too close.
But it isn’t a concept, you quiver. It’s here – fleshly, corporeal. And it's even made an attempt to look human. As if you wouldn’t feel it itching to burst out of this skin, suffocated by too small constraints. Over six feet and then some, shoulders doubling yours and fingers that stretch a bit too long, a bit too thick. No face: everything but its eyes covered in knitted headwear, framing the pair of pale pupils, shadowed by a heavy brow.
 Some suicidal, hare-brained part of you wonders what would happen if you were to lift the bottom of its mask. (What you would see. How it would react.) But the compulsion is quickly stifled by another wave of gagging, empty stomach looking for anything to regurgitate. The thing masquerading as a man catches on fast, flipping you so your back tucks against its chest. You end up projecting water over the carpet, coughing until your head pounds like a ripe bruise. It’s then that you realise your condition has everything to do with its presence, souring now that you’re practically nestled against its abdomen.
“What…” You question between dry heaves. “What are– What do y-you want with me?”
“Better question ‘s, wha’ do you want?” It murmurs back, rumbling too close to your ear. Rot thickens its breath, potent enough that it draws the tears already dotting your lash line. No doubt a corpse remains stuck somewhere down its gullet, stored away for later. No doubt you’ll join it soon, gnawed on until your flesh falls off the bone. The perfect victim; all alone, the town pariah. A witch by the common man’s standards. Cast out to a dismal forest to die.
“I don- I don’t–”
“Summoned me, didn’ you? Dug a nice little hole and all. Well,” His hand shifts, clasping tighter around your struggling arms. “I’m ‘ere now. ‘Bout wha’ you expected?”
You use your retching as an excuse to play a game of catch up, squeezing the last of your tears out. Your memories bleed into one another, ink on wet parchment. Summoned. Dug a… hole, to call on this thing of supernatural proportions currently occupying your home. Why would you want that? What have you done? The past year has been marked by loneliness of a drastic degree, certainly, yet–
And then it comes flooding back to you.
(Washing the salt off of preserved sheep’s liver. Fastening it to a bouquet garni with twine. Folding the modest sacrifice under layers of earth. Pouring milk onto the upturned dirt.)
“Aren’t you supposed to be an– an animal… Or something.” You choke.
(You never thought it’d work: this magic amateurishly scribbled onto the back of your book by a hand long necrotized. The runes had been difficult to fathom on their own. And the way the spell had sounded on your clumsy tongue made you sure you’d done it wrong. It was purely a pursuit of curiosity. Something to keep you occupied, for lack of anything else to do.)
“Or something.” It answers.
A familiar. Yours, to be precise. In service to you since it took the offering you fashioned. Or, of greater import, one that can’t do anything to you lest you ask for it.
(Foolish to think you can clamp a collar on a feral beast and expect it to heel.)
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The girl has a harder time adjusting than his original estimate.
Of course, there’s the illness. The affliction that plagues all mortals who come in contact with a demon for the first time. She’s violently sick for days, verging on the full first week of his arrival. Constantly bent over herself, holding a metal pail close for the inevitable purge of bile, that which her liver overproduces to compensate for a lack of food. Her under eyes blacken five shades darker. Her cheekbones grow more pronounced. Ghost watches it all with a macabre sort of interest, unable to take much satisfaction in the affair as his meal withers away before his very eyes. Wrists thinning into willow branches. Lips flaking like dead bark.
He's almost tempted to do something before she begins to recover herself. Gets more used to his unnatural presence, it seems. Gradually. Slow.
It starts when she wakes up one morning, having slept in later than he’s known her to, hiccupping but otherwise solid. After laying on the couch for an hour, she limps off with dwindling energy to fry a batch of velvet shank for breakfast. The meal is hardly enough for one, yet she plates two-thirds of it for Ghost and places the dish on the table he’s commandeered for his own. It’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t have it in him to be kind about it, though. Yet before he can criticise her efforts, she waddles off to pry a window open. Frigid winds encroach on her sheltered home at once, snow flurrying in, but she braves the cold until a crow lands on the windowsill. 
“Hello.” She croons, smoothing a knuckle across its crown. “Sorry I’ve been away. Here,” Digging into her breast pocket, she pulls out a handful of chokecherries and feeds them to the bird. “make them last. Supply is low.” 
The crow merely picks them off her palm, coos lost in the roaring storm that batters at the door. For the first time since his arrival, Ghost is tempted to bleed into the shadows. The affair he’s made voyeur to is delicate, an understated glimpse into a life entirely foreign to him. It aches when he can’t piece together why she would give up her food for nothing in return, or why she treats him the same way she does a feral bird. He thinks it must be ego, this snarling anger in his chest. 
So when the crow flies off with a final farewell pet down its back, he hardens into a nastier version of himself. Ghost still hasn’t touched the paltry breakfast when she turns her attention back to him, a fact she meets with a gingerly raised eyebrow. 
“’Fraid I won’t eat tha’, pet.”
She takes a moment to process his epithet of choice, eyes narrowing in an almost comical turnaround of her previous gentle expression.
“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” She scoffs.
The indignation alone should be enough to incense him further, never mind the apathy she adopts when she shucks the contents of his plate onto her own and marches back to the couch. It doesn’t. If anything, he calms a little at her willingness to take away what she so graciously offered. The cat does have claws, then. Albeit petty, piddling little claws – like the runt of a litter who’s learnt to bite back at anything that gets too close – but a fire, nonetheless. He appreciates that, perhaps more than he assumed he would. 
Her sickness, he finds, is not the only issue.
Ghost lacks context for her situation – why she lives alone when the closest towns are just bordering the forest, or why no one ever seeks her out – but it does not escape him that the girl isn’t properly socialised.
In the centuries since they first emerged, he’s absorbed a keen sense for mortal behaviour. Credit to their alarming predictability, pattern recognition has halved the effort needed for his hunts. Not that he pretends to be at one with their psychology, but it’s easy to pin just where exactly she deviates from the norm when his strategy for ravaging her depends on it. More than once, he finds himself inexplicably engrossed in her habits.
Given her home is limited to the living room, kitchen, and washroom, she struggles to find a space where she can escape his oppressive presence. Ghost does not make it easy for her, either. He could choose to blend into the darker corners of her cottage, embodying the moniker he’d been given all those years ago and disappear almost completely – or enough to give her a mental break. But the mood strikes him more often than not, and he’ll loom over her like a spectral shadow, looking to provoke the grave mood swings that seize her like Satan does his miscreants. By far the most entertaining outcome had been when overstimulation trounced her usual level of tolerance and she pulled a knife on him, zeroed in on his jugular. He’d managed to scruff her by the nape until she wore herself out – which isn’t to say she didn’t put up quite a fuss. 
Since then, she has yet to lash out to such an extreme, instead locking herself in the washroom when her temper skyrockets. Ghost is almost disappointed. 
That’s his pet at her worst. At her best, she opts for quiet coexistence, either whispering to the crow who visits daily and appears to be her only friend, or cradling that ugly book in both hands. The back of the couch where she lounges most often obscures his view of her, but he’ll get the occasional vision when she pokes her eyes above the top to check on him. He maintains eye-contact – the heavy, uncomfortable kind that engenders pure humiliation and pummels her back into place, eyebrows furrowed and contentment spoiled – until the boredom gets to him.
The next time she sneaks a peek, then, he effects a gruff “Still ‘ere.”
She keeps to herself after that, nose buried in her grimoire like a chastened fawn. 
It takes three weeks for her to settle into normalcy. By that time, Ghost’s patience has already started to wear thin.  
The girl operates under the impression that he can’t do anything unless she orders it of him. He doesn’t blame her, credulous thing that she is. The notion is generally accepted by most of her grade, propagated by some text meant for beginners, written by a man who lacked the subtlety to discern between rules and good form. It’s true that familiar’s tend to only perform feats their counterparts ask for, but only because to do otherwise is bad practice. What else motivates a symbiotic relationship if not trust? Dependency? 
Of course, that’s if a demon has anything to gain that a human can provide. He’s always found it to be a little more than pathetic. Reared to hunt, formidable in his thaumaturgic ability – Ghost has lasted centuries by remaining self-sufficient, unwilling to lean on the inferior class of rational beings. Unwilling to do their dirty work in exchange for blood he could obtain very well on his own. At least, that had been the conviction when he’d answered her graceless summons, bent on killing both his curiosity and hunger with one stone. 
But something about her had made him glad to abide by the niceties. Had soothed the spring of his haunches as he prepared to pounce, or otherwise convinced him to play passive until golden opportunity struck. He’d wanted her to have as much a hand in her own unravelling, like a frog brought to a boil, entirely oblivious of its impending death until much too late. Her erroneous understanding of their dynamic, then, had paired nicely with his purposes. So he led her on to believe it, wasted most of his days amenable at the dining table as if waiting for instruction. As if she was the one in control, buzzing to shatter the perception when she inevitably asks something of him. 
What he’s found, unsurprisingly, is that she’s blossomed under the reassurance. The initial fear that gripped her once she realised he wouldn’t be going away has since watered down to a weak, background agitation. He tastes it in the air; the mild unease as she flits about her cottage, the first thing to go when something else captures her attention. The way she hardly takes note of him anymore, waking up or retiring to sleep with nothing but covert glances to where he monopolises space. 
So that feeling of frothing irritation returns at her docility, only more powerful than it had been when she’d offered her last chokecherries to the crow. No witch or wizard of her acumen has ever been so lacking in spite – and from what little she’s allowed him to see of her outbursts, he knows she isn’t short of it either. Yet she’d given up so quickly. Forfeited her home and comfort to a monster she hasn’t attempted to make any use of. And fuck– if that isn’t what he’d wanted. He needed her secure in him, pretty and soft enough that she’d be tempted to trade him for favours, for little feats of magic or the completion of chores she no longer has to worry about now that she doesn’t live alone. 
Nevermind the detail that she refuses to ask anything of him; it still claws at him the wrong way, razor-sharp and deadly as it tears up his throat. This anger on her behalf. A compensation for the response she should be having. It stirs him when he realises that, for all intents and purposes, what he feels is pity. Perilous, committed sympathy. 
There’s a reason he steers clear of it, too. Quick to snowball. He already feels it growing, avalanching into the hollow recess where he’d suppressed the soul of his first meal. Something shifts, then. He can’t place it. Just knows that the outcome he’d envisioned – where her bones serve to pick his teeth of the soft flesh from her thigh – is no longer a viable option. Just knows that his intentions with her mutate into something perhaps more dangerous, a little more unhinged. To weed out the wickedness he’s only seen in flashes. To see her corrupted into a far worse version of herself. 
It’s late into his twentieth night when Ghost decides to do something about it. 
He wedges back into her cottage when dawn splinters over the virgin snow. If he were a passionate man – not this hellhound trailing blood behind him like breadcrumbs – he’d remark on the way the tepid sunlight stains the forest in shades of peach and lurid blue. But the crow between his teeth hangs limp, and he’s hurried for the best way to present his gift, too absorbed in the task at hand to pay much mind to scenery. 
The house is as tranquil as it always is at this time. Suspended in amber, a fossilised quaintness he’s grown used to. Golden, almost sticky slow. She’s still fast asleep on the couch, soft snores whistling from underneath a patchwork quilt (which smells so much like her that, to his mutt senses, they’re one-in-the-same form.) Despite the precarity of the moment, he makes no effort to keep quiet. His natural disposition isn’t prone to making any unintentional noise though, and so the only thing he disturbs are the dust motes bobbing in suspended animation. 
Ghost places the dead bird on the table. It won’t be long before the blood drains from the punctures in its neck, and he prefers his meat iron-rich and wet, so he makes quick work of morphing back into his human form and washing his muzzle clean. There’s a sick thrill that curls in his gut; something like adrenaline, ozone-rich. Ruthless. He holds a crystalline picture of her reaction to the slaughtered friend he dragged into her home; angry, doe eyes glazed with tears as she yells at him for acting against her best wishes. Bad dog. Perhaps she’ll pull the dagger she keeps taped to the bottom of the table to indulge a sense of security. Perhaps she’ll drive it into his chest. That’s for hoping. 
Standing over her now, he imagines the way her serene face morphs into something foul when she’s pushed to her limits. His cock twitches at the mental picture, aching behind the confines of his pants. A heavy hand moves to adjust it, stilling once it cups his balls to consider whether it’d be overkill to tug it over her face while she remains nice and still like this. It would be – not anything he’s above, granted, but excessive nonetheless. Besides, she’ll have plenty of time to accept the attention. Learn to love it, even.
When she wakes, Ghost has already plucked the crow. The feathers pile in the centre of her round dining table – distinctive even when detached from a body, meant for her to draw parallels to the game he currently masticates. Yet she hardly notes his presence at all. Instead, the unsuspecting thing merely clears the sleep from her bleary eyes, weighed down by a heavy cloak of sloth, more focused on wiping the drool off her chin than him. If she had been, perhaps the pieces would fall that much faster; at least, that’s what the quick-tick rap of his pulse insists upon. 
But he’s no over-eager brute. He can wait. 
Yet he is tense when she shuffles to and from the bathroom, bare feet padding along hardwood. Like a flood, his body grapples against the tidal urge to grab her jaw and force her gaze upon his bloody teeth, sharpened and marred behind the mouth of his true form.  Look at me. Have you no survival instinct? There is a threat in your home and you parade in front of it, blind as a mole. You’ll get eaten like this. You’ll be condemned to hell between the jowls of horrible men.
(More monster than ever, really. Even like this, bound by his approximation of what a mortal man looks like, his face remains stuck to its original construction. The knitted mask he wears is more for her sake than his; he’s never been able to replicate the particulars of humanity. The delicate planes of their lips or the angles their noses protrude at. Better not to try, then. Better to hide it all away.)
It’s as she scrounges for breakfast that she finally heeds the pinpricks of blood dotting the floor. Fat, dark splotches draw a clear line from the doorway to a very calm Ghost, sat with his thighs spread over her too-tiny chair. He’s yet to finish his meagre meal – each bite seasoned with a satisfaction that bloats heavy in his stomach – hence the evidence of his crime still paints the corner red. A violent picture. Distressing, if he were to interpret the way her brows knit tight. 
Crimson meat marbled ivory. Wings pried off a picked apart ribcage, shanks sucked clean of slightly tougher muscle. Still intact are the heart, tongue, liver – their membranes dissolving to soak into the table. The smell of death will be hard to rid of, he’s sure, much like the inedible parts of the bird that scatter carefully in front of him. Its glossy black talons. That tell-tale beak. Feathers on which her eyes linger, like she recognises the sheen but is too upset to connect it to the crow she fed daily. Her only friend. 
She steps closer. Ghost devours every minute expression that flits upon her face. For the expressiveness of her pupils – contracted, small like organic pearls – she doesn’t portray much externally. Her fingers wring her skirt, twisting and twisting until it wrinkles in the impression of her thumb. Her lips purse into a thin line. But as far as his sharp observation goes; no tears. No ugly rage rippling her cheeks. 
