#simon ghost riley x f!oc

[dotcie]

— BAD DOG. [2]

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: taglist is open! please let me know if you want to be added or removed. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MDNI | hair pulling 》 CHAPTER: 3.9k | 2/? [masterlist] | AO3

Before she met Laswell, Jane did media monitoring for the DISA. 

It paid well for a job straight out of undergrad. Had reasonable hours, pleasant enough colleagues. She commuted the twenty minutes from her shitty apartment in Kingman Park to the Pentagon—arrived at seven forty-five with a cream cheese bagel and a skim milk latte. Wrote reports, emails, and memos. Hours and hours of political speeches, barking rifles, and screaming civilians ingrained in her brain. 

''Like a fucked up collage of the human greed for oil and retribution,'' she once called it over an almost empty espresso martini. Condensation pearled off the glass's rim and pooled on the table of an overpriced speakeasy bar, so unimpressive it was not worth remembering its name. Her questionable Tinder date had been late, his small-talk rather boring; No, she didn't like her job. Who ever did? But rent was expensive in DC, and Jane had student loans, expensive taste, and maybe eight hundred dollars in her checking account. 

She covered newsstreams out of Egypt, Lebanon, and Jordan. Iraq, and Yemen. Algeria. Libya.

Ate lunch at her desk—usually a salad and a protein bar, four busy screens in front of her. 

Had meetings with Cairo, Beirut, Amman, Baghdad, Sana'a, Algiers, and Tripoli.

She joined the white-collar crowd on their evening run around the Mall after work. From the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial, around the reflecting pool. Two times, sometimes three. Always depending on the restlessness that hummed in her bones and tingled in her fingertips. 

Jane shoved her damp hair up with a clip and hopped on the blue metro line afterwards; sweaty and breathless, body humming with spent energy. She stopped at Whole Foods on her way home; bought dinner-for-one and a four-pack of sugar free Redbull. Put on noise canceling headphones without listening to anything on her way home—spying into warm lit windows and other people's lives. 

She ate in bed, crouched over her Macbook, the TV always set to CNN. She practiced Arabic. Scrolled through subreddits about zero-day exploits, but never commented on them. Went to bed late, woke up early. Got up the next day and did it all over again. 

Washington is a big city, in a big country, in a big world, and nothing ever changed. Jane just sat in her gunny-covered cubicle and watched whole cities crumble to dust like sandcastles. The local newspapers only covered a watered-down version of the turmoil overseas, but the mental images were always in the back of her head—no matter how loud she turned the TV. 

It's all part of a grand plan, she told herself. Just another rung on the ladder, an essential middle-step in her career. It was comfortable and disturbing. Exciting enough, but nothing impactful.

Nothing with an edge. 

The job had a sky-high turnover; a bad impact on employees. Turns out, swallowing the documentation of invasions, and civil wars, and an endless flow of American exceptionalism was only manageable for a couple of months. Jane became miserable and angry. Tired and strung-out. When handing in her two-weeks notice without a back-up plan, her supervisor accepted the neatly printed note with tired eyes and an annoyed flick of the wrist. 

Her therapist blamed her sense of weightlessness for everything she did afterwards: the thrill-seeking, the risk-taking. All her screw-ups in pursuit of sticking her fingers in better pies. When the agency sent her to the embassy in Urzikstan, Jane canceled her rent-controlled apartment lease early and donated most of her belongings to the Habitat For Humanity in Capitol Hill. Burning the boats, she called it. 

For months, no one could get a hold of her. 

Analyst positions for counter-terrorism overseas will chew you up and spit out your bones, a friend in the IOC had warned her. Jane was up for it anyway—of course she was. She had witnessed a few horrendous things through screens in Washington, but nothing compared to the situation in Sakhra. Like most soul-crushing things in life, it all wasn't real until it was. 

The first time she experienced the ruthlessness of the real world, a local contractor whose family was killed by American soldiers blew up half a base with some DIY C4. 12 soldiers dead, 24 injured. If not for Laswell yanking her into the shadows behind a M1A2 when panic erupted, she would have been trampled to death under the burning afternoon sun. 

Instead, Jane heaved, and coughed, then sank to the dusty ground with ringing ears. Kate towered over her with a drawn P890, yelling all-too-calmly over the wailing of sirens: You have twenty seconds to get it together.

They made her take time off two years later, after a black site she was stationed at suffered another, similar attack. Jane was resentful of it, but she wanted to keep her clearance, so she left with the next supply plane and said what she needed to say to pass the psych evaluation. 

She considered moving back into her grandparents ranch in Arizona. Maybe traveling through Europe, starting a new hobby (rock climbing, pottery, crocheting); but there was no real drive or push behind it. Instead, she bled in secret. Fucked strangers on her frameless king-size mattress and worked out too much in her unfurnished apartment. She got offers; a few private-sector contracts she knew she couldn't entertain. Jane wanted to stick it out with the agency—and Laswell. Especially with Laswell. 

The first question Shepherd asked her when she stepped into his office was if she had any family; a partner, kids, siblings. Parents to take care of. The General asked bluntly, but Jane was used to force as the most efficient method to get answers. 

She had spent three years interrogating Al-Qatala members and contacts. Trading money, safety, and threats for intelligence. Sleeping through the sound of gunfire, bystanding interrogations, interpreting intelligence, and snooping in places Americans aren't supposed to. Jane had left her old life behind and dove head-first into a tunnel vision.

No. She had no one. 

When saying it out loud she almost sounded proud. 

Working for the General is different. Non-official cover work for SAD intel suits her better—scratches a certain itch, too. Like finally tasting blood after biting your tongue for years. 

Laswell has been helpful, the additional training too; but nothing ever prepared her for the void between long-term missions. When the work is done and restlessness returns in weird jet-lagged hours of the fading days. When there are no objectives to sink her teeth into. No foreign streets to roam under false identities. No predictions to be made, no strings to pull. 

She's stuck in Iceland now, attending debrief after debrief. Her target is dead, the missile prototypes returned to the lab, but that isn't enough. They want to know everything. First the higher-ups at the Headquarters, then the Senate Intelligence Committee. They want the process. The months of searching, the people involved, the rules she broke. 

She did a good job, she got what she wanted, but she is part of Shepherd's system now, and he didn't approve of her moving forward with the operation. 

Since she returned to the lab, he hadn't answered any of her calls. 

Ghost is nothing but a silhouette in the low light of the crescent moon; sitting against a weathered wall of heavy concrete, a half-burned cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Insects batter against a naked lightbulb overhead—the light orange and warm against the dark of night, casting long, unproportionate shadows over the smoking area. 

The sky hangs bruised and stormy over Vatnajökull, a million stars dotting the night. It's quarter to one, and the grounds of 102 are deadly still—so still, that the sound of a nearby metal door opening and closing shut remind him of gunshots piercing through the air. 

Years ago, he would have flinched at the sound, but there is not much left that startles Simon Riley anymore. 

Jane tips her head back in annoyance as she steps outside, cradling her phone between ear and shoulder. ''Listen—,'' she scolds into it, patting the outside of her clothes for the pack of cigarettes she bought from one of the kitchen workers yesterday. ''Louise, right? Louise, with all due respect—'' 

She takes a deep breath of restraint when she finds nothing but a crumbled straw wrapper in the pockets of her leather jacket. Sharp words spill on the other end of the line, and she squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose. ''I'm not going to argue with some mid-level bureaucrat, get him on the phone— No, no, you listen! I need a black passport, don't— Fuck—'' 

Jane's grip on the iPhone loosens with the sound of a disconnected call echoing blatantly against her ear. Simon can hear her mutter a spool of curses, the sound of gravel screeching under her feet, and how all sound seizes as she pauses at the sight of him. 

The smoking area is dimly lit, but there's no mistaking the broad-shouldered figure with the cramped up skull mask looming in the corner of the building. Simon appeared in her sight so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Jane would not be surprised if he materialized out of thin air. It would suit him; Ghost that he is.

Smoke pools out of the soldier's mouth, the balaclava pulled up to his nose; exposing a sharp chin with a shadow of stubble forming its way up a jaw set tight. He is hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs. He doesn't look up to see that the expression on her face is one of mute surprise, or that her eyes narrow at the sight of him. 

''Thought you'd be gone already,'' she calls over, lounging near the door she slipped out of. 

''Change of plans,'' he returns easy and low, eyes glued to the book in his calloused hands. 

It's only been a few days, but his voice is as deep and as resonant as Jane remembers; it fills the air and makes her blood rush with the mental images of his fingertips digging into her skin. 

There's always a certain quietness after she's been fucked good—the world stands still for a moment, and it helps to quench the thirst, to fill the void.

Jane needs to hold something in her arms sometimes. Something unattainable and distant. Something unwise. Something like him. 

''Mind if I bum one?'' She nods to the lit cigarette between his scarred fingers, stepping closer.

For a split second, she thinks he's going to ignore her—then he dog-ears the page he was reading and abandons the book onto his lap. 

Simon looks up all casually and unfazed, shakes his head. 

''Last one,'' he says, half-lidded stare fixed on her in that particular Ghost sort-of-way. The way he always gets when you rip out the half-assed social niceties and expose the weirdo underneath. 

Jane exhales through her nose, leaning against a pole holding up the roof. The urge for frustration refuses to be ignored, so she buckles, comments: ''Of course,'' like she's taking notes on the irony of it all. 

''Stop pondering, will ya?'' Inhaling another mouthful of tar, Simon stretches out along the bench, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. The set of dog tags around his neck clink together when he scratches the underside of his chin. "No point in gettin' all antsy." 

She shoots him a cold, hard look for it—the one that makes his blood sing, makes him remember the expression in her eyes when she told him she wanted her target dead. 

''Thank you, Simon, for your unsolicited wisdom.'' 

The subtle fuck you isn't boarded in her voice, but it throbs under every word of hers. He doesn't bother scolding her for saying his name again, but the bitter taste of disapproval sure does coat his tongue. He's not foolish enough to argue with her when she's like this; all gutted and pent-up. Ready to hiss, bite, and lunge at his throat. 

The familiarity of it all stirs something up in him. For a moment, Ghost almost believes that it's sympathy, maybe—or at least a pinch of pity. A distant part of his mind remembers the dogged woman he faced when they first met; working out of a one-room shithole in a broken-down, brutalist apartment building somewhere in the Balkans. Reviewing surveillance logs, transcripts, and maps in shorts and a sports bra because the AC was utter rubbish. He recalls her hunched figure and unwashed hair as she worked out of the tiny living room—the space a mess of cables and empty microwave meals, her tech always charging. Her curtains always closed, dust dancing in the beams of light that crept their way inside.