“What is this?” She asks in a small voice. 
“Breakfast.” He says. It isn’t the response she’s looking for, and a frown tugs at her mouth. Not necessarily sad. Her hands release to clench at her sides. He smiles behind the mask. He can’t help himself. 
“I didn’t tell you to do this.” 
The smile breaks into a low chuckle. “No?” 
“No.” Shaking her head, emotion surges up her throat. It bubbles thick and forces her to adopt a higher pitch to overpower it. “You brute. I-If you could’ve done whatever… whatever you wanted t-the whole time–”
“C’mere.” His hand snakes around her wrist, using it to wrench her closer. He consciously keeps his grip light – too much force and he could easily shatter bone – but the girl does not share his concern. She pulls and fights and stubbornly protests his direction.
“No! Get the fuck off! Get out!” She heaves. Seethes. Spittle launches from her tirade, her nails digging into his palm. She looks for blood but he won’t give it to her. She’s doing well, but not well enough. Eventually, he is able to pull her onto his lap, locking thick arms around her squirming form. “You bastard. You monster! I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll murder you in your sleep and feed your rotten insides to the maggots. Let me go!” 
He’s blood-filled in his trousers. The hefty bulge knocks the small of her back and of all things, that’s what gets her to suddenly slacken. Though her chin tips to rest between her collarbones, lashes deliberately cast down. Refusing to meet his eye for all she’s worth. Good, he thinks, a warmth blossoming in his chest. 
“You ough’ to know your friend didn’ put up a fight.” He starts, nosing the part in her hair. Despite his knitted mask serving as a direct barrier between them, he can smell the pine and juniper berry soap she uses to wash up. Sharp. Sweet. Particularly potent behind her ear, where he considers her lobes like low-hanging fruit. 
“Shut up.” 
“Need to hear this, pet.” She doesn’t listen, naturally, hips bucking wildly the instant he loosens his hold. His fingers bruise when he readjusts her on his thighs. “Need to know it was your fault as much as i’ was mine. Yeah? Y’let it grow too comfortable. Fed it daily and robbed i’ of its ingrained fear of strangers. In the end, it got much too friendly. Didn’ have the sense to fly away when I approached it.” Her breath pinches into a piercing whine. Ghost likens it to the kettle she keeps over her stove, waiting for steam to burst out of her ears. 
It does not come. Instead, she cries. Beads of brine break her waterline, streaking miserable paths down her cheeks. He’ll grant her this: she does not sob unreasonably. Her hiccups are limited to if and when the air hardens in her lungs. He lets her have a moment before continuing. 
“S’what happens, see. You get complacent, ‘n’ next thing you know, you’re meeting your God. Tell me, pet: do you think the afterlife would be pleasant to a witch?” 
When she doesn’t respond, he bounces a knee to knock some sense back into her. Her weeping starts anew, only this time accompanied by a stuttered acknowledgement. 
“Hm?” 
“N-No.” 
“No. ‘Course I could ‘ave told you that much, but it’s importan’ you come to the moral of the story yourself. Fight, or die.” Ghost strokes the goosepocked flesh of her upper arm, voice softening to deliver the final part of speech. It’s treacherously low, ultimatum like powdered ash cushioning the roughness in his throat. “And believe me when I say, dying ain’ the better option. There are far worse fates than me in Hell.” 
He does not know whether it lands like he wants it to. If it accomplishes anything at all. But she doesn’t attempt to peel herself off him in the aftermath. Instead, she mourns herself dry for the next hour, snivelling wretchedly on his lap. 
When her crying stops, the air is still laden with something. Hesitation rolls off her in waves, dense with the renewal of fear. He supposes it must be hypocritical of him, to both strike her with terror and expect her to overcome it, but he hums anyway, nudging her temple off his shoulder in an appeal to state what’s on her mind.  
What comes instead is a deceptively simple question. 
“What’s your name?” She asks. Doesn’t demand of him to tell her. Doesn’t set up grounds for him to ask for something in return. He can either answer, or not. She leaves the choice up to him. Clever girl. 
He grapples with it a moment too long. A long dead man beats at his ribcage and demands to be heard. A meal he never managed to digest. Hissing. Snarling. S-Si-Si–
“Ghost.”
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mrshesh · 8 months
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i saw on your rules that you don’t write hardcore nsfw, so im gonna try to stay tame LOL
how would ghost be in bed? i feel like im so conflicted about this topic
ghost in bed - simon "ghost" riley x reader
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overview: how simon "ghost" riley would be like in bed
pairing: simon "ghost" riley x gender neutral reader, romantic
genre: smut, fluff
a/n: i'm actually so passionate about this topic. he's very misrepresented in our fandom, so i'd like to give my two cents regarding this topic. thanks for the request, anon!
TW! mentions of SA, abuse, suicide, and torture. proceed with caution.
Contrary to popular belief, he is not the rough dom everyone makes him out to be. He wouldn’t slap or spit on you. He wouldn’t push your head into the mattress and call you the filthiest words that come to mind - no, he’d be gentle, careful, and loving. 
Simon has been through hell and back - he knows what it feels like to be hurt better than anyone. Physically, verbally, emotionally, and psychologically, you name it! He knows it all, so he doesn’t get off on it. 
His past is extremely gut-wrenching. He got betrayed by everyone, even his own team. He got tortured for months and months on end, to the point where he got severe PTSD and anxiety. He suffers from nightmares and panic attacks and has even tried to take his own life. We also know that he got SA’d in the past, in the months he got gravely tortured. (Reading the comic was seriously terrifying.)
The fact that his father was abusive isn’t helping his case, either. 
And on top of that, he dislikes exposing his body and face. 
So best believe he’s only sleeping with you when you fully trust each other.
And when he does have sex with you, my god, it’s gentle. 
He loves missionary and sitting cowgirl. Being able to hold you close, look you in the eyes, kiss your cheeks, and press his forehead against yours - those things he’d do during sex, not choke you till you pass out.
He has lost everything he has ever loved, so losing what he loves the most, you, is out of the question for him. And that results in him being extremely cautious while having sex. He’s terrified of scaring you away. 
He whispers sweet nothings in your ear constantly. “I love you so much.” “Takin’ me so well.” “You’re so beautiful.” 
His face is redder than a tomato. Having intimacy with someone he loves is a pretty new thing to him, so his cheeks are painted a light pink from the get-go. 
The aftercare consists of soft kisses, compassionate touches as he cleans you up, and praise, so much praise. 
The moral of the story - he's a gentle giant who's absolutely terrified to lose you, despite his hard rock exterior.
this turned dark really quick, but it had to be said.
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lilmaravilla · 1 year
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Y/n: hey Ghost, guess what ?
Ghost: no. Just go away
Y/n: but wait. Just look
Ghost: if I look, will you go away?
Y/n: yeah. I have to find a medic anyways.
Ghost: what is it? *turns to you*
Y/n: *proudly* i got SHOT *points at wound*
Ghost: YOU GOT SH— BLOODY FUCKING HELL!!! *literally carries you and runs to the nearest medic*
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(simon is originally like 6'4-6'5 but i made him about 6'10 for this hehe)
(size difference part 1)
older!ghost x inexperienced!reader where there is a big size/height difference between the two of you. you two have been dating for five months already and more than anything you both want to have sex with each other but ghost is hesitant.
one night you two were indulging in a heavy makeout session. you were seated in his lap, his scent hugging your body like his big arms wrapping around you as he pawed at u. tongues licking and and mouths sucking at each other. u felt warm n mushy on the inside, ur core throbbing as u pressed down onto his clothed, hard cock that made you shiver. if you were to look at yourself in the mirror your hair would be messy from simon's large hands running through your locks, lips kiss-bruised and hickeys littering your neck.
you kiss him before pulling away, blushing at the way the older man tries to follow your lips with his before he opens his eyes, running his strong, tattooed hands along your back then the sides of your torso.
"s-simon?" you squeak out, your small hands gently gripping onto his biceps.
simon gently kisses your lips, a small grunt sounding from his when you move forward on his erection accidentally. "yes?"
his deep, gruff voice makes you tremble with want.
your back arches a bit as he moves you even closer to him on his lap, giving you a slow, sloppy kiss as you whine softly.
"i-i--" you have a difficult time finding your words as simon squeezes your hips then smooths over the slight sting with his palm. he kisses you again, humming in acknowledgement. butterflies swarm your whole entire body--all the way to your fingertips.
he was so...big. you needed him so badly. you could feel your cunt sopping and thrumming with desire.
"'m ready.." you whisper against his lips.
"ready for...?" he asks, kissing from your lips to the corner of ur mouth down to your neck before suckingly firmly. you weave your manicured fingers through his soft hair as he sucks, his arms wrapped around your lower back bringing you closer to him as you whimper.
you swallow, biting your lower lip--eyebrows pinched upwards as ur brain gets more fuzzy. simon kisses his way back up to your lips, ur hips subtely dragging slowly on his meaty thighs and lap.
"w-want u.." u blush. you felt so flustered talking about wanting to have sex with him. or wanting to have sex in general. it took six weeks for you to feel comfortable making out with him. not because you were afraid of him, but because you had never done anything like that with anyone before.
"baby.." he kisses the corner of your mouth gently before pulling away from your lips a bit. his voice is soft and so sweet, your body feeling warmer. his left hand combs through your hair. "haven't even got ya prepared, yet.." u lean forward, pressing your lips to his before pulling away slightly.
"what do ya mean?" you ask, confusion lacing your features.
simon can tell he's gonna need to spell it out for you in order for you to get what he's saying.
"well, it's just that," he thinks for a second, running his thumb against the fat of your lower lip. "y'know, 'm a lot bigger than you.."
you blush.
your height difference was something you fucking loved. he was about 6'10 and you were..well, no where near that.
you lace your fingers with his, watching how his hand dwarfs yours completely. you kiss his knuckle gently.
"'s okay if you don't wanna do it with me.." your words are sad, and far, far, far from the truth.
he's been fantansizing about fucking you since he met you. the way he would make you feel better than anyone else has ever made you feel. he wanted to treat you right. fuck you until you saw stars, the moon, and everything above.
"aw, princess.." he kisses you again. "y'know that's not true..wanna be with you.. wanna be inside ya so fucking badly," his words make you feel hot. "just that, well, you're the smallest 've ever been with..don't wanna hurt ya."
you slowly kiss him, ur body trembling slightly. "don't care if you hurt me, j-just want you, please.."
the only thing you two had done was kiss and dry hump until you got too embarrassed to finish (simon didn't have that problem).
simon chuckles against your lips, moving so your below him on the bed. "well, i care, sweet girl..want you to feel good," he thinks for a moment, and you kitten lick his lips before massaging your tongues together. "maybe we could do somethin' else for right now if you're okay with it. get you ready.." he kisses from your mouth down to your neck, sucking. he shifts his position a bit. your thighs open a bit automatically.
he raises your shirt from your belly right before leaving small, soft, kisses on your skin. you giggle rubbing your right, sock-cladded calf along the side of his body bashfully. simon smiles, his hands running along the sides of your torso.
"want me to eat this pretty pussy? been thinkin' about tastin' you since i saw ya."
his blunt words and deep drawl make your bottom lip find its way sucked into your mouth right before you gently chew on it.
"hm?" he asks again, dragging your shirt up and off your body, leaving you in a cute pink bra, your thigh high socks on along with your navy blue pleated skirt and matching pink underwear with a tiny bow at the top.
you nod, grabbing a hold of your pink stuffed rabbit ghost bought for you one day when you were sad.
"y-yes please.."
"yeah?" he smirks a bit, and you can feel how your whole body buzzes with want.
you've never wanted someone more. your brain goes numb.
simon sees how you tug onto your bra, trying to almost rip it off. he can see the way your mind so badly wants to shut off.
"'s okay, love, i gotcha.." he lifts your back up a bit, snapping your bra off as your tits fall out, nipples hard and aching to be touched.
simon was normally an ass man, but god, he loved the way you trembled when he ran his fingers over your pert nipples, rubbing his thumbs on them as you whine and whimper.
"p-pretty please, si, need you.." your voice was soft, eyes closed as u practically drooled onto your stuffie.
"always so good," he murmurs, dragging your skirt down. his eyes fall to the big wet patch on your panties as you whine. he runs his thumb over it before getting too greedy and dragging them down your legs, discarding them on the ground.
fuck, you look so beautiful.
"gonna fuck this pretty cunt one day, sweetie..jus' gotta getcha ready, mk?"
you nod, watching the way simon's back and shoulders flex as he blows a small gust of air from his lips onto your fat button.
you whine loudly, your hips twitching.
"shh.." he shushes, kissing the insides of your thighs.
he plants a small kiss on your cunt, and you whine again.
"behave, princess..gotta take my time. been dreamin' about this."
his eyes pool with a dark shadow of lust as he slowly licks his way from the bottom of your wet cunt up to your clit, circling his tongue as you moan softly.
his hands make their way up to your breasts as they tug and pull on your pebbled nipples, your mouth dropping open as you feel overwhelmed with want.
you gently hump against his mouth as he fucks his tongue into you, squirming a bit as he opens your thighs wider, his right hand petting your socked knee.
he takes your stuffie from your hands, rubbing your nipples with its fur as he suckles on your clit, slobbering onto your cunt, your wetness dripping onto his bed.
lewd, wet sounds fill the air as your cunt pounds-- small gasps bouncing off of the walls as your moans get higher and more needy. simon's mouth harshly sucking on your engorged button, grappeling at your tits before you suddenly gush into his mouth, rubbing against his face as you cry, coming down as your boyfriend drinks down your nectar.
your brain is all mushy, all you can think about is what he's gonna do next..right before simon's arms engulf your body as he kisses you gently, sleep taking you under.
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ghostandsoap · 1 year
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Call Signs
Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem! “Gecko” Reader (Ft. John “Soap” MacTavish)
Tags: Angst. Gunshot wound. Blood loss. Shock. Hypothermia. Major injury. Mentions of death. 
Word Count: 4.6k
A/N: So I’m not totally sure how accurate some of this is. Also, I’m not sure if parts of this are canon? Read with caution LOL. 
“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
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Military call signs. Clever, crafty, and specific to the person they’re associated with. 
There was one main, golden rule when it came to call signs: don’t complain about your own call sign, or else they’ll give you something worse.
Yours wasn’t exactly one that you were thrilled with in the beginning. It wasn’t as badass as you would’ve liked. If you had been given the opportunity to choose, you would’ve chosen something a little more…tough. But once the name stuck, you were stuck with it. You didn’t dare let even a single word of distaste fall from your mouth. If anybody caught wind of you complaining about it, they’d give you something to really complain about.
Over the years, you had heard some good ones — some more creative than others. Depending on the person, sometimes it was easy to tell the reason behind their given name — other times, not so much. You had some friends that you still didn’t know the reason why they were given their call sign.
For example, Soap was just Soap.  