Two days after the exfil, he barely recognized her anymore; with fresh clothes, twelve-hours of sleep, and hair neatly cut to a shoulder-length. It was like meeting a stranger, a whole different woman. He was certain, then, that the only way out for her was the same as his: leaving rotten and zipped up in a body bag.

Simon holds his half-smoked cigarette out to her, and she lets her head roll to consider the silent peace-offer. Her expression bleeds into something less angry in the face of him, and she hates that it makes him snort in response. 

Jane gives him the illusion of thinking it over before breaking away from her frozen stance and closing the distance between them. She takes the stub, and sinks onto the wooden bench next to him.

''Thanks.'' — ''Mhmh.''

Even with some distance between them, Simon towers over her. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't attempt to embarrass himself with comforting words and distracting small-talk. He's quiet—a man of few words and fewer smiles—but that's what drew her to him in the first place. There's caution behind his eyes, and his words are always cleaved off at the knee. A person weathered and hardy. A man who, just like her, has seen things most wouldn't even believe.

They both fall quiet passing the cigarette back and forth, and for a moment he thinks that the conversation has faded out completely. Simon's eyes return to the book in his lap, trying to find the spot where he left off before she interrupted him, but— 

''Do you think I went too far?'' Jane keeps her eyes forward, burying her free hand in the left pocket of her jacket. 

Simon hums in response, dark and low. ''Doesn't matter what I think,'' he says in a way that makes it clear he believes it, too.

''But you are somewhat capable of forming opinions, yeah?'' 

It coaxes a half-huff, half-laugh from him. He gets it. Logically, he gets it. Everybody is somebody's dog, hanging onto a leash; but he's military, and he much prefers to not comment on any of it. 

''You ignored authority,'' he starts, then pauses. ''Whether or not it was worth it, all y'can do now is handle the repercussions.'' 

''That's not an answer.'' Two dimples appear on either side of Jane's frown as she tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ears and leans forward. ''Forget I even—''

''I think," he interrupts calmly, but stern, ''that your self-doubt won't help you.''

Jane keeps her gaze flat, level. Perhaps if she mimics the face of apathy, Simon won't be able to see that she's hanging onto every word of his. What he says resonates; a quiet truth echoing through the air between them. The regret in her chest strikes like a bomb and for a moment, she fears the possibility of Shepherd cutting her TS/SCI clearance once and for all. She's been ignoring the thought, avoiding any evidence of worry that could shape her suspicions into something tangible, something real.

''Just thinking ahead'' she says quietly, scuffing her boot against the pavement below. "Little catastrophizing, worst-case-scenario planning." 

"Doomsday prepping?" He offers and gets a little smile for that. 

His chest tightens at the sight, an aching warmth interweaving his thoughts with sympathy. He looks away then, trying to collect himself. Seeking control, reaching for reason. Better judgment. Something else.

Jane studies his side profile for a moment, and Simon suddenly feels like she's too close, too comfortable in his presence. It's only a split second, the length of a heartbeat, but it's enough for Jane to take in the way he blinks his intrusive thoughts away. 

''Why are you still here, anyway?'' She asks in a change of tone, plucking the cigarette from his fingers.

''Taking a break,'' he drawls, words dripping slowly as molasses from his mouth. There is no further explanation offered, no words wasted on reasons or truths. Simon blinks languidly, his lips pressing together as he closes his book for good. 

''Because of Soap?'' There's an off-tone in her voice. ''I thought he is getting better already?"

Simon exhales roughly. ''No,'' he says with a lazy shrug. ''Yes.'' 

It's short and curt, but she doesn't let his vague hostility deter her. Jane just stares at him, impatience reflecting in her eyes, and he's not used to it; all the questions, the curiosity. 

''Do you know,'' he continues slowly, taking the cigarette back to keep his hands busy, ''the number of classifications and regulations I'd have to ignore to tell you shite like this?'' 

It's easier than admitting that he failed his psych evaluation for a second time in three years. 

Price is doing the paperwork for him, because they apparently want to negotiate some kind of terms for him. No rumors, no records, no further questions asked. Simon would be mad about it, if he wasn't so bloody tired. 

It's been years of regaining control and gripping bloody bathroom sinks. Endless hours of running, shooting, yelling over comms, and saving Johnny from the stupid, stupid shit he gets up to when nobody's there to keep an eye out for him. Simon is not a reckless man—at least not when he doesn't let his rage blind him—but you can't teach an old dog new tricks. 

He's not sure why he hasn't been able to admit to himself that his life has been nothing but fear, rage, vigilance, wanting, and searching, wanting, and never finding what eases the pain. 

He knows that Price goes back to a Rosewood desk with whisky and cigars in the upper right drawer, before driving home to a house and a woman that were once his. Laswell has a wife named June and a flourishing garden waiting at home. Gaz goes back to a two-bedroom flat in London, decorated by a girl he met during the siege of the U.S. embassy in Urzikstan. Simon doesn't have anywhere to be—nobody's waiting for him—so he stays. For Soap, he tells himself, and everyone who's paid to listen. 

The Scot's injuries happened under his watch, so he might as well play messenger for his moms, sisters and one-thousand nephews until he can travel back home. It's what a good Lieutenant does. It's what Price would do. 

''Alright,'' Jane says cold, flatly. ''It's none of my business anyway.'' 

She declines the last drag of the cigarette when Simon offers it to her, and he can't help but feel like he's been rude; like he just ruined something delicate. A particular flavor of guilt clings to the underside of his tongue, and he's willing to answer whatever her next question might be in order to make it up to her. 

He stubs out the cigarette, and it takes a moment or two before he realizes that his guilt is the reason she gave in so quickly in the first place.

''I'm not gonna tell ya,'' he says, prompting a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth; like she doesn't fully believe it, but is willing to play along. 

He is too exhausted to not condemn her for it, so he covers himself in heavy silence. Simon doesn't break eye contact, doesn't move—his dark glance intervenes with the amusement in her eyes, and when the quiet stretches on for too long, her eyes dart to his exposed lips shamelessly. 

''Anyone ever tell ya' to mind yer' own business, Spade?''

It coaxes a genuine laugh out of her. Simon is not sure he's ever heard her laugh before; the way the sound bubbles out of her throat, limpid and clear, and then almost turns into a snort. 

''I like you,'' she says pointedly, with purpose. 

"You're just bored.'' — ''And you aren't?" 

Simon remains silent, and the glint in her glance grows bright, pinning. Like she just learned a secret; an inside joke. 

It's unhealthy, this habit she's developed of digging her fingers in his wounds. She feels like a parasite trying to crawl under his skin, and she should probably feel far more ashamed of how much she enjoys the thrill of it. 

She has heard the stories, of course. The legends about the masked, faceless man; the perfect soldier, the silent killer. Everyone affiliated with Shepherd or Shadow Company in the slightest is aware of Ghosts' reputation, and Jane had been curious to meet the man. Dead-eyed, mass of muscle. A walking depiction of death. 

The warning signs about him are written in blood, telltale stories, and that half-lidded stare of his; Stay away, they say. Keep your distance. 

''Don't—,'' he starts with the exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he is tired and bored of this tedious game. ''Don't look at me like that.''

Jane bats her eyelashes at him. ''Like what?''

 ''Like you want something from me.''

''Maybe I do—''

"You don't,'' he interrupts, tongue like a blade. ''All bark no bite, last time I fucked you.'' 

In some twisted ways, his fury excites her. The insistence on his dominance, too, and Jane laughs out loud at words that don't sting. She's practiced; chin tipped up, meeting his disapproving stare with a smirk.

''You ever let anyone kiss you, Lieutenant?''

He looks away, hisses through his teeth in frustration. ''That what you want?''

''I think,'' Jane retorts in a tone both cruel and tender, ''you want it, too.''

The hard look in his eyes lets something uncurl in her. Something satisfied, something real. 

''You do,'' she says again, and then he's on her; hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close. His grip on her scalp is not gentle, nothing about him is, and she smiles—shows teeth—at the broad display of it. 

Simon stares at her for a long moment, a frustrated hum forming at the back of his throat. She can feel his breath on her face. Almost hears the whir of the wheels turning in his head; calculating, calibrating. 

''You don't know what you're getting yourself into,'' he finally says, loosening his grip. 

''I've done worse,'' she spits out, pulling away. 

It happens somewhere between her leaning back and him not wanting her to. It happens and it's familiar, and new all at once; the way he stops her from turning away, pulls her closer by a fist of hair. He kisses her like he does everything else: a little cocky, a little mean. Their teeth clack together, and Simon kisses Jane long and searching—like he was waiting for it to happen.

Like he means it. 

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》 Tag-list: @devcica @glitterypirateduck @queen-ilmaree @widemiffyhappy @cathnoneofyourbusiness

[simonzmama]

i just imagine simon to be so casual while balls deep… like toooo casual yaaa feeel??

like your legs sittin all hiked up n pretty on his shoulders, the insides of your calves being rubbed absolutely raw with the drag of his scruffy cheeks n chin against em.

“how was your day, mama?” he shrugs slightly, your thighs jigglin’ with all the movement as he presses himself to the absolute hilt within you, balls pressed against the crease of your ass.

“w-wha-… simon,” you’d gasp, fingers desperately reaching out for his. in which he complies real quick, tangling his fingers between yours and pressing em down to the mattress forcing your thighs to burn in a deep stretch with the way your knees brush against your perked nipples.

“how was your day, baby? cmon.” he smiles down at you, the bush of his thighs slapping against the back of yours. “ya’ went out with the ladies, huh? how much ya’ spend today?”

[ghouljams]

Genuinely cant stop thinking about Viking!Ghost... like you know he's pining after you, you can see the softness in his eyes when he looks at you, the way his gaze follows after you. He left you his cloak, sewed the fang you gave him into his leather, and went out of his way to see you before he left for the last excursion. You tend to keep to yourself, never really thought of family or husbands until he started coming around. Now all the excitement with your friend having her baby left you wanting, left you thinking of the giant Viking that's so often darkened your doorstep. He'd make pretty babies. You don't need to see his face to know it.