In the time that you had known him, you had begged Soap to tell you where his call sign came from. You had even rattled and poked at Captain Price a bit to get him to give it up. But both of them always gave you the same answer.  
It’s classified. 
With that answer, you refused to tell anyone the reason behind your own call sign. If they weren’t going to tell you about theirs, then you weren’t telling them about yours. It was only fair, you weren’t telling anybody. Nobody knew. 
Well…nobody except–
“Gecko. This is Ghost. How copy?” The syrupy-thick voice seeped through your ear that was still ringing from gunfire. 
You were cold – miserably cold. You were chilled all the way to the bone to the point where your skin was numb to the touch. The sound of rain registered with you. The sky was pouring buckets, which explained why you were so freezing. There was no telling how long you had been passed out and exposed to the elements. Not a single part of you was dry, despite all your layers underneath and over. 
There was pain somewhere. Your groggy state made it difficult to figure out exactly where you were hurt. To be honest, it hurt just about everywhere. A searing sensation settled in your side, but it was migrating all over. Based on the large red spot leaking through that area, you had a really good idea then of what it was.
“Gecko, do you copy?” Another voice spoke that you knew to belong to Soap.
His voice sounded a million miles away, even though it was literally right in your ear. When your eyes opened, you were eye-level with the ground. You were met with a harsh pavement underneath you, muscles trembling with exhaustion and low temperatures. It took a few seconds for your vision to clear, and it took even more effort for you to raise yourself up even to make it onto your elbows. 
When you were able to take a glance around, it wasn’t any less unsettling. The slick streets of Las Almas weren’t very pleasant in the dead of night. Even worse, you didn’t know where Soap and Ghost were. 
It all came flooding back to you. Graves turned on the team. He tried to kill all of you. You, Ghost, and Soap managed to split up and narrowly escape. It was chaos, the kind that shaved about 15 years off of your life.
“C’mon. Where are you, Gecko?” Ghost asked in an aggravated, yet worried way. 
His question was more out loud and to himself more than anything, but it occurred to you that it probably would be nice for him to hear you.
“I’m here,” You groaned, throat dry and scratchy. “Just barely.”
“Oh shit. You’re alive!” Soap replied, and you swear you could feel Ghost relax from wherever he was. 
“What’s your status?” Ghost demanded.
You were not telling Ghost that you were hurt if you could help it. It was certainly against protocol, but you didn’t need Ghost getting all worked up when the three of you needed to find one another and get the hell out of there. You knew how he could get whenever you were hurt.
“Where are you both?” You rolled onto your knees, ungracefully managing to get on your feet.
You felt any and all blood rush from your face, an overwhelming feeling of nausea taking over your stomach. The bleeding in your side was definitely a problem. You stripped your outer jacket off, wrapping it around your waist and tying it as tight as you could possibly stand it. It wasn’t like the jacket was useful any other way, considering it was soaked.
“No fuckin’ idea. I’m in and out of these shops,” Soap grumbled. “I’m soakin’ wet.”
“Me too,” You managed to laugh, but it came out as more of a struggled exhale. “Ghost, what’s your location?” 
“The church. Soap’s finding his way here,” Ghost said. “What’s your status, Gecko?”
You knew he’d ask again. He always knew when you had dodged a question.
“Just a little rattled,” You lied. “Where’s the church?”
“It’s in the square. Navigate through the shops, they’ll lead you there,” Soap said. “Stay sharp. Shadows are everywhere.”
Survival mode has kicked in for you. You had one objective.
Find Ghost. Don’t get killed. 
“Will do. Ghost, I’m coming to you.” You announced, beginning to take the first few steps to get yourself moving. 
There was a brief moment of silence before he answered – and he gave an answer that you knew had Soap raising a brow.
“Please be safe.” 
A shudder vibrated down your back, and it wasn’t from the bitter cold rain. 
Being involved with Ghost was…complicated. It was a forbidden love in a lot of ways. There was a certain disapproval when it came to 2 members dating within the force. It caused drama sometimes, tension other times. Not to mention, it would be painfully awkward for everybody else if the two of you were to break up. 
But the connection was undeniable. It astounded you just how in touch you felt with him. He did everything he could to protect you, to make you feel safe in an otherwise dangerous world. He spent every spare moment with you. He spilled all of his most pressing thoughts to you, knowing his words of vulnerability were safe with you. Talking to him was easy, spending time with him was easier.
Loving him was easiest of all.
Despite your likeness toward each other, it was a mutual understanding that no one was to know. Ghost didn’t fancy all the teasing, and you wanted at least one part of your life to be private. In front of others, you were Gecko and Ghost. When alone, you were Simon and [Y/N]. 
In a lot of ways, the secretive aspect of it was fun. You liked sneaking around with Ghost in the late hours of the night, tip-toeing around sleeping comrades in an attempt at a moment to yourselves. The nonchalant glances…the discreet, yet lingering touches…the whispers of words of affection. It was all something you couldn’t help but get a kick out of. Anybody in their right mind would find it even a little bit entertaining.
But in all honesty, suspicions from the rest were becoming more and more. 
Price had known immediately. Not even three days after you and Simon decided to give it a try, he could sense that something was different. He couldn’t really explain it. He could just see it in Ghost’s behavior that he was preoccupied with something…someone else. Something that had been sprouting for a long time was now beginning to blossom in front of the captain’s very eyes. Price was a respectful man. He wasn’t one to get in the way of something that wasn’t his business. He kept an eye on the situation here and there, more for a status update than anything. 
It took Gaz about four months. He suspected nothing in the beginning. He managed to miss all the signs at first. Who could blame him? He didn’t know he was supposed to even be looking for them. He didn’t catch any real changes in behavior or attitude. In all honesty, if he hadn’t witnessed it with his very eyes – he might’ve never known. It had been a quick gesture. So quick that Gaz might’ve been able to convince himself that he was mistaken if it hadn’t been so blatantly clear.
Gaz had passed by a bit quicker than he normally would, catching a quick glimpse inside the room he hadn’t planned on entering. What he saw was a kiss being planted on the cheek of Ghost’s mask, and a light laugh from the man as you did so. Gaz had stopped dead in his tracks, stunned at what he had seen. He was tempted to turn around and question you, but he knew better. Gaz figured if he hadn’t been told outright, then it probably wasn’t for him to know. He kept it in the back of his mind, however, and after that, he began noticing everything.
And as for Soap, the poor lad had yet to connect the dots. He had heard some chatter here and there about Gecko and Ghost “getting it on.” Soap didn’t believe it. He hadn’t seen it or heard it for himself, so in his mind, the rumors were null. That didn’t mean that Soap didn’t like the idea of his lieutenant and one of his closest friends seeing each other. He entertained the thought here and there. He supposed that Gecko and Ghost had a nice ring to it, and it was something that he liked to snicker about. Overall, Soap didn’t think about it too much. There was no way that “LT” and the infamous Gecko were together. Almost a year into it, and John MacTavish was oblivious.
It hadn’t taken you long to develop feelings for Ghost. Suddenly, you were worried about where he was and him getting hurt more often than not. This was one hell of a career to be in when you were an anxious worrier. This job had changed for you. Before, there was no fear of living or dying. It was just you. It was all you. But when there was someone else in the cards?
That changed things. That really changed things.
That seemed to be the only fight that you and Ghost ever had. It was always the same one. One of you fell ill or became injured, it was due to defying an order, the other was scared to death that something worse could’ve happened, and most of all – you both wished that the other would be more careful. 
“Careful” was a funny word in this business. No matter how careful you were, that didn’t automatically make you safe. 
Roaming the streets of Las Almas while lethargic, unarmed, and bleeding was a definite reminder of that. You followed Soap’s advice, weaving in and out of the stores and getting whatever supplies you could get your hands on. A homemade weapon was better than no weapon, in your mind. Avoiding any and all Shadows was your main goal. There was no chance of you getting out of that alive, if this bullet lodged in your side didn’t kill you first. You hoped that Soap had made it to the church by now. It made you feel better to know that they were together.
The rain showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. You figured it was fine. It wasn’t like you could get any more wet than you already were. It at least made enough noise to conceal your footsteps, which you didn’t have much control over due to the splitting pain in your core. 
You just had to get to the church. Get to the church, get out of here, and get patched up. You’d be fine. You’d survived worse. You weren’t going to-
There was a flash of white over your vision. While brief, it was enough to startle you to a complete halt. You staggered out of the coffee shop, leaning against the back door for support. This was bad. This was really bad. 
“Ghost…” You squeaked.
Breathing suddenly became overly difficult. Every gulp of air was a struggle to get the next one. There was a significant wobble in your knees as you stumbled into the nearest alley for cover, knowing your legs were close to giving out. It was notably colder in the space between the two buildings, but the feeling of your soul being slowly sucked back into the universe made that seem minor. 
“Talk to me. Where are you?” Ghost asked.
That was when you collapsed, landing on the wet ground with a thud. A whimper escaped from your throat at the impact. Clutching your wounded side was all you knew to do. Your jacket used as a makeshift way of putting pressure on it was proving ineffective. 
“The alleyway,” You strained.  “Left of the coffee shop.”
Ghost and Soap both heard the trouble in your voice. Ghost had only heard that tone once before — and it was when something was really, really wrong. 
“What’s your status now?” Soap questioned.
Lying was no good to you now. They were going to know one way or the other.
“I’m down,” You swallowed. “Must’ve been hit at some point when we got away.” 
There was no way you were making it to the church. You were as good as gone as long as there was still a bullet in your torso. Bleeding out in the streets of a run-down town in Mexico wasn’t how you had envisioned going out. That was a conversation you had held with Soap more than once. Everybody had their preferred way of dying. You had always hoped that you’d meet your demise in a more memorable way. Maybe in a missile explosion or getting ejected from a helicopter in a hot pursuit.
Dying alone was the part and the possibility that always scared you the most.
This wasn’t what you had in mind. Bleeding to death by yourself in an alleyway in the middle of a run-down town in Mexico wasn’t what you had wished for. You knew the day would come…and the day had finally come.
But not if Ghost could help it.
“I’m coming to get you, Gecko. Don’t move,” Ghost remarked sternly, and you could hear that he was on the move. “Soap, we’ll meet you at the church.”
“Copy.” Soap confirmed.
“N-no,” You coughed. “Ghost, don’t leave your location if you’re secure.” 
“None of us are secure. I’m not leaving you,” Ghost said sternly. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.” 
Arguing with Ghost was usually a lost cause. When Ghost was set on something, he was surely going to stick with it. It was a waiting game now, and it was one of the most helpless feelings to know that you were relying on somebody else to save your ass. You knew that Ghost would be there in half the time that it probably should’ve taken him, but when you’re dying, the minutes feel like eternity. 
This wasn’t the first time that you had been in situations like this. Everybody had their fair shares of “I almost died” stories. But this was different for you. This was the closest you had ever been to not living to tell this story. 
Panicking was most definitely not the way to handle this situation. Very rarely was panicking ever helpful in a dire, critical scenario like this. It was the most eerie feeling – literally feeling yourself dying. The blood loss was becoming less, but only because you were running out of blood to lose. Your heart was beating slower and slower by the second. Breathing was now a voluntary action. As the adrenaline wore off and the reality of the situation set in, your anxiety crept over you and infiltrated any room for collectedness that you had left. 
“G-Ghost.” You sighed, a layer of tears pricking at the base of your lashes.
Ghost heard the near sob in your words, putting an even faster pep in his step. 
“Almost there, Gecko. What’s wrong?” 
“I’m…I’m scared.” You admitted, hot tears mixing with the fresh rain water on your cheeks.
Ghost’s heart shattered into a million pieces, catapulting into every vessel near it like the strongest of shrapnel. He couldn’t stand the thought of you alone and scared. 
“I know. Just keep talking to me and Soap,” He breathed, trying to stay calm for you. “I’m coming, G.”
‘G’ was a nickname inside of a nickname. Ghost only used it sparingly, and it was usually when he was trying to be supportive or sympathetic without giving your secret romantic endeavor away.  
It felt silly to say. Generally speaking, you didn’t really have the right to be afraid. It was the pure passion for your job and your own willingness that put you in dangerous situations. It was your own free will, your own decision that you made the same choice on every single time. It was one thing to be scared when you ended up here accidentally. It was another when it was a consequence of your choices and actions. Courage and strength were supposed to be your strong suits. They were the characteristics that you were supposed to fall back on every time.
Yet here you were. Scared to death of dying – something that you had thought about and been preparing for since you started this gig.
“Simon, I-I…I don’t want to d-”
“It’s ‘cause I clean house quickly.” Soap’s voice echoed in one ear and out the other, suddenly and abruptly.
What? 
Even in a near unconscious-like state, you were still well aware of how that needed some clarification.
“S-say again?” You stuttered, the corners of your vision beginning to go foggy. 
“Soap. ‘Cause I clean house and buildings with speed ‘n accuracy,” Soap repeated. “That’s why they call me Soap.”
Soap!
It made so much sense. You were almost embarrassed that you didn’t think of that yourself. You knew it was Soap’s way of distracting you – keeping your mind off of dying. 
“That’s a good one,” You nearly wheezed. “Thought it was because you were a bath man.” 
“Thanks for that image. Won’t be able to unsee that one,” Ghost piped up. “Almost there, Gecko. Hang on for me, yeah?” 
Ghost’s voice was strained as if he were running. Using every ounce of speed and stamina that he had to get you as fast as possible. He couldn’t lose you like this.
He refused to lose you like this. 
“It’s because I’m quick on my feet, and because I can scale a building faster than anybody.” You croaked.
“Ah. That’s why they call you Gecko?” Soap chuckled, and you could hear the amusement in his words.
“Came up with that one myself.” Ghost smirked.
“Some people might even say geckos are kind of cute.” You joked, but didn’t quite have the energy to laugh.
“I’d agree with that,” Ghost countered, and you could sense Soap’s internal confusion from forever away. “I have a visual on Gecko. Almost at the church, Soap?” 
“Affirmative, Lt. Meet you there.” 
Sure enough, Ghost appeared from seemingly nowhere, like a sent guardian angel. Your vision had tunneled, so you couldn’t see much out of your peripherals. He had never seen you so weak and close to going out on him. His eyes behind the mask were wide and dark, focused on getting you out alive.
“Nice to see you, Lieutenant.” You shivered.
“Glad you’re not a goner,” He returned, removing the glove from his right hand and pressing his fingers against your cheek. “Shit. You’re freezing.”
“How bad do I look?” You slurred, and you fought to keep your eyeballs from rolling back into your head. 
“Probably not as bad as you feel. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Ghost said, working quickly to get himself arranged to carry you.
“Did you see any Shadows on the way?” You gulped, eyelids beginning to flutter. 
“They’re everywhere. We need to get going,” Ghost scooped you up effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing and weren’t dripping wet through multiple layers. “C’mon, love. Let’s get you out of here.”
The journey from the ground to up into Ghost’s arms felt like an airplane takeoff. You were close to slipping out of consciousness.
“We’ll get to Soap and get a vehicle out of here,” Ghost explained, readjusting his arm underneath your knees. “You’re going to be fine, Gecko.”
“G-Guess I wasn’t quick enough this time, huh?” You gave the faintest grin, and Ghost couldn’t help but laugh at your stupid joke.
“Shut up.” 
There was relief in knowing that you were with Ghost. Your chances of dying hadn’t changed, but if you were going to die, this was a better way of going out. 
The fog in your vision became thicker and thicker until you couldn’t see or hear a thing. The darkness surrounded you, sucking you deeper and deeper into nothingness.
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The next time your eyes opened, you weren’t met with the dim streets of Las Almas. There was no smell of rain or taste of blood and sweat. The smell this time was sterile air and cheap (but clean) bedsheets. You couldn’t taste anything due to the worst case of cottonmouth that you had ever experienced. The beeping music of an EKG reader and distant chatter was the real giveaway. 
The muscles in your legs were stiff, mainly because you hadn’t moved them in so long. A grunt was all you could manage as you shifted, a new type of discomfort erupting where you had been shot. It was all wrapped up now (professionally and medically wrapped), clean and taken care of. There was an IV in each arm, one administering fluids and the other what you could only imagine to be some kind of pain medication. The white walls and tan floors were weirdly comforting…a sign to let you know that you were safe for now. 
The best sights of all were the ones seated to the left of your bed.
Ghost’s arms were crossed, ankles crossed over each other, and his head lowered and his breathing steady. His outer skull mask was nowhere to be seen, but his balaclava was clinging to his face as always. 
Soap was also snoozing, but less peacefully and quietly. His head was tilted back as far as it possibly could go, his arms draped at his sides, legs stretched all the way out, and snoring so loud that you were surprised you hadn’t already heard it.
You were gentle as you called to Ghost, considering he didn’t always react calmly when being woken up.
“Hey…” You rasped with a dry throat. “Ghost.”
His eyes snapped open, flickering up to you instantly. A monumental wave of relief visibly crashed over him, filling his veins and relaxing his heart.
“You’re awake,” He leaned closer, taking your hand into his. “You’re okay.”
“What…how long has it been?” You asked, bits of your memory coming back to you.
“A few days…four I think, ” He answered with a nod. “How do you feel?”
Honestly, you weren’t sure. Physically you felt terrible, but better than when you were dying of shock, cold, and blood loss. Mentally you felt fuzzy and groggy from being out so long. Emotionally…well, only time would tell.
“Like shit.” You admitted.
“Not surprised.” He grinned under his face covering. 
There were a few beats of silence. You took a few glances around, getting familiar with your new setting. Ghost, though, never took his eyes off of you. They were a light shade of red, and even his balaclava couldn’t hide the dark circles under them.
“Have you slept at all?” You asked, knowing good and well he hadn’t left your side.
“A little bit here and there,” He said, motioning his free hand towards Soap. “This is the most sleep Soap’s gotten this whole time. He’s been out for about 30 minutes.”
Soap was indeed out like a light. You couldn’t imagine how tired the two of them were. There was another stretch of silence. This one lasted longer and was much more tense. This wasn’t an easy encounter. How were you supposed to act when you had barely scraped by with your life?
“Simon?” 
“Yeah, love?”
“How close was it?”
Simon stared for a moment. No formation of an answer to your question occurred for a second or two. He didn’t like that question. He had avoided thinking about it until now. Ghost knew that he’d have to do his own mentality check in with himself in a few days. He had almost lost the most important person in his life…he’d need to deal with that. 
“Too close.” 
Another silence. Another silent thank you that you were here to see another day.
“You were…hypothermic, in shock. You lost a lot of blood before and during surgery,” He said. “Doc said if it had been any later getting you help-”
“Hey,” A groggy voice piped in, unaware that he was interrupting. “Gecko’s up.”
Soap’s eyes were just as bloodshot as Ghost’s, but Soap’s personality was wide awake.
“Happy to see you again, Sergeant. My apologies for being absent from our reunion at the church.” You grinned.
“Yeah, yeah. Left us to do double the work,” Soap chuckled. “Feels weird callin’ you Gecko now that I know where it comes from.”
“Soap doesn’t have the same ring to it, I have to say.” You fired back. 
“Agh, I’m crushed. Right in my pride!” He shrieked. 
The three of you shared a soft laugh. Nothing like Soap’s comedic relief to break the tension. You felt okay. This was just one of those things. One of the things that you signed up for with this job. It didn’t make it any less unnerving, but now you felt like you could really move on from this. 
And you were thankful that you had lived to tell the story. 
There was a sudden itch in your throat. An annoying tickle that reminded you that you hadn’t had a physical sip of water in four days. 
“Do you think that I could get some water?” You wondered aloud, nearly choking on your own words from the parched feeling.
Ghost hadn’t left your side when you were knocked out, and he surely wasn’t leaving now that you were awake.
“Johnny, could you-”
“Yep! On it.” He scurried out and down the hall without another word. 
That left you and Ghost. The man that saved your life by risking his own to come back for you. You didn’t even want to think about what you would’ve done if Ghost had gotten killed at your expense. At least you would’ve died together, but that hardly sounded right or fair. Ghost deserved so much more. 
“You scared me.” Ghost confessed, not even hiding the worry in his voice. 
“I know…I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, doll. Just…” He sighed. “Just really thought that I had lost you this time.” 
There wasn’t anything you could say to make him feel better. You knew that because you had been in his shoes. His head wasn’t in the best place. You knew that even better. But if there was one thing you knew for sure, it was that you loved him more than anybody else ever could.
“Thanks for coming back for me.” You whispered, a sudden set of tears slipping down your cheeks.
Ghost raised his balaclava. The material stopped just under his nose, his bare lips coming to press a kiss to the back of your hand. He made a solemn swear to himself in that moment that he’d never take you for granted again. He’d never get too comfortable with having you around and at his disposal.
Because fate was far too cruel for that.
“Always.” 
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mactavishwritings · 23 days
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Domestic Bliss
Poly!141 x wife!reader
Requested by: @supernaturalstilinski
You’re boys were a team. A well oiled machine, knowing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. They all fit together so seamlessly, having the ability to pick each other up before the other realizes they need it. Before you, they had a system that seemed to thrive from chaos and confusion. When you first met the group, you were hesitant. Mainly because of the four giants who all professed their love for you and each other. There was another reason you were so hesitant to join the group; deep down you feared that you didn’t fit in. That your presence only hindered the boys, but they saw something that you didn’t. You made their chaos make sense.
You guys had a routine. Each time the boys had to go on a mission, you would pamper each man in a special way that was dedicated to just them. You would start the routine a week before the mission so you had enough time to make sure that each boy felt loved.
For John, you would go on hikes each morning before the mission. You two would wake up earlier than the others and spend the entire morning wrapped up in each other. You two would make coffee before heading to the car and driving to your favorite park. You would walk around in the peaceful forest together and just soak in each other's presence.
For Kyle, you two would sit together and water horror movies. Something about the fact that you cling to him that brings hm comfort, it helps him get into the right head space. It helps him come home to you safely. You two would go to the guest room with big bowls of popcorn and giggling to each other as you pick the next movie on the list.
For Johnny, you two would get together a couple days before they left for the mission and you would trim his Mohawk. He always claimed that you did it the best, not letting anyone else touch his hair with a pair of scissors, even the other boys in your group. Johnny would melt into your soft touch as you gently passed over the sides of his head with the razor. The gentle vibrations soothing him so he could finally concentrate on his thoughts.
For Simon, his time with you doesn't start until right before they have to leave. He stands in the bathroom, hands placed firmly on your hips to keep you in place. You sat on top of the bathroom counter, his black makeup in your hands as you slowly massage the paint into his skin with a brush. His eyes were closed as you worked, a hand on the side of his head. You hum children’s lullabies to him to help the chatter in his brain, so that you know he will be safe.
Everyone knows the routine, never interrupting each other’s time. The entire group needed it as much as you needed it. It helped you to know that just in case this was the last time, they felt loved.
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allllium · 17 days
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🖤 Best Simon "Ghost" Riley Fics On Tumblr 🖤
Part One • Part Two • Part Three
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Fluff
Simon got a flu [sick Simon] ~ @i-am-hungry-24-7
Babies!?!?! ~ @boowritess
Nightmares [Dad Simon] ~ @simonrileysfavteacup
Change [Hurt/Comfort?] ~ @ragingbookdragon
Girl Dad [Dad Simon] ~ @thexsilentxwordsmith
Preference [Dad Simon] ~ @xo-cod
Goth ~ @starry-eyedblog
New Cat ~ @mactavishsgfandwife
Cuddling ~ @mactavishsgfandwife
Curly Haired ~ @mactavishsgfandwife
Drabble ~ @suguann
Headcannons ~ @tumblerlove
Scratching his Back ~ @crestapex
What Are We? ~ @sim0nril3y
Pretty Boy ~ @ghostlychief
Simp!Simon ~ @fivechapters
Simon Riley ~ @frudoo
Stalker Ghost [Dark?] ~ @soullessdianthus
Everything's Gonna be ok ~ @pearlofthesirens
Simon can cook ~ @boowritess
Sweet Boy ~ @circlebuttons
Stupid Questions? ~ @alexthetrashyracoon
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sickuma · 9 months
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SILLAGE — a Simon Riley fic. 2/2
❱ again this was an au first written on tiktok! this will be the last part of it, please keep in mind that it is all fiction and that if you're going through the same thing and are having the same thoughts, please seek someone you trust. Please fight for yourselves, you're worth it ꜝ? Warning. . this is a heavy angst fic, mentions of suicide and acts of committing, if that is something that triggers bad emotions, please exit the fic.
paring is Ghost x Reader this is unedited! mistakes such as spelling and grammatical errors are to be expected !
Part 1 (^_^;)
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SILLAGE — (n.) The scent that lingers in air, the trail left in water, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone; the trace of someone's perfume.
—hey [name]? I know I'm the last person you want to hear from right now, but I just really—
There was a short pause, as the voicemail erupts a slight static sound.
—I love you. That should have been enough reason. No, you were enough. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I was cowardly, I figured that you'll be happier and safer, being with someone who isn't me. Someone who isn't a soldier.
It was the same night he left your apartment. He swore to himself he would not come crawling back. To protect both of you, at the time, it had been the best solution for him. Until the midnight strikes, he remembered just how serious you looked, just how accepting you looked.
Too accepting.
—because who knows when one of these missions would finally take me out. I can't let you suffer through that, I can't be the one to give you that kind of grief. So I thought leaving you was the best option.
There was a dire pause as he thought of the best words possible to express himself. He’s never been one to do such, but for you, he’s willing to be better.
—it wasn't.
He spoke desperately, almost shaking from just how much adrenaline rushed through him. He had just argued with the team, and after a long hour of explaining to them what he needed to do, he was finally permitted to bail out on this mission, it’s not like he wouldn't leave without permission, that's how urgent this is for him, he needed to get to you as soon as possible,
Even he doesn't know why he’s in a rush,
Maybe it's because of your silence, the unanswered calls, and unread messages that brought him on edge.
—I love you, far too much, my love, to even think straight without you. I love you so much it's hard to breathe. I so desperately love you to the point it hurts.
The desperation and sincerity. It was all there. He knew if he couldn't let it out now, he won't let it out ever. This was his only chance of being happy.
You were his only chance for happiness. He almost couldn't believe he thought letting you go because of his fear was the best decision.
He stupidly let you go, succumbing to the fear of dying while you wait for him. He knows better, he will do better,
For you. Because you're worth changing for, you're worth the risk.
—please don't hate me. I know I was an ass for leaving in the first place, baby, I am sorry. You loved me so much that it felt so good, I didn't know I'm capable of feeling that way, so I was scared that worse would come after. I'm not scared anymore. You looked at me like there's something in me worth looking at,
He felt like he was saying so much yet so little at the same time,
He had so much to tell you but very few words to express it. He needs to be with you. He needs to see you and physically explain to you just how much you mean to him.
—I won't waste it, love, not again. Please open the door for me when I get back. 
He frowned, realizing once again just how idiotic he was. He knew he should not have done what he did, but it was over with. The only thing left to do is to make things right somehow.
—I've never been taught how to love, I have.. I don't— I'm not the best at it. I'm sorry baby, if I'm not loving you the right way, and for leaving just like that, but I promise I'll be better. you're worth the better of me, you're worth learning love for.
He needed you, and you needed him. That should have been enough reason to risk it.
—when I come back, please let me hold you. Please forgive me for making you feel like an option between my job. It's you. It's always been you. I love you, baby, wait for me. I'll make this right.
As the line cuts, the static sound fills the eerie room of yours. The very same room he had walked out from, the same room where you sat breathing hours ago. There were no other living sounds except for the occasional ticking of the clock.
There were no signs nor sounds of life perceived in the room. The silence was thick. With your lifeless body beside the bed in a fetal position, a bottle of used pills tightly wrapped around your hands. It was light, about three to four pills left inside a newly bought bottle.
It was dead silent as if the universe sympathized with you.
Allowing silence in regards to respect for what has passed, for what has ended.
“My family’s never been the typical joyous family, I guess that affected me, as a person in general.”
You explain, running your hand through his hair while his head laid on your lap. It’s one of those days where he’d be much affectionate compared to the majority of the time. He requested to hear about your childhood while he rests on you,
For a moment you felt your heart and breath hitch.
“I guess growing up in that kind of household really—really influenced my well-being. It's given me problems and worries I shouldn't have.” You were hesitant to continue, “Fear, I started having fears for a lot of things.”It's as if you caught a glimpse of his mind, taking in the details you've just given him.“Fears like?” 
The moment the question reached your ears, he could see your body tense. He understood, and he doesn't plan on pushing it.“You don't have to answer that, my love.” he smiles, “No matter what it is you're scared of, let’s face it together, yeah? You have me. That's enough, I hope.”
Little did he know that fear was yet to come. The fear of leaving soon, the fear of being unable to keep going. How could you ever explain to him that you don't plan to stay long?
With a ragged breath from exhaustion, he dropped his things once again, the same way he did before he left. Facing your door yet again, panting as a feeling of discomfort plagued him, why exactly? He’s finally here. Why is he so distraught, he wondered.
“[name]?” he knocks,
Swallowing the lump in his throat, his voice strained, and his state dishevelled. “[name] please—it’s me, please answer.”
The lack of response made him think about just how angry he made you,
“I'm sorry,” he whispers,
“I know I was stupid and irrational. I won't do it again, petal, please open the door.”
To say he’s nervous would be an understatement. What would he do if you never find it in you to let him back into the comfort of your arms? Will he return to the familiar cold he had forgotten when he met you?
“[name] I love you.”
He desperately spoke, yearning for an answer; the smallest sign of acceptance. 
It was odd. How quiet it was. Are you that mad? He wonders, but then again, he knew you’re not one to ignore, not even when you’re the angriest you've been. You would never shut him out, not ever. “[name], please, answer, or I'll have to go inside.”