But he dances around you, he steps back when you try to step forward. He leaves when you threaten to get too close. And you- you find yourself shying away from the gentleness in his voice. Find your cheeks warm and your voice unsure when he reaches a hand to brush dirt off your cheek, when he adjusts his oversized cloak around your shoulders. His eyes always hold a warmth you've never found in another person, he's careful with you despite his size and it sends your head spinning. You've never been shy a day in your life, but for him... You see the wolf's fang on his leather and look away to cover your smile. He caries you around the world, but he hardly speaks a word to you. It makes your heart flutter.

You thought it would be harder to convince him to come in, to stay for dinner. He casts an unsure glance over his shoulder, watches the setting sun before nodding. You find yourself stalling when he pulls his mask off. Blond hair and honey colored eyes, your hands slip on the edge of the table when you lean to get a closer look. No one has ever called you proper, but it makes the lines around his eyes crease. Ghost pulls you onto his lap so eagerly, doesn't shy away from the fingers that trace over his cheeks, that sweep over the scars and his carefully closed eyes. You study him with such rapt fascination, and he leans into your touch.

You've never seen such a clean shaven Viking. It cuts his features so much more clearly, the lines of his mouth the hollow of his cheeks. He needs someone to feed him properly, you think. A good reason for you to keep him as your own. You mouth along his jaw, dragging your tongue over the shadow of a beard he keeps so neatly trimmed. Ghost's fingers tighten on your hips, dragging you against his swiftly hardening cock. He tips his head back following the dominion of your shadow as you straighten your back and lean against his broad chest. There's just a ring of gold when he opens his eyes, his iris eaten away by his pupils at the barest of your attentions.

He looks at you like you've seen the Völva look at the stars, with some understanding you'd never hope to gain. Eyes that have seen the gods. His lips part and you kiss him to hide the tremor in your resolve.

You don't feel quite so much like you're taking advantage of the man's kindness when your face is buried in the blankets, moans ripped from your throat as he pins you down and fucks you. Each hard thrust of his fat cock punching a new sound from your chest, lost in the mattress and furs until his hand wraps around your throat to pull you up. His lips find your temple, the shell of your ear, his breath panting against your cheek as he fucks his come into you. He pulls you up, lifts you to sit on his thick thighs as he pushes his cock into your sensitive cunt. The hand not holding your throat, keeping your head against his shoulder, spreads wide over your stomach. He rubs his thumb over the soft skin, squeezes you like a promise. Like he could keep you wrapped up with him for the rest of your life.

You blink tears away, each thrust using your own weight against you, forcing you to take him deeper until your legs shake from the tight heat of it. His tongue drags along the fresh bite on your shoulder, the edges of it red and throbbing, perfect impressions of his teeth. You flinch at the wet slip of blood, at the groan that seems to wreck itself on Ghost's vocal cords.

"Ride my cock love," his bloodies lips mumble against your ear, "show me how bad you want it and I'll keep you nice and full."

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

Wild Horses

Part 1

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Doctor!Reader

Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4

A/N: Just a little idea I had after seeing all the TikToks and now I am yanked onto the Ghost train. I used to watch my brother play the game but that was a while ago so bear with me here. (advice or little pointers are much appreciated). I also might make this into a short story or add another part to it, let me know y’all. Comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

Summary: Imagine being the new physician assigned to the team and a certain masked individual takes a new keen concealed interest in you. The two of you are too awkward to function.

Warnings: language, fluff, angst

You were assigned to the team as their personal physician, as requested by the higher ups in order to make sure the soldiers stayed in best health, both physically and mentally. You used to work at your local hospital before you were offered the position.

You knew the dangers and the risks involved, but you were in debt and had student loans that needed to paid. So after much hesitation, you accepted the offer, eventually being convinced by the fat paycheck.

You remembered the day you were first introduced to the team, the way everyone's eyes glued to you like a hawk, their large forms towering over your small frame in the room while you picked at the skin around your nails in nervous habit.

They were curious to say the least, wondering what the hell someone like you was doing in a place like this. And since when did they get the chance to have a full on doctor to treat them, usually they were offered combat medics. You had guts, that's for sure.

You on the other hand were nervous, frightened even, with the thought of living in the same quarters of men wrapped up within the tumults and afflictions of war without a single clue as to their current psychological state. You had seen the worst of men and humanity growing up and you no idea who these soldiers were, what they were capable of, or what their intentions might be. Maybe you should have requested that briefing before you hopped on that plane.

Amongst all of their gazes, you had failed to notice a certain masked individual in the far back of the room, his form shrouded amongst the others as he studied you. His eyes, hidden underneath the grooves of his mask that only seemed to be darkened by where he stood blocked by the only source of light, watched your every movement, from every gesture of your perfectly manicured fingers to every smoothing of the lint-free fabric of your sweater to the way you kept shifting your weight from one foot to another.

One thing was apparent; during the entire length the high ranking officer next to you introduced you and debriefed the men on what was expected and such, you had not uttered a single word, minus the small polite and somewhat strained smile on your face while your eyes told another story. Why the military truly hired you, he may never know.

After being shown your little office and workspace including your room, you were quick to settle in, decorating the area to the best of your abilities with what you had taken with you from back home in order to bring some life into the dull and two-dimensional area. If anyone questioned you on it you would just say that your own sanity is extremely vital in order to ensure quality treatment for your patients.