“Baby are you okay?” no response.
Each passing second was like a countdown. He was uneasy and distraught. Afraid even.
The silence felt deafening. He was afraid of what? He had no clue what he was so afraid of, surely you're okay...
Right?
“[name], I'm coming in,” he says sternly, fishing the spare key he oh so gratefully forgot to give back. His heart thumps louder with each action.
The moment he entered, the creak of the door interrupted the silence. He felt like he was intruding on an abandoned space. It felt wrong. He knew something was wrong.
“[name]? I'm back, like—like I always am.” his voice broke, stepping inside, head looking around, hoping to find you and engulf you in his longing arms. “As I told you, I’ll always find my way back… right?”
He kept speaking while he walked, checking and opening every door. Starting from the small kitchen to the bathroom, checking everywhere until there was one room left. He dreaded it, for no reason he was scared and yet he rushed,
He spoke, no—he goes on a tangent, 
“I'll take the month off. We’ll do anything you want, anything to make up for this. I promise we can even get a pet, I always say no, right? This time, I'll agree, anything for you, my love just—”
The silence rung,
Apart from the sound of the door opening by his force, there were no sounds made, not from him, not from anything. He simply stood, dumbfounded at what the room unveiled; at that moment, nothing mattered, not even the breath he had held unknowingly.
A ragged chuckle escaped his lips, though it was hollow. As if he was desperate to know that maybe this is all some sick prank. Maybe this was one of your silly games he always put up with, “Baby? What’s this? Why are you on the floor?”
“Jokes over [name] get up—”
When it all came to view, he was silenced. The second he stepped closer, he saw how your body lay lifeless, how you held that bottle, and how his eyes drifted onto the lone tear, which evidently dried along the hours. 
How long have you been here?
In this state? How long has it been since you left him?
He couldn't feel. He couldn't grasp his head around the sight before him. He’s well familiar with death. He’s seen it before, and he’s lost comrades before, but nothing comes close to what lay in front of him. 
How does one react when their lifeline lies lifeless before their very eyes?
He couldn't approach nor speak. He simply stood with weak knees, tempting to give out. It didn't take him long to crouch, eyes wide open with lips parted slightly. There were no tears, no emotions, the moment numbed him. It didn't feel like reality,
There he crouched, just a few steps away from you. It didn't feel like his heart dropped. It felt almost worse, as if you'd taken it with you. How could this have happened? Did he cause this?
If you had told him a day ago that he would witness the person he loved the most laying on the floor devoid of life, he would have laughed at your face, punching you even. This isn't reality. This isn't a reality he wants to face.
It took every courage in his body to bring himself closer to you, afraid of what more he’d discover. With slow steps, he drew closer, grabbing your hand was the first thing he thought of doing. “Oh god…” his voice broke,
Your body isn't as warm as it used to be,
Not as he remembered. The warmth he loved when he would hold you against him, it’s gone. You're gone.
He had felt countless of stiff lifeless bodies and yet yours hurt the most,
The mere thought of it destroyed him. It hasnt sinked in yet, but he could tell. He could tell his demise is near. The realization will hit him in a short while. 
“Baby, im home…” this wasn't him. This was not his voice. Stuttering over the easiest words, strained with pent-up sobs. His chest felt heavy, almost making it difficult to breathe. 
Yet with hitched breath, he picked up your limp body and placed you in his arms, crushing your icy body against him. He held you tightly, but his hands cradled your body tenderly. It was as if he’s afraid of hurting you more.
Ghost was forever fearless, always facing whatever challenge was given to him, even his mortal enemy would know that he isnt necessarily the easiest solder to crack, let alone destroy and yet he finds himself sat on the floor holding the lifeless frame of his lover,
Cradling whatever is left of you,
Desperately holding onto what he can possibly hold on to.
The lieutenant everyone looked up on, admired and viewed as an admirable man, sat on the floor with a weighing heart. Holding back the tears that had formed without his knowledge as he held your body, 
but right now, he wasn't lieutenant simon ‘ghost’ riley.
At this moment, he was just simon, the simon you loved desperately, the simon who loved you just as insanely.
This person right this moment was your simon,
He wasnt anyone else, he was yours.
As he sat on the hard cold floor, thoughts roaming with his heart screaming, he felt like a mess, but that didn't matter. Words can not describe the regret, remorse, and stupidity he felt,
If i didnt leave,
If i didn't walk out that door,would you still have been alive in my arms?Would i still have to hold you soulless?
He held you closer, bringing you closer to him, as close as possible. He felt nothing but regret, nothing but anger for himself. Why is it that the very grief he tried to protect you from, the same reason he left, the same grief he avoided you to feel, why is it that he’s feeling it now?
His ragged sobs filled the room, and the rest remained still as if everything sympathized for him. As if the world understood the hurt he carried. He sobs, holding onto you as if doing so would bring you back. He knew nothing well, and yet he foolishly cried, hoping you’ll hear him and come back to ease the pain.
Like you always did.
At the corner of his eyes, he saw the letters piled not far from them. Without standing, nor letting go of you, he reached for it. Reading the names addressed on each, until he sees the one for him.
Of all the few letters he saw, his was the only one with tear drops which ruined the ink in front, almost unable to read, he brought it closer, dropping the rest.
Simon,
I felt everything.
Thank you, and im sorry,
I love you :)
Swallowing the impossibly heavy lump on his throat, he opened the carefully folded letter. He was met with even more tear drops. The thought of you crying, alone, while you write him a letter to bid him goodbye, crushed his soul.
He cant imagine a greater pain,
It felt surreal.
How could I..
How could I have lost you this easily.
With his blurry vision, he starts to read—well—attempt to. With every sentence, every punctuation, every meaning of your words, all of it felt like a slap to reality.
How could he have not seen?
How did he not notice? Not paying attention to what you were going through? How could he have been so careless as to leave you all alone.
The very fear you spoke of,
He did just exactly what your family had done.
If anybody could have saved me,
it would have been you.
He read the part over and over again, allowing your words to cut through his heart repeatedly. He left you, and yet, at the end of the day, you still see him as someone—the only one who could save you. 
Despite the war inside your mind,
Inside your mind and unwavering emotions, which he hadn't bothered to unveil, he remained the most important person.
May it be in your chaotic mind or the furthest crevices of your heart, he remained on both.
He read it all,
Understanding every single thing you failed to say in person,
Everything you failed to say while you still lived.
It hurts even more. He thought nothing could be more painful when he saw you laying lifeless. But having to read what you wanted to say,
How sorry you were, how thankful you are to him, and how he made you feel. 
It was surely another cut to an already existing wound. His mind flashed memories while he went over the tear stained letter you left.
He remembered everything as if they were as fresh as yesterday. When you first smiled at him, when you first held hands, when your lips first touched.
Your words were true. The story of you really is short-lived. But he couldn't help but think about the what If's
If he stayed,
If he hadn't walked out,
If he ignored his fear of abandoning you,
If he hadn't been so stupid and cowardly.
He gave up, and the heavy lump on the throat overcame him, letting the sting linger for as long as eternity. He read the last words on the letter, with a loud sob, with repeated pleads.
Repeatedly apologising, repeatedly begging for you to come back so he could fix things so everything could return to normal,
So you could return.
A childish wish. A high-ranking soldier held the lifeless body of his lover all while he begs for them to come back. 
"I'm so sorry." He whispers, voice too broken to speak normally. "I'm sorry for not noticing."
"I'm sorry you had to be alone." 
"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He repeats over and over again, holding you against him. 
At the back of the letter, he could barely see the words written with how blurry the tears clouded his eyes.
Thank you for making me feel.
The words only crushed him even more, sobbing and crying harder to no avail. 
"[name]..." He whispers, holding you close. "Did it hurt? I'm sorry, it must have been so hard."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm so sorry for not being here you."
He apologized, wishing he could have been with you. To convince you otherwise, wishing he could have been here to avoid this,
To avoid losing you.
Wishing he could have stayed to keep making you feel.
The thoughts of your words before he left suddenly entered his mind,
"Can I hug you?"
"One last time?"
Now it all makes sense why you looked so serene, why you looked so accepting. Why did you have that small smile on your lips,
You were bidding him goodbye.
That really was the final hug. 
The final touch he'd ever get, the final living affection he would get from you. 
He holds you now, but it wasn't the same, not even close. Back then, you were smiling and breathing, but now you're no different to an inanimate object. Stiff and cold, this is the person he loved so dearly?
It ached.
And it ached painfully.
The type of ache to never go away, the type of ache he'd keep forever.
The type of ache he'll willingly embrace,
As he held you that night, mourning for what could've been, mourning for someone beyond saving.
This was the ache he'd willingly feel forever,
If it means having you in his mind and heart. He would willingly hurt himself by keeping that ache if it means keeping you in his deceased heart forever.
As the remnant of your memories roamed the room, your presence which now passed, the scent of yours he dearly craved. It left a sillage pain to remember,
You left a sillage worth remembering.
"I'll keep you in my heart,
Even if that damage me,
Even if it kills me.
I'll keep you safe forever."
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snowfall
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summary: when she’s young and in between foster families, she meets a scrawny kid named Simon. Simon sits to the side while the other kids play, and she gives him her sandwich. When he leaves, forced to go back to his dad, she feels bad for him.
Then, when she gets older, she realizes that Simon was the lucky one. He made it out.
notes: based on the song snowfall, bc I’ve been listening to it and thinking about this fic a lot lately
warnings: mentions of abuse, human trafficking and childhood trauma. Violence. Allusions to smut? Afab!reader
taglist: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins (hmu to be added to any taglist!)
masterlist | requests are OPEN!
You’re back to square one, where you always end up when a foster family lets you go. A big, grey house that was built in the sixties and not once painted afterwards, that’s square one. Makeshift beds and damp rooms, showers that smell of piss and food that has the consistency of cardboard.
The house is so terrible on the inside that everyone flees into the parking lot, a barely better place to be. In the dirt-poor areas of Manchester, it’s all anyone can ask for. The younger kids play with chalk or run around, chasing each other, while the ones your age pass cigarettes and other stuff to each other.
None of you know each other’s names, but you’ve all seen each other in passing. Kids that were left on their own, that don’t trust easy won’t talk to each other either. Not really.
It’s rare to see a new face, so the teen sitting off to the side while the others talk catches you by surprise.
He’s massively tall already, but scrawny as hell, his hair in the awkward stage between short and being grown out. His eyes flit around, meeting no one else’s.
“Haven’t seen you before.” You greet, and he barely looks up. You offer him your name, and he pauses before he responds.
“Simon.” He says finally. There’s a short silence, broken by his rumbling stomach, and you hand him your sandwich without thinking twice. You’re not a big fan of tomatoes. He hesitates, inspecting it before he takes a bite. He barely nods as you tell him you don’t like tomatoes, and you doubt he even heard you.
“What are you doing here? Never seen you before.” You attempt, trying to make conversation. He shrugs in response, and you don’t pry further.
Simon sticks to you like glue in the days afterwards, a silent shadow that towers over you. Timmy, a kid that joined a gang after feeling overly confident, tries to approach you twice, but apparently, Simon’s glower is more intimidating than his stature.
After a week and a half, a social worker interrupts a game of Uno between you and Simon, pulling him away for a conversation. That usually means one of two things: going home, or going to a family of strangers.
You never get to find out which one it is, because Simon doesn’t say goodbye. You tell yourself that he made it home, or at least made it out. He seems like the type.
***
Against your hopes, and in line with all odds, you don’t make it out. Bouncing between foster families leaves you frustrated, angry and alone. A recipe for disaster, and you know it. Two years after Simon left the grey house that smelled like a germaphobe’s nightmare, you did as well.
Barely eighteen, with no one to back you up and not a single penny on your name, that went to shit quicker than you might have thought, and you found yourself exactly where you did not want to end up: the crime scene of Manchester.
It started off with little favors. Timmy convinced you. He said it wasn’t hard to sell drugs. That you’d only have to do it a few times, and then you’d have enough money to start yourself off with a real job. Something honest.
Something that would finally get you some real security. A sense of permanence.
Over the years, little favors turned into bigger favors.
Timmy, of course, didn’t know batshit about anything, and he certainly did not care to look into things more than he had to for you. And by the time your idiot, barely not-adolescent brain realized that, you were in too deep.
You’d done everything wrong, because selling drugs for a few days ‘wouldn’t hurt anyone’.
That was how you ended up as the cliché character of anti-everything prevention movies they showed you, back in the grey house. Abused, beaten-up, trafficked, sold, and not even out of your twenties.
Each time you thought about it, you wanted to laugh at yourself, to try and stop yourself from missing the gray house and the exhausted social workers that weren’t paid enough to care for any of you.
Just this time, you couldn’t go back to the gray house. You weren’t a child anymore. This time, people came for you to make sure that you’d pay them back what you owed them. Technically, what Timmy owed them.
They, whoever they were, took you away from Manchester, the only semblance of home you’d ever known. You found yourself in an abandoned cargo hall, freezing cold. From what you could see, it was snowing outside, the chill creeping inside. The girl next to you was out like a light, either from drugs, exhaustion, the cold, or a combination of all three.
You could make peace with the fact that you would never get out. You could just accept it, like you’d accepted everything else in your life. A voice in your head screamed that it wasn’t fair, and it felt like that scream was becoming more and more real. There was a ridiculous notion in the back of your mind, telling you to get up.
It bled into the screech from the gates of the cargo hall, protesting as they were opened. Your captors pointed their guns, but thick, white smoke filled the building, and you felt yourself become suddenly sleepy.
The last thing you saw were shadowy figures storming the hall, gunfire ringing out, smoke filling your nose and mouth.
***
When you came to, the smoke had dissipated, but you were still in the cargo hall. A group of men in camouflage walked around the hall, checking the men that were lying on the floor. One of them approached you and the others.
Almost automatically, you slinked backwards, out of his reach, but he gave you a soft smile.
He was young, too young to be in a place like this, with a sweet expression on his face that felt too saccharine to belong in the midst of this violence.
“I’m Gaz.” He said. “I’m with the British army, and we’re here to take you home. Are you hurt?”
Varying reactions came from the people around you, and you felt yourself numbly nodding. Home. Had a God heard your prayer and then decided to turn it into a joke?
The doctors arrived a while later, taking a look at everyone that had been with you. Some of the girls around you were drug addicts, and going into withdrawal was never pretty. The cargo hall quickly filled with the stench of vomit and cold sweat, but it meant that you got the time to look at the men that had stormed the hall. A gruff man with sideburns, a Scot with a mohawk that was chattering away with Gaz and-
He was hulking, a mountain that wore a skull instead of a face. You’d never met someone like him in your life, but he paused when he saw you, and you knew that he’d seen you before, this behemoth of a man.
***
It takes two more days before you’re back in England, but it doesn’t feel like a homecoming. Some of the girls have people waiting for them, parents, children, boyfriends, girlfriends to run into their arms and hold. Some are like you. No one comes, and they leave on their own.
You want to follow them. You can’t go back to Manchester. You’ll only return for your papers, if those still exist, and then you’ll leave.
You’re about to finally lift your feet from the cold, concrete floor when you feel a pair of eyes burning into your back.
Turning around, you see it’s the one they call Ghost. He’s standing off to the side, and it reminds you of something. You can’t figure out what it is, even though you try so so hard to just remember.
“Thank you for getting us out of there.” You blurt out, and he looks like he wants to say something, his jaw almost cramping together as he makes a tiny movement. You think it’s towards you.
“I owed you for the sandwich.” He says. The shrug looks forced, and you know that he can’t bring himself to say something more honest. “No tomatoes, of course.”
The seconds it takes you to understand seem to tick by outside of your brain, like a clock hammering with each moment passed. Then, your jaw falls slack.
“Simon?” you ask, too loudly, and the Scot named Soap snaps his head around to stare at you.
He doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t have to. You recognize his height, his eyes, the awkward standing off to the side so suddenly that it hits you like a fucking train. How couldn’t you see it before?
This is Simon. The kid that-
“You left without saying fucking anything!” you accuse, and you’re sure the others think you’re exes.
He just nods, and that almost infuriates you. But he made it out. He made something of himself, and you have to respect that. It’s all you want, always slipping away from your grasp, and Simon got it. Carved it out for himself, by the looks of it.
And finally, after an eternity, Simon steps forward and holds out a bag with the yellow-and-green subway logo on it.
“Hope you like it.” He mumbles, and it’s an almost adorable gesture. There’s no tomatoes, as he promised. Someone remembered something from your childhood.
You take the bag, and then you take the step separating you and hug him tightly. Are you overstepping a boundary? Is he going to push you off roughly?
He doesn’t hug you back, but he does allow you to wrap your arms around him (or, as much as you can do that with his new size).
His teammates stare, but you don’t let go. Not for a while.
“You got a place to stay?” he asks, when the others have gotten over the shock of your interaction. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, and a part of you hopes that you’re special in this, because you helped him too. Somehow.
“McDonalds is always open, and I’ve got…” you reach into your pocket, finding a crumpled note. “Enough for a large drink.”
He shakes his head. He offers his apartment, his home up to you and you should say no because he could traffic you, or rape you, or hurt you just enough to make you drag yourself back to Timmy.
You get into the car with him, and your mind screams danger. Your gut’s feeling alright though, so you ignore it.
The first change beyond the obvious of his massive frame that you notice is that he’s gotten even quieter. While you drag yourself up the dark staircase with some effort, he stays true to his name, not a single scrape coming from his combat boots.
In the apartment, he switches on the light, and you take in the spartan interior. A small kitchen, a sofa, a TV, a coffeetable with a mug still on it. No dinnertable, but three pictures on the refrigerator.
A young boy, a woman that reminds you of the younger Simon (maybe his mother?) and his teammates. Gaz, Soap, the older guy, two men that you don’t recognize, standing in scenery that looks almost tropical.
He lets you stare, before he quietly shows you the bathroom. You let the lock click behind you, even though you know that wouldn’t make much of an obstacle for the person he’s become.
You shower as quickly as you can, slipping back into your underwear. You hesitate for a moment, and then you grab the big, fluffy bathrobe hanging over the towel rack. Someone had vomited on your shirt, and you refused to put it on again.
The robe was too big for you, black with white skulls on it, and you highly doubted that Simon had bought it for himself. Maybe the Scot that cracked jokes with, or rather at him, had bought it for him and he’d caved to using it.
When you walked out, Simon was pulling clean sheets over the bed in his bedroom. He lifted his head when he heard you, and even through the balaclava, you knew he was lifting a brow at you.
“You’re wearing Soap’s bathrobe.” He commented.
“Someone vomited on my shirt.”
Simon did not reply, but he did turn around to rummage in his closet, throwing you one of his old shirts. You went back into the bathroom to put it on, and decided to not comment on the fact that it looked like a midi dress on you.
He closed the door behind him when he went to sleep, and the click of the lock felt a little insulting to you. Yet, you couldn’t expect him to trust you.
Sleep did not come easy to you, and when it did, you only had nightmares.
After a particularly bad one, you woke up with a start, only to find yourself face-to-face with one of your captors, face hid behind a balaclava, and you screamed.
Only after a few moments did you realize that it was Simon.
Between your panicked apologizing, and his nervous tea-making, it took a while for either of you to speak.
“I’m sorry for not telling you I was leaving.” He said finally, sitting across from you on the sofa, and still managing to take up three fourths of it.
“You didn’t have to. You didn’t know me.” You replied.
“I clung to you.” He said under his breath, as if it was an admittance of weakness.
“I liked it. Made me feel less alone.”
Your hands found each other in the dark, his fingers curling around yours and you swore that you could feel his heart hammer in his wrist.
“I don’t want to go to Manchester alone.” You whispered. It was an admittance of defeat.
“I’ll go with you.” Simon replied. He had no incentive to.
In the dark, it didn’t feel as preposterous or dangerous to move closer to him. He stilled when your knee bumped against his leg, and you held your breath, waiting for his rejection.
It didn’t come, only a shaky breath from Simon that gave the smallest of hints about how he was feeling. His hand was still holding yours, warm and a little rough, but it felt real. It made you move closer, to try and lean into his touch.
His hand slipped from yours, and for a moment, you thought that you’d done something wrong, but then you felt it on your waist, and Simon pulled you onto his lap. Your hands flew to his chest to steady yourself, and you could feel his hammering heart beating under his shirt.
Simon was so massive that he engulfed you, drowned out everything around you, and you loved it. There was nothing but him, and that didn’t scare you. It made you feel unfathomably safe.
He hugged you suddenly, a mirror gesture to what you’d done at the airport, his thick arms wrapping around you, pulling you even closer, until your lips were almost on his and he looked up at you with something in his eyes that you couldn’t place, because no one had ever looked at you like that.
You couldn’t help kissing him. Slowly, asking, almost begging, you peeled up the lower half of his balaclava, waiting for him to tell you to stop. Instead, even in the darkness, you knew that the stubble on his jaw was blonde, because it was impossible to forget someone like him. Your lips found his and it felt so right that your hands snaked up to his jaw, cradling his face in the hope that he’d know you cared for him.
Simon returned your kiss equally as hungry, demanding the air you breathed from you, his embrace swallowing you, and you wanted to give it all to him. Your hands shook as you reached to slip them over the band of his sweats, still unsure if he’d reject you, or let you do it.
Cautiously, your hands slipped under his t-shirt first, his skin feeling like it was burning in comparison to your cold fingers, warm to the touch, and safe.
“I thought about you a lot.” You admitted between kisses. “Wanted to know what happened to you.”
Simon stilled at that, his gaze shifting, warping from one unreadable expression to another.
“Nothin’ good.” He replied finally. You felt like an idiot. Like you’d just ruined the moment.
“I’m sorry.” You said, because you had no idea what else to say. His hand found yours, and you felt like whatever was going to happen to you, it was going to be okay.
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undercoverpena · 1 year
Text
about someone, that isn't you
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader
wc: 3.1k warnings: angst. injured reader. whump. happy ending. blood. feelings. jo-angst. summary: memories that cloud reality, forcing him to blink them away—finding less glimmer, less shine greeting him as your eyes try to go dull. 
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He finds you in the centre of dust and debris. 
You’re painted in scarlet, lying boldly in off-cream ruin. And his heart hurls itself into his ribs—stopping, painfully halting its thump as he takes you in.
You with your eyes open, you’re searching and seeking—lips parted as you gasp and groan. Your hands shakily smother the wound. The hole pierced into you, allowing carmine to flow past your trembling fingers. 
The sight such a contrast to yesterday. 
When you'd not stopped smirking, laughing, being.
The sand had whipped across your face, and your eyes had glimmered and shone. Almost brighter than the rising sun.
His ink-surrounded eyes watched as you took in the start of the new day, trying to hold back your amazement until you turned, and stared directly at him. Piercing into him with a shade so beautiful, he wasn’t sure there could be a name. 
Dense, hefty, unsaid words pulsed in time with the breeze running through the sand. Ones that had been forming for weeks, months.
The mountainside cave you’re both holed in casting you both in slithers of light and shadow. Making your smile closer to a smirk.
Just tell her. Just tell her. Just tell her.   
Ghost wishes they were back there. 
Desperately wishes it. Wanting life to have a button, one he could slam his gloves fist into—forcing it to restart like a last checkpoint as if this were a game and not real life. 
But this is real. 
The crimson soaking your hands, wrist and vest is proof of it. Your whimpers are more stacked evidence, layering their pitches on top of one another to create a sound that grates—that he’ll never be able to rid. 
It makes his mask cling to his mouth, all claggy and tight—claustrophobic. Worsening as the seconds drag into a full minute. 
He knows you’ve lost too much. Ghost doing the maths while Simon begins preparing himself, knowing if he doesn’t move, you’ll be gone, lost to fate and bad choices—ripped from his hands. 
Then your eyes find him. 
Even in desperation—you dig your metaphorical heels into staying awake, present and alive. Your eyes are full of fire, of fight. Beckoning him, willing him to move closer. It awakens him, kicking the battle instincts in, forcing him over. 
He knows if you succumb, you’ll leave a crack in him.
Steal and rip a shred of him, a part which isn’t even truly whole, but whole enough. The thought slides around his emotional instincts, the ones swirling. The ones which are so deeply ingrained inside of him, that he’ll do damage to himself if he tries to unweave them. You did that. Threaded yourself throughout him, clinging to scars—both figurative and literal—holding him up, and wrapping around his organs. 
You don’t know it. He’s never told you. Never planned on telling you that.
Now, he wants to spit it at you. Clutch you by the straps of your best and burn you with it. Just like you’d burnt him. 
Instead, he takes your hand, watching you watching him. Almost poetic, haunting—sharing a conversation with no spoken words as he grips your fingers tighter. A gesture, a motion. 
“I need to look.”
His gloved hand smothers it, feeling it sticky with red, as the other tilts your chin—watching as your eyes go heavy, struggling to fix on him. Memories of moments he’s imagined, where he touches you like this, but you’re not swimming in cherry-red.
Memories that cloud reality, forcing him to blink them away—finding less glimmer, less shine greeting him as your eyes try to go dull. 
He stares all the same, hoping with enough sheer determination he can will you to make a noise or stare more purposefully. 
“You hear me…?”
It’s brief, but there’s a nod. 
And, while his eyes didn’t need to see it to know it was bad—it is bad. Placing your hand back, wishing to wrench his glove free and feel your warmth against his skin. Just once. Having carried you in his chest for so long, and to not know how soft you feel—to only imagine.  
“G-Ghost…”
“I know.”
He feels it between his thumb and middle finger, the sob which rears its head past your lips. Slowly sliding a hand down your side until he’s tilting you, shifting you—his ears tuning into a groan that morphs into a scream. It ricochets around his skull, and vibrates through and around his cranial nerves, until all he can taste is your pain. 
Through and through. 
It’s something, but not everything. 
Slowly tilting you back, resting you in the place you’ve found comfort in—letting his eyes stare over the rest of you. He takes in the swelling in your face, how your helmet is gone—hair in disarray. He notices how your foot is twisted, the boot likely keeping everything in place for now. Ghost also notices the rest of the blood—the amount which has soaked your lap and thigh, knowing it isn’t yours, but hating the sight of it all the same.
“Listen t’me,” he says gruffly, taking your chin again, watching your lashes flutter all heavy and difficult. “Need t’get you to the safe house. Then can radio for evac.” 
“Can’t… walk…”
He knows. 
Can tell that more than you can. His teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek, staring at you, watching your eyes go from open to fluttering closed. 
“I know, I got you.” 
“Y-yeah?” 
“Yes, sergeant.” 
You mumble something. Low and muffled by the sound of his heartbeat. 
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It’s surprising how soft skin is. 
Especially yours. 
He hadn’t noticed initially, too intent on cleaning and suturing—on keeping you alive. Then, when he’d slid you onto your back, his palm had brushed over your cheek. 
Now, he waits. His mask and gloves gone, thrown on the counter, just waiting for the next time you manage to open your eyes. Not that he’ll put them back on. 
If he gets the chance to watch you wake, he wants you to see him—all of him. The scars which litter his face. The shit cut he’d tried to give himself—the myriad of shades that make up his lashes and hair colour. 
Simon missed your voice. Something he wouldn’t ever admit, even under duress. 
He hadn’t known a lot until he thought he’d almost lost it all. Not that he’s out of the woods. The smile you send him, the smirk—the light, playful jabs and understanding nods. Mostly, he missed how you felt like a comfort, when he didn’t understand what comfort was. 
It had pelted him the moment you had stopped talking to him. Bludgeoned him somewhere between the first mile and the second. He’d tried to ignore how you’d gone limp, how your head rolled back against the crease of his bicep and shoulder. Focusing instead on imagining you’re simply asleep—tired and bored. 
If not for your chest rising and falling, he’d have lost it. 
But it kept him sane. The slow rise which stuttered before it fell. 
Truthfully, he had suspected you’d have passed out earlier, when he first moved you. It was your surprising determination that made you hold on, murmuring nonsense he couldn’t understand. When weak fingers tried to grip his vest when he pulled you close to him. 
Talk. Blink. Do something. 
You’d tapped, twice. 
Eyes slowly unfurled from being clenched, fingers sliding to the chin of his mask. Tapping again. 
You good? P-Pain.
And he knew. Could only imagine how much. 
It broke him a little bit, that one word on the puff of breath you’d struggled to find. It made him ache and wish all over again—that he’d never split up from you, that he’d been quicker, that he’d realised sooner that his side was empty and that they were all drawn to you. 
His wrist still throbbed from puncturing necks. Not wanting to shoot, to make them panic—make them reckless and stick bullets in you. But they’d stuck one in, all the same—the fucking cowards. 
The last soul he had in his grip when he found you, wouldn’t be recognisable. His knuckles are proof of that—feeling them bruising.
It’s in the final mile to the safe house does he realise he’s not any better. 
He’s a coward, afraid. 
Because your eyes had held his, shining brighter than the sun as you leaned against the mountainside. You looked like you always did—good enough to kiss. Feeling the gravitation to you, the notable pull. It would have been easier to close the gap, to slide his mask up than spend the energy he did on keeping away. 
He did, though. 
Just like he hadn’t at the last set of drinks when your lips were wet with beer and you’d smiled at him like he was the only person in the place. He wasn’t—not by a long shot—but you made him feel like it. A sensation so rare it made his body warm up several degrees. 
There had been plenty of chances, plenty he thinks you’d have reciprocated. 
Just like when he pulled you to his chest, a horrid moan leaving your throat as your hand gripped your wound—fingers weakly trying to find his neck. He could feel it, the silent plea—the last-wish you wanted to express, because you thought you’d never get the chance again. Fear and love concocting in a potion which stung the edges of his eyes and made you cling on. 