Once everything in your office was set up, you threw on your white coat and retreated yourself to your office space, sitting at your desk and hastily going over the files that you had completely forgotten about that were given to you regarding the soldiers' previous health before they come pouring in reporting symptoms of god knows what. Best be prepared. Jesus how many bullet wounds can a single individual have.

The soldiers were advised to do their routine physical examinations with you so the first one to come waltzing in through your office door was none other than Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, a cheeky grin plastered on his face and much too excited for his own good. That boy's got a crush on you I swear. To be honest I'd be lying if I said the whole team didn't have a schoolboy crush on you.

The men were quick to warm up to you, relieved to have a gentle soul in their midst after all the shit that goes down outside, you were like breath of fresh air. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to bring a doctor on board, as quiet and reserved as you were. They speculated you were just shy, the reason why you never spoke much, not knowing that you just couldn't hold a conversation if your life depended on it, especially around those you weren't close with. At first they couldn't tell because of your major rbf.

During their routine check-ups or whatever issue they had going on, they would do most of the talking, which was a good thing on your end because it helped you to piece together their temperaments. Thank the lord no one is a psycho murderer. Oh wait.

Soap is the most chattiest of them all. Boy wouldn't shut his mouth when he sat in your office. He's super flirty. But not as flirty as Alejandro.

Ghost on the other hand was reluctant to step into your office for his check-ups. After all he was usually the one to tend to his own wounds or just push through whatever it is that is going on, so he did not know what all the fuss was about in having to get his health checked. So when you call out his last name more than once might I add, clipboard in hand and scanning the area for whoever looks to be headed in your direction, he can't help but heave out a sigh, trudging over to where you stood, your clean white coat a stark contrast to the rest of the environment as you leaned against your door to hold it open.

You muttered out a small hello to which he let out a small huff as you moved aside to let the man enter, watching him walk into your office and seat himself down. That man intimidated you a bit not gonna lie. Not only could you not see his face but he had also not said a single word to you. And not to mention he was absolutely huge as compared to you, even more so in person. You also had heard a lot of stories from the other guys.

"How is your day?" You ask, shutting the door behind you as you briefly read over his previous but extremely short records on your clipboard. There's barely anything on this man. Does he not get ill?

Ghost is quiet at first, watching your eyes scan over the clipboard and curious to know just what is on those papers before your eyes flit up to meet his and catch him off guard, which causes him to answer abruptly. "Fine."

"Okey dokes." You give a quick smile.

Did you just say okey dokes.

Clearing your throat, you go over to where he sat and set the clipboard down on the table next to you beside your laptop. You didn’t have to read his body language to know he did not want to be here at all. So you were going to do him a favor and make the appointment as quick as possible.

"So do you have any allergies to any medications, any allergies I need to know of?" Your fingers hover over the keyboard of your laptop as you turn to face him, only to be met with an expressionless skull of a mask and the expressionless eyes beneath. Oh boy this session was going to be something. You had heard of how he had never shown his face, so you made sure not to question on it.

"No ma'am."

"Are you currently taking any medication?" You ask the same standard set of questions you have asked every single patient of yours, typing as you go.

"No ma'am."

Any previous illness? Disease?"

"No."

The more you ask him questions, the more he strangely finds it easier to answer. Your voice is surprisingly soft, warm even, like the start of autumn, and he finds it comforting to listen to. Or maybe it's just some technique doctors learn during training in order to relax their patients.

"Do you have any history of smoking, alcohol, or illicit drug use?"

".......sometimes I'll have a smoke, and a glass of bourbon." He's almost waiting for you to hand him a pamphlet about the dangers of smoking.

"How many times would you say?" You ask for details, your eyes still glued to the screen of your laptop as you await his answer.

Ghost is a bit confused by the amount of questions you ask, but he also has not been to the doctor's so how would he know. "Um I don't know."

"A rough estimate is fine."

"Not much, maybe 2-3 times a week or so when I'm not on duty."

"How many times a week do you exercise?" You feel silly for asking this question to a man like him but it's all part of the procedure and you almost pray he doesn't hate you for it.

"Every day." So no pamphlet?

Jesus this man has more discipline than you. You can barely get up in the morning.

"Okayyy." You mutter out, more to yourself as you enter in his responses.

Ghost finds himself watching you from his seat on the chair, his eyes tracing over and studying your features as you type away on your laptop. He thinks you're really pretty but either doesn't want to admit it or just flat out does not know that he finds you attractive.

There are certain details about you that he can't help but find himself intrigued by, like the small black outline flower tattoo on your hand that was located near the area of your thumb, running along the curve to meet the knuckle of your forefinger. He's curious as to the meaning behind it, if there was one. He wanted to ask what type of flower it was, perhaps it was your favorite? It would give him an idea as to what flowers to get you.

"Have you ever been hospitalized, had any surgical procedures done or been treated for any chronic conditions?"

"No." Ghost shakes his head before remembering his wounds from combat, wondering if that is something you should know. "Just the bullet and knife wounds from combat. Nothing too serious."

Jesus fucking christ. You were willing to bet he treated those wounds himself.

Ghost is not a fan of hospitals. Pretty sure this dude just looks up YouTube tutorials on how to fix himself instead of just going to the doctor like a normal human being.

"When was the last time you visited your general practitioner.......or just any doctor in general?" You ask the last question, willing to bet it never.