But, you lived. He’d got you here. Used the knowledge he had of combat medical care to do enough to get you stable. To keep you with him. 
To watch your eyes now flutter and blink. A whisper and a groan sliding from your tongue, sounding like ‘Ghost’—but he couldn’t be sure. 
Convinced it was a trick of the mind. A hopeful wish. 
He knelt against the floorboards, making them groan, finding your eyes half-open, panic and something else twisting across your jaw and mouth. 
“You’re okay—we’re at the safe house.” 
“Hurts… really h-urts.” 
He slides his fingers through yours, feeling it again—soft skin, your soft skin. 
It’s quiet. You’re quiet. Eyes finding him, carving over each element of his maskless face. He swears he sees you smile—brief and quickly vanished, but there for a second. 
It’s all falling down. 
His walls keep you safe. His shields keep you out. All of it being placed down the longer he holds your hand—the longer his knee presses against your thigh on the floor. The more he spends staring into your eyes. Slowly unravelling until he’s left with feelings and regret. 
“W-w—“
“Don’t… don’t talk, alright? It’ll be soon. Real soon. Hold on for me.”
Hold on to me. 
You nod. Brief and direct—the image of the perfect soldier. His eyes fall to your wound, to the bandage that is already stained. He notices the smears, the dried markings across your abdomen left by his poor cleaning. 
It had stained his fingers too, his forearms. He’d tried to clean it from his skin, tried to rid your blood from his own—but you’d clung to him as desperately as you were currently doing so to life. 
He blinked, staring back up to your face, finding your eyes closed and breaths minimal. No gasping, no wincing—but low, short breaths. 
“You still wit’ me?” 
Silence. 
Nothing. 
Yet, your fingers remained wrapped in his.
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He’s told you’ll make it when you’re wheeled from his view. The news you had arrived to him from Johnny’s tongue. 
He says nothing, making the sergeant's face scrunch when he doesn’t react—offering a nod, turning back to the report. Dismissing him. Needing solitude and thick discomfort. 
Time ticks, the hands of the clock loud and annoying. They tick until they tock, they tock until they tick—and then he throws the pen. Hearing it crack, splinter into shards of plastic in the corner. 
He tastes it again—your pain. It haunts him, lingering in the back of his throat—a concoction of iron and something bitter. Knowing, deep down, there’s little to rid it. 
But, he pulls open the bottom drawer of his desk—pulling out two glasses and a bottle filled with amber. The light catches it, shining through the murky contents, until it gleams when he pours one out.
Ghost ensures the other glass remains an ornament, a reminder. 
What’s this? A gift. Usually to make someone happy.  Why? Because people do that sometimes. Plus, last time you made me drink out a mug.  This doesn’t change ‘nything. ‘Course it doesn’t, Riley. Why would it?
He drains his glass. Letting it burn his oesophagus and light a fire in his lungs. The taste clings, sticking itself into his throat—merging with the taste he’s come to know as hell. 
When we’re back from this next mission, you’re gonna pour me one into one of your new glasses and you’re gonna say, ‘you did good’. Y’sure of that? Positive.   
He stares at the empty glass. The one untouched and left without the gleam of amber. 
If the news had been different, he’s not sure it would be intact. Whether he’d be intact. If there would be as many shards of glass as there is plastic. Whether there’d be pieces of him across his office floor, mask in tatters, soul in shambles. 
Something having pulsed and unfurled, slowly coming undone in the Heli back to base. A confirmation, acknowledgement, that something you-shaped had woven in passed his walls. 
You didn’t belong there, but he’d done very little to rid you from him. Liking you there—likely having you. 
People assumed very little terrified him, when in fact it was normality that filled him with fear. The idea of wanting and having. Ideas of Sunday mornings and bags of chips at the beach. 
You especially made him weak at the knees—a threat that could be exploited if anyone were to put the pieces together. How you made his heart stutter, and blood rush to places it shouldn’t—filling his head with the possibilities of looking at stars and waking up for sunrises. 
He pours another glass and drowns it. Shoving the bottle away before he considers a third. 
And then he waits an hour to visit. 
Secretly, he hopes to find you asleep, resting. Able to sit in silence and listen to breathing that isn’t struggled or desperate.
Ghost isn’t sure he has words to say or honesty to share—his body tired, mind frayed. Both running on fumes as the adrenaline and worries had slowly worn off. 
Of course, he finds you not asleep. 
If anything, Ghost is sure you’re going against all medical advice by sitting up. Your eyes land on him immediately, almost widening and warming as you take him in. As though you’d been hopefully expecting him. 
You shift, pulling the blanket up a little higher—smoothing it out across your stomach as if trying to hide what he’s already seen. What is already memorised, difficult to rid. 
In the bed, you look small when he’s so used to seeing you mighty. While you appear frail, he still bets you’d try to take down most soldiers. Your unwillingness to bend is the first thing he noticed in you. Your sheer determination is the second.  
Walking to your bedside, his heart lurches when you wince, even if you’re quick to reach for him, beckoning him closer as he moves on demand. 
The chair lightly protests as he sinks into it, the small metal legs desperate to give out under his size as he slides his hand free from his glove. Just like in the cabin. 
This time he receives a smile. Soft and sweet—almost delicate. One you give so easily, and always to him when battle and war isn’t in your sight. 
He knows it isn’t easy, not right now. Knows how much strength it’s taking just to stay awake, to sit up in the way you are, to speak and smile. 
But you’re safe. Breathing. Alive.  
Something blooming inside of him in place usually covered in shadows and demise. Your fingers tighten around his, tilting your head as he surveys—taking in the curve of your cheeks and the bow of your lips. And you feel safe and dangerous all at once. A puzzle, one he wants to commit to his mind and only pretend to undo, because he likes you mysterious. 
He likes knowing the things he does, and knowing he’ll learn more if you stick around. 
“I’m okay.” 
He swallows, shifting the lump which had formed back in the sand. The one that had grown hour by hour, which had been accelerated by stained red and silence. Only now shrinking as you gripped him as tight as you were able to. 
You nod, as if you can read his thoughts—as if there’s a transcript being read to you. Then you repeat those two words again, allowing them to slide through his ears. 
“I’m—“
“You’re okay,” he repeats, low, just for you. 
The silence, more comfortable than before, blankets the two of you. The soft beep of the machine behind you, the idle drip of saline. 
It’s so quiet it allows his thoughts to spin. To begin to run around a wheel as they spin a mixture of poison, truth and gold. 
You squeeze his hand, firmer than he’s felt since he first did it. 
And he lets it fall from his tongue, let it kiss your ears as he drops his masked chin to his chest. “‘m glad you’re alive.”
He feels heavy, even if it’s a partial confession. Feels more begin to weigh on him, regret washing with doubts until they spin and spin—
“Good,” you whisper. 
Words forcing his head up, finding yours already on him. Desperately slicing through his walls, past his mask until you drown in his soul. 
He lets you. Has done for a while. Let’s you bask in prolonged eye contact and bathe what could be. But, it’s the first time he sinks into the waters himself. 
Licking your lips, dragging the tip over your split and cracked skin. “Won’t be mad that I plan on sticking around to bother you some more then?” 
“No. Don’t mind at all.” 
You shift, wiggling further away as you tug him. It’s weak, barely enough to move his wrist, never mind his body. But, he shifts from the seat all the same, allowing you to think you’re dragging him beside you on the bed. 
It’s tight. It’s not made for two people, never mind him being one of them. Yet, he tries to lie beside you—cautious of your ankle, your hip. He finds the scent of army soap greeting him from your hair and an elbow close to his ribs.
It’s not until you both stop moving, does he realise your hand is in his. Palm pressed against palm. Fingers tightening around him. 
Then, your head lies against his shoulder. Similar to when he’d carried you when you’d been closer to death than alive. Now, it’s the other way—a funny callback, a reminder of the difference a day makes. 
“Did I do good?” 
He tenses, turning his head slowly as he finds you half-smirking. 
“You almost fuckin’ died.” 
“Almost is important in that sentence.” 
He says nothing. Cupping your fingers closer as he tightens the hold, almost wanting to feel your pulse through your fingers—even if he can feel your breath dancing over his mask.
“You know what I’d like?” 
He grunts, feeling you snort at the sound of it. “Here w’fuckin’ go.”
You nudge him. Barely a poke, barely a sharp pinch. But he smiles. In his half-smile-way, he feels himself do when he's with you.
Something which is usually hidden by his mask. Now on full display.
“When my lips are better… I’d like you to kiss me.”
He flips his eyes open, not daring to move, unsure if you can hear how his heart thunders or whether it’s in his head. 
“Yeah?” he says. 
You nod. Brief and direct—just like a well-taught fucking soldier. 
He lets your head find that spot again, the crease of his shoulder as you take a deeper breath. Knowing, on the surface, he’s not felt the way he does about someone that isn’t you, keeping hold of your hand, sliding his thumb over your skin. 
Your soft skin. 
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frogchiro · 11 months
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ALSO TO ADD ONTO THIS BC I HAVE PERVERTED 141 THOTS
Yes, Simon will steal your underwear and jerk off to it. So what. In his defense, you shouldn't have left it out like that! Sure it was in your room and he went there because Price send him to retrieve some paperwork from you but still! The delicate pink fabric completed with a tiny bow was just begging for him to snatch it and now he's so fucking angry because he's jerking off with the panties pressed up against his face, huffing your intoxicating scent and growling with anger because how dare you make him act like this >:(
He's a fucking lieutenant; he's literally The Ghost, not a schoolboy who's jerking it to his first crush. He comes with a roar only muffled with his sheer willpower to not let anyone hear him, but when he's coming down from the high, laying on his back in his bed and with your panties still firmly grasped in his fist he kinda wishes you'd hear him, all the deep masculine noises he makes for you, because of you.
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moondirti · 1 year
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Idk if you have answered an ask like this already but please feed me some possessive/ jealous Ghost hc or whatever bc that man is 10 times sexier while jealous and possessive.
Pls just imagine jealous sex with this man omg…
he would not know how to handle himself i'm pretty sure. sorry to sabotage your thirst anon, i just love me a repressed man :) anyway, this is for the same mc in cigarettes out the window (reader with the call sign 'scout') but it can be read entirely separate! so, without further ado here's some jealous ghost
He's colossal, a force composed of pure brawn and unfathomable depths. Talk of Ghost illustrates him as a norse warrior to end all, the nightmare fuel of enemies who can't help but pale at a skull face. Wholly a reputation founded on that tactical precision; charcoal eyes, half-lidded to contain the ire that bubbles like magma. It's all physical. You'd just assumed that strength extended to his emotional conviction as well.
But he gets quiet sometimes, eerily so. The type where he embodies his name and dissipates like shadow on you. You don't see him for days.
It definitely depends on the stage of your relationship. Catch him jealous before the six month mark and he'd choose to abandon ship. It's that instinctive fight or flight, the choice to back down and reassess before he loses another one of his men. But you're not the enemy; your hands are soft and supple when they cradle his face, never seeking to add to his scars. You're gentle when you tell him that it's him, always will be; no one can ever compare to the behemoth you'd surrendered your heart to.
It takes a lot of time to get Simon to the point where he allows himself to be possessive. The first time, it goes something like this:
Some bar in France, cleared out for their obligatory drink post-mission. Johnny had held him up, pulling him off to the side to start on a tangent about his makeshift bomb that ended up saving their lives. His eyes stay fixed on you, edging to his peripheral where you're caught up in a rather funny conversation with Gaz.
You muffle your snicker behind a shaking hand. Simons' own squeeze into fists.
While your relationship with the Lieutenant has yet to be defined, the men of the 141 recognise the silent claim that curls over your shoulders. It was written in your sleepy sigh, dewy skin gleaming with contentment, that night they'd woke at a safe house to find you three inches closer to his mattress. It was the first of many, many hints.
Garrick isn't flirting with you, not by a long shot.
But he is making you laugh. Perhaps harder than Simon ever has.
He can't really describe what overcomes him. It's a rib-shattering heartbeat, working overtime to supply his vision with brimming red. A deeply vulnerable pit bottoming out in his gut; that fear, still there, that you're only temporary. He only acts on the former so he won't face the latter.
He leaves Soap with no more than a clap on the back. The sergeant takes it for what it is, a promise to continue later.
"Price wants you on reports."
"Does he?" You shoot him an incredulous expression, shifting back and forth from his blank stare and the captain, who huddles near Laswell over a game of gin rummy.
"Affirmative." The response comes out faster than he'd like it to, clipped with full-bodied aggression.
"Right..." Licking your lip, you take a moment to match your scrutiny to his. Simon thinks he sees it, the glint your pupils take when you finally catch on. It combats the spite that courses through him, pooling down to fill the weight between his legs. Clever girl - you know him, probably better than he knows himself. "And I'm assuming you need to consult me on something regarding that?"
"Yes." It's all the indication you need.
"Well." You look to Garrick. "I'm sorry to cut this short, mate. Remember to tell me about Serbia some other time."
And Simon doesn't miss the odd look the sergeant gives you, lips curled downwards in an acknowledging humour. He doesn’t like that he’s comfortable enough to give that much. 
But you follow him, smaller footsteps matching his as he finds a secluded hallway near the bathroom. It’s a good thing, he – rather, his internal monologue that sounds too much like your voice – echoes.
"Gonna bring up what's wrong, or will I have to force it out of ya. Hm?"
"Didn' appreciate the way he was lookin' at you, pet."
Your breath hitches, clumped lashes fluttering as you take him in anew. If this were anything else, Simon would credit your grin to a cruel sadism. As it stands, though, he lets it guide the flow of his plastered heart. He's on the right track.
"And how was he looking at me, Si?"
The growl that leaves him is untamed, the feral rip release of a hand grenade. A large hand clamps over your jaw, pressing inwards so your lips pucker out at him. The other pushes your torso to the wall, skimming past the hem of your shirt.
It's new. It's thrilling. It's a wildfire turned eternal damnation, fuelled by a fatal sin that forever trumps envy. Lust, bubbling poison to his insecurity - practical headway into something he's good at. Words were never his forte, but he can fuck you like no one else can, thrusting deeper between your velvet walls than thought possible. It's always been enough to spur breathless awe.
Enough, enough.
"Like he could ever amount to me."
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moongumi · 2 years
Text
⁀➷ ∵  ❝ nice warm bed you've got there, ghost¹ ❞
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⟶ simon 'ghost' riley x reader
⟶ cw. sleepy!ghost, fem!reader, flirting, established flirtationship, kissing, lots of kissing, grinding, ghost calls you kid + more (nothing too sexy yet only a tiny bit of smut but more like descriptions nothing that isn't listed)
⟶ note. not edited, written out of pure thirst
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drained and sore from the mission you had jumped in the shower quickly before anyone could take the chance. the other guys rested in the rv waiting for their turn. they pretty much start to stink up the entire place with the smell of masculine musk and spoiled mud.
right when you're done, vargas decides it was his turn before anyone else could utter a word. he nudges your shoulder in the small space as you tried to dry your wet hair with towel, its freakin' dark so you assume he was just being clumsy. he mutters a quick, "sorry", before slipping away in the tiny cubicle.
your arms raised in your tank top and shorts you rub the towel into your head as you walk towards the front of the rv.
soap clears his throat, sitting on the dining table set. across him is ghost, they take up the entire space with their large width so you'd have to get past them towers the bench-like couch to have a place to sit.
soap notices you right away and kicks his feet ahead. ghost snaps his head but notices soap's head nudging behind him. "do yourself a favour, try not to look."
ghost's eyes dart to the right behind his textured mask, seeing your shadow before yourself. "yea, i'm tryin', mate."
you make your way past a very stiff-necked ghost and soap who gives you a sheepish grin. you notice their files of documents and photographs littered all over the worktop. even after hours they can't seem to stop working. soap gives ghost a smack on the shoulder and leaves.
ghost relaxes slightly when his head down form notices you've left as there were no lingering shadows covering up the reflection of the moonlight from that side.
that is until he feels hands on his shoulder and a heavy weight pushes them downwards. "you still trying?" your soft voice pierces his ears and he jumps.
he rolls his eyes, throwing his head into his palm. "shut up kid."
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
"alright, pick bunks." soap sees you already on a top bunk over the top of a queen bed that sits at the end of the rv. "i see you've already chosen."
"yep." you pop your lips and continue to click on your nintendo switch, cooling off. completely ignoring the rest as they pick bunks.
soap and ghost end up under you whilst the others have opted to either stay awake, drive or sleep on those bench-couches that turned into beds.
you decide to sleep for a while. comfortably until.
ghost feels a weight on his bed, it definitely wasn't soap. his eyes open to see you climbing down off your bunk and dropping into his, your tank rolling up as you did. your entire weight drops on his bed and crinkle the duvet, his eyes half open looking at you. "what you doin'?"
"what do you think?"
ghost groans groggily, waving you off, "you can't do that. not right now."
"soaps not here." ghost looks to his side, you're right. "the others are out, we stopped at a station. they're getting food and water." your straddle the lower part of his leg slightly, dropping your weight slowly on him–he feels the heat off your bare legs on his sweats.
ghosts eyes barely open and he sits up to look at the window seeing the shop and station as you say. somehow he didn't even wake up whilst the others made their move. he rubs his eyes through his balaclava. you wondered if he even showered as the black paint kind of still lingered around his eyelids, the only part you really get to see of his face.
"you still wear your mask when you sleep, hm?"
ghost groans, pointing at you with a jut of his chin. "you do too."
you click your tongue pointing at yours, "mines different." you did wear a mask on duty like him just not as artistic. but you wear a medical mask otherwise, it was easier to breathe and covered you up, hiding your identity well enough.
ghost leans his weight on his hands. he sat up slightly. you make your way onto his lap, he didn't even resist only cocking his head at your every move. he sees the way you're looking at him. eyes half open, lashes heavy, maybe because you also just woke up but hell, you were giving him some sort of intentional look.
"let me kiss you," you whispered, words slathered with lust. it was one of the last things he expected, but who was he kidding the others are out and the tension between you two was strong enough at other times–alone, was different.
he shakes his head, trying to be the better person. "no, come on. they'll be back before you know it."
"they just left." you're fingers are tickling at the base of his neck, peeling his mask slightly. he only eyes you back, half-lidded too–his pretty eyes make the core of your ache warm up. "ghost, please."
your fingers are slip under his mask, feeling his warm skin, lifting it up more. it reaches his chin, and you feel the roughness of his recently shaven beard. he swallows hard, breathing heavily at your touch.
his head straightens and his fingers reach yours to stop you. "hey."
"what?" you groan, "don't pretend you don't want it."
he doesn't pretend. he can't. you're sat on his lap with your tiny shorts rolled up your ass, your shirt exposing your waist and everything. it's rare to see you so exposed, just your fucking arms and legs made him horny, fucks sake. he'd been so deprived.
his eyes flicker between your eyes and where your lips would be behind that mask. his fingers left yours alone and he reaches for the loops around your ears, his rough fingers yet soft touch pulls them off. even in the dark, it's hard to see your face, maybe that was a good thing, neither of you really knew what each other looked like. it seemed a lot more exciting this way.
you take that as a green light. dragging his mask over his nose and pressing your lips against his quickly, so he couldn't stop you anymore–he can't just draw it out longer, the chase. you angled your head, molding into his bottom lip. his lips part and he deepens the kiss, a low grovel ringing from his throat. his tongue slips past your swollen lips with ease, with no resistance. he explores it, pressing his tongue and curling it to the roof of your mouth, tasting all of you.
you moan, whimpering into his mouth. rolling your hips naturally into his lap that allows you to feel his growing bulge. he thrusts his hips as well. who knows the last time the man got action and fuck, he wanted it now.
his eyes are shut under his halfed-mask, you keep switching angles as if it could get you any closer to the extremely attractive older man. you felt like you saw something in the corner of your eyes for a split second, and when you open your eyes fully you can see the other men through the sheer curtained window returning with bags of snacks, drinks, and food and you pull away with a gasp. "fuck."
ghost returns to his senses and looks in that direction. "fuck." he watches as you jumbled as you jumped off him. only watching in amusement. "good night." pressing your bare feet against the covers by him and getting back into your bunk above him.
ghost's deep chuckle makes the pits of your belly warm, "good night, kid."
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end note: i miss ghost daddy ok? im thirsting and FROTHING FOR THIS MAN. i really wanna write a full fic like oc and all but i literally dunno shit about military n america LOL. but i will be writing more, but THE MASK STAYS ON. hopefully no fanboys run into this n get all pissy &lt;3 idk how people feel about being called kid by a guy you're tryna fuck but : ) soz
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charnelhouse · 1 year
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would u ever write something about a jealous red fox??
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A/N: Ghost x F!Reader (Red Fox). Bathroom Sex. Anal. IDK if this would even work without an insane amount of prep, but we don't need to follow the rules!
It turns him on.
It really fucking does because it’s very unlike her to lose her cool.
In the past, most women stayed away from him, offering him a wide berth because of his demeanor and the threat locked in his energy. He never minded it. He preferred to be alone because relationships were complicated. Sex, if anything, was transactional for him, especially when he was younger, wilder, and less careful.
Until Red, of course.
Everything was what it was until Red as if she was some natural disaster or global interference that irreparably changed the course of his future.
But even lovely, immovable Red Fox could still be very fuckin' human.
The new nurse, Lindsey, has latched onto him. A wasp shoving her stinger into his flesh and refusing to leave. Simon watches Red regard the woman with a palpable coldness. Her feline eyes are narrowed as she follows Lindsey’s movements. She touches his arm and then his chest and Simon doesn’t flinch or jerk away because a tiny part of him wants to see what Red will do.
She’s the one usually lusted after. She’s the one who has to pry wandering hands off of her skin. 
“It’s because you’re beautiful.”
“It’s because men are men, Riley.”
Simon is desperate to know what it would feel like to be possessed. He wants to be wanted in a way that burns because his desire for Red is an actual ailment. A physical wound that weeps and pulses hour after hour. It’s disgusting. It’s wonderful.  
There’s no doubt that his stock has risen now that Red has claimed him. 
Because surely why would a girl like her desire a man like him? There must be something and the honeyed mystery draws in the flies.
Lindsey sighs before sliding her palm over the tattoos that blanket his forearm. The crosses. The skull. “Where’d you get-”
“Excuse me.”
It’s Red, her voice unflinchingly cool, her expression flat and barren as an ice-frosted tundra. Simon blinks down at her and though she can’t see it, his lips tug into an amused smile. 
“Have you met Lindsey?” he asks softly. 
Red lifts her chin, squinting at him like she’s suddenly onto his game. “Yeah,” she says slowly, gifting Lindsey a brief glance. “She’s great.”
“Well - I was just admiring -” Lindsey begins before Red snatches his wrist and tugs him away. 
“Have to talk to you,” she mutters and he chuckles, dark and warm and he’s already hard. 
She drags him past Soap and Price, who frown. She drags him past the other women who have begun to study him with newfound interest. 
She hauls his ass straight into the narrow, ugly bathroom of the pub. The paint is chipped and the sink is dirty. The lights are green-yellow, illuminating the warped wooden floor. 
The second he shuts the door, she shoves his mask above his nose, wraps her little hands around his neck and forces him down to her mouth. 
He groans, a rough, broken noise swelling at the center of his chest. He grabs her hips, pushing her back against the wall. He kisses her like he’s dying, their tongues stroking each other at their own rhythm. He’s never fucked anyone like he fucks Red. They work in sync, they understand what the other needs or wants by their body language, the noises dripping from their mouth because it is one mouth now…a single pulsing part and your pain is mine just like your pleasure.
“Jealous?” he whispers against her lips.
She growls, slipping her fingers underneath the back of his mask to fist his hair. “Yes,” she admits as he flicks the button on her jeans. “Yes - I’m fucking jealous.”
He laughs again and she scowls until he rucks her panties to the side to touch her cunt.
“As if there would be anyone else for me,” he rasps, petting at her folds before ducking his head to root his nose against the perfumed skin of her throat that throbs with her heartbeat.
She’s soaking wet, hot as an oven and it makes him grunt. He’s incapable of anything else. Just primal noises forced out of him by his attraction to her and her arousal. 
She grabs his shoulders, lashes fluttering as he sinks a finger into her. Her pants are binding her knees together. She has nowhere to go, but fall prey to his exploration. He thrusts deep, turning his hand to place his thumb on her clit. He adds a second and she moans.
“I want you to do something,” she murmurs as he drives his fingers to the knuckle before drawing them out lazily. Her slick pussy makes a noise with every pump and it’s got him nearly bursting in his own pants. 
“Yeah?” he says, pressing his cheek to hers, nibbling her earlobe before capturing her lower lip between his teeth and biting her for fun. 
“Christ,” she gasps and he takes his opening, shoving his tongue into her pretty mouth to silence her again.
“No! No - you’re distracting me,” she protests and he pauses, easing back to look down at her. 
“Is it too much?” He’s suddenly worried that he’s overdone it. He’s so much bigger than her and he doesn’t always register his own strength when he’s enveloped by the smell of her, the feel of her walls clenching around his fingers. 
She swallows before smoothing her hair. “I want you to fuck my ass right here,” she says plainly.
“Come again?”
They’d done it that morning. He’d been stretching her for days, getting her ready with his tongue and his fingers and too much lube. 
“I want to be full of you,” she murmurs as she lifts herself up and places a tender kiss on his chin, his jaw and then his mouth.
He’s, quite frankly, blindsided.
“I don’t think we can just do it, duchess,” he replies. “We don’t have anything to make it easy.” It’s like he’s running around the process, unable to outright say that his cock is too thick for her and they only could with lube and plugs and patience. 
“It’s fine,” she replies. “I’m still ready for you.” She digs her nails into his shoulders. “I can take it. Just use your spit.”
Fuckin’ hell.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He’s swollen, pulsing with a desire that is nearly blinding him, eradicating all sense. They could at least try and if it gets to be too much, they can stop. 
He squares his shoulders as he unzips himself. “Turn around then, darling.”
She grins and does as he says, sticking her ass out and arching her back. He grazes his palm down her spine, enjoying the texture of her tight t-shirt before he hits the bare skin of her lower back and then the crease of her arse. “Spread yourself for me,” he orders and she wordlessly reaches back to grip her cheeks. 
He makes a feral sort of noise at the sight of her hole. It’s still raw from earlier and he touches it, his thumb snagging on the rim. She shivers. 
“You want me to spit on it?” he asks roughly. 
It’s dirty. It’s very fucking dirty to be doing this in a public toilet with her beautiful face glued to the chipped wall. Her pants around her knees as she opens her ass for him. 
“Please,” she husks and he collects the saliva in his mouth before spitting. She jerks and he clamps one hand on her hip to restrain her. With his other hand, he sucks his fingers into his mouth before swiping them through the spit he’s left on her hole and then burying them inside her.
It must be a lot because she yelps, her palm smacking against the plaster. He stops for a moment, but she wiggles against him - demanding - impatient. 
“You’ll take what I give you,” he warns because sometimes she really doesn’t understand how he could hurt her or rip her in two. He’d probably never fuck her again if he caused a serious injury.
He must be careful and composed as he can be with preparation.
He works his fingers into her, screwing them deep. He adds a third and he truly believes the spit won’t be enough, but she’s hot to the touch, begging for it. When he removes his fingers, he grips his cock and rocks it forward, gliding it through the mess of her sex from behind. She’s soaked and he coats his length in it, hoping it’ll make the whole ordeal somewhat easier. 
“Please,” she whines and he spanks her for it. The harsh crack of skin on skin echoing throughout the tiny space, smacking against the walls and bouncing back to them.
Finally, he grips the head of his cock and begins to force it into the tight, slick opening. It takes a bit, pushing and pressing until it finally gives way and once it pops inside, she releases a deep, watery breath.
“Fuck,” she hisses, muscles clamping down around him, ready to spit him out. “Fucking fuck.”
“Do you want me to keep going?”
“If you stop, I’ll murder you.”
He drives further. He gives her inch after careful inch. “Breathe with me,” he says as he holds her waist. She’s fragile, tender and stunning and he may crack open at the image of him defiling her asshole in a dark, dingy pub lavatory. 
When he finally buries himself to the hilt, she’s pulsing, throbbing with fever. She’s choking on words and he thinks he hears:
Ruin me. Simon. Simon. Fucking take me. 
He does as she asks. It’s not a fast screw with short, rapid snaps. No, it’s a lazy dance of sorts. He claims her in long, deliberate strokes. He pulls back three inches before giving her two. He stares down at where they’re joined, the place where her ass is sucking him dry, demanding more of him. 
He leans forward, wrapping an arm around her tits to pull her back against his chest. He drags his jaw along her cheek, he licks her throat. “Why this?” he murmurs.
Perhaps, it’s the filthiness of it or perhaps it’s the fact that they’re going to leave this room with his come dripping out of her ass and bruises on her thighs. Lindsey is long forgotten, a mere catalyst to their union - their obsession with each other because that’s what it is in the simplest of terms. He is enthralled, spellbound, ensnared. 
“Because you’re mine,” she breathes before he delivers another sharp thrust that makes her whimper. “Because I wanted to give you this,” she continues, though her words are bounding against each other, galloping into incoherence. 
“You’re doin’ brilliantly,” he teases as he pushes deeper into the restricting circle of her flesh. Her hands come up to squeeze his forearm, her nails biting into his tattoos.
He does not tell her how those simple statements have broken him open. He feels like a ripe piece of fruit that’s exploded on the sidewalk. He wants to burst with too much pulp and juice. 
Because you’re mine.
And Simon Riley has never been anyone’s before and how lovely it feels.
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