There was silence on his end as you looked towards him waiting for an answer, the clicking of your keyboard coming to a stop and only loudening the silence. Ghost could not remember the last time he had been to a hospital or even scheduled a visit. And as you looked at him, your eyes almost staring into his soul, still waiting for a response, he could not help but feel a tad bit embarrassed, as if you were judging him for not being a responsible adult. Also it didn't help that you were goddamn pretty.

"I'm gonna take that as a very long time, the last time being the prehistoric ages, correct?" There's the slightest hint of a tease in your voice.

"Uh.......yes ma'am." Ghost squints his eyes at you as you go back to typing on your keyboard. Did you just.............did you just call him…..He does not know how to feel about that. Did you just try to crack a joke? He always thought doctors were the serious type.

"Okay then." You straighten up, grabbing your sphygmomanometer off the table and turning yourself to face him. "Is it okay if I check your blood pressure?"

The man is stunned. No one has ever asked his permission for anything before. He's so used to either taking orders or giving orders that he doesn't know how to respond and stares at you for a moment, forcing his brain to process what to do next before eventually giving a nod.

"Is it okay if you take your jacket off so I can get a clearer reading?"

He nods again, still in shock as he takes off his jacket, leaving him in his black long sleeve thermal. He's almost thankful he wasn't in his full tactical gear, having to imagine you standing there waiting for him as he removes every single piece of equipment off his torso.

"Thank you." You give him a short smile, placing your hand under his tricep and gently lifting his arm in order to wrap the inflatable cuff around his bicep. You almost blush at the mere size of this man's arms. "Now you're just going to feel a slight pressure okay."

Ghost can't help but feel a slight warmth spread to his cheeks at the way you handle him with such care, as if he were the small delicate thing and not you. Now he knows why the others were so giddy after leaving your office.

As you place your stethoscope on his forearm near his elbow to listen to his blood pumping through the artery, your other hand pumping air into the cuff using the inflation bulb with your eyes glued to the numbers on the gauge, he can't help but to notice the old Donald Duck watch that sat at your wrist, the ones with the moving arms and the vintage style black leather straps.

And as he further investigated your attire, he noticed a few other details, like the colorful glittery badge reel in the shape of a pill container with the words "licensed drug dealer" printed on it that was attached to your scrub top, the glitter sticker with the words "I'm nicer than my face looks" as well a few Disney character stickers and the little frog looking keychain that hung off of your badge. He was wondering what the hell that thing was. Your accessories were awfully colorful for a general doctor. Something was telling him you either used to work with families or children. Whatever the hell managed to bring you to such a drastic change.

You brought him out of his thoughts as you shifted from your position, unwrapping the inflatable cuff from around his bicep and placing it back on the table before typing the results into your laptop. "Okay," You adjust the ear pieces of your stethoscope back into your ears as you turn back to him, "I'm going to perform some auscultations, which is just listening to the sounds of your heart and your lungs so if you could just sit up straight and relax that would be wonderful."

Simon straightens up his posture as you place your free hand on his shoulder, at this point you're not sure if you're steadying him or yourself, your fingertips just barely grazing across the bottom of his neck. He doesn't know why but, it's as if your fingers are directly touching the skin underneath, despite the fabric of his mask that separated your fingers from his skin. Your hands feels hot, like really hot and he has no clue why.

The soldier only feels his cheeks warm up even more so now as you inch closer to carefully place the diaphragm of your stethoscope on his chest, your head tilted and your eyes lowered to the floor as you listen for his heart beat. He gets a whiff of your perfume and he finds himself drawn to it. You smell like something along the lines of jasmine petals, geranium, myrrh, frankincense, and a hint of sandalwood. Now he definitely knows why the others are fawning over you. Poor Simon is praying you don't hear how his heart is nearly racing. He does not know why he is feeling this way and it slightly bothers him in the way that he has no clue what it is he is feeling.

He catches how your brows slightly furrow at the center and his heart skips a beat. Now he's fucking embarrassed and this man rarely ever is embarrassed. Maybe he's even starting to panic. Can you tell? Do you know? You open your mouth to say something but he quickly interrupts he just got back from a run so you dismiss it with a shrug, placing the diaphragm on his back now and asking him to give you a couple of deep breaths.

"Okay. Take a deep breathe in, breathe it out. Breathe in, and out."

He complies with your instructions, breathing in slow and deep breaths as you go from one side of his back to another.

"Good job." You remove the earpieces and let your stethoscope hang around your neck as you go back to your table, recording in more info. Hang on did you just, did you just tell a grown 6'4" man good job.

Even Simon is confused. Like bitch.

"Okay, so we're all done with that." You inform him, before going over to one of the drawers and sliding it open. "Now if you don't mind, I would like to have some blood work done on you, just to make sure there are no underlying issues that need to be taken care of."

Simon is silent so you turn to him. "Is that okay, Ghost, is that what the others call you? Would you like me to call you Ghost?"

Goddamn you're too polite. "That's fine by me ma'am."

"Perfect. Now is it okay if I take your blood sample?"

Ghost nods, so you grab the tools necessary and place them on the table next to you.

"Could you please roll your sleeve up and make a fist for me? Thank you." You ask him once you sanitize your hands and throw on a pair of fresh gloves. You grab the tourniquet and catch sight of the tattoos that cover his forearm as you tie the tourniquet around his arm above the elbow. You're curious to know the story behind them but you have a feeling he's not one for storytelling or just talking in general so you remain silent. You tear open the small packet of the alcohol wipe and apply it to the area. The chemical is cool against his skin as you sanitize the area before letting it air dry. Simon can't help but notice how small your hands are.

Simon watches you intently as you work, the way you are so focused and so precise with each step, and yet so gentle. It's almost cute.

"You're just going to feel a little pinch." You tell him in a soft tone, a tone you were used to using on all your little patients before inserting the needle into his vein. As if the man hasn't been shot or stabbed and god knows what multiple times before.

At this point Simon doesn't even notice the needle in his arm, he's too focused on the details of your face. He can sense that you're nervous around him and he feels bad. Even though he's just met you, the last thing he wants is for you to feel scared or unsafe around him. And even though this whole situation is awkward for him since he never was a fan of visiting the hospital, you're their physician, and at the end of the day you're there to patch them up. So he comments on your dark circles, thinking you haven't gotten any rest since you arrived here. "You look tired."

"............that's just my face." You give him that distinct smile, the same smile you have given anyone who ever commented on them as you connect the vacutainers to the needle to draw his blood, your eyes glued to the dark red liquid seeping through the thin clear tube before pouring into the sample tube.

If you thought it was quiet before, well you are most definitely wrong because the silence is absolutely deafening now.

Simon nearly punches himself for his stupidity. Why in the bloody hell did he say that of all things. He wanted to tell you he liked your dark circles but decided to bite his tongue instead. Now he's definitely not going to say another word. Better yet, once he leaves your office, he's not coming back. He's just going to avoid you at all costs in order to save both you and himself the embarrassment. He's willing to bet the others handled this way better than him.

"But I suppose I am a bit jet-lagged though. Haven't really gotten any rest since I got on that plane." You add. "I appreciate your concern."

You most definitely said that to make him feel better about himself, Simon thinks to himself as he stares at the wall and avoids your face. There was no other reason.

Once your done drawing his blood you ask him to hold the piece of cotton pad down onto where the needle was punctured as you open up the drawer where the gauze is located. "Do you have a favorite color?"

Did you just ask him his favorite color? Simon stares at you blankly. Were all doctors this odd?

"I'm guessing you like black?" You pull out the roll of black gauze, displaying it in front of you with the most deadpanned expression possible.

You've got jokes. Simon thinks to himself. If he had looked a little closer he would have noticed the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

"You should see the colors the others picked." You tease as you wrap the gauze around his arm at the elbow, making sure it isn't too tight but also not loose enough to the point where the cotton pad underneath slips out.

Simon narrows his eyes at you. Bloody fucking hell. The others picked a color?

You're pretty sure Gaz requested you get an Elmo print one he saw online once somewhere. Soap asked if there a print of the Scotland flag available. The look of hurt on his face when you said there wasn't so you improvised and gave him both the blue and white gauze. You gave him a Dum-Dum lollipop to make him feel better. The others may have also gotten a lollipop as they left your office, especially after seeing the special treatment that Soap received. Were they jealous? Maybe.

Once you tell the man he is all good to go and that you will call him once you're done getting the results from his blood sample, he nearly jumps out of the chair and bolts out of your office. He prays some unknown miracle happens and that his blood sample magically disappears so that he doesn't have to face you, firmly believing he insulted you and that you thought he called you ugly when that is not what he intended. I am telling you this man does not know how to compliment. They should make a guidebook for dummies specialized just for him.

You watch him disappear out your door with a quirked brow. Well that was fucking weird.

When Simon leaves the area he finds Soap lounging about on a chair with a sucker in his mouth.

"The hell is that?" Simon squints at the sergeant.

"Mph mph." Soap's voice comes out muffled.

"What?"

Soap pauses and turns to see Ghost looming over him. "It's a Dum-Dum."

"A fuckin what?"

"Y/n said they're called Dum-Dums." Soap pulls it out of his mouth, twisting the stick of the lollipop around in his fingers as if he were inspecting it. "This one's a cotton candy flavor."

"She gave you a fuckin lollie?"

"It's pure dead brilliant I tell ya. Why, did she not give ya one?"

More silence. Simon would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't a tad bit butthurt.

"Maybe you scared her." Soap jokes.

Simon lets out a grumbled incoherent huff and walks away.

Soap just shrugs and pops the lollipop back in his mouth.

Simon has a feeling he is going to go to bed thinking about his actions.

Part 2

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Ghost masterlist

(Ghost art by Coruja3571/Twitter)

I Never Missed You {Bodyguard AU. Romance, smut, light angst, 18+}

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader | He must be trained to be so calm, but you're not. You're used to making men a little stupid and flustered. You're used to men eating out of your hand. He's not behaving at all like he's supposed to... Simon Riley is just a mountain without emotion.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Anhedonia {Smut, hurt/comfort, 18+}

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader | You would lick that blade clean if he asked gently, but he's not gentle. You'd flatten your tongue on his thighs too, if he asked nicely, if there was a chance he might pet your hair while you do it – but Ghost doesn't take pets. He only has soldiers. Subordinates.

Part 1 (5.5 k) | Part 2 (4.4 k)

Ghost stories {Smut, angst, Ghost POV, 18+}

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x FMedic!Reader | It's only work that awaits him. From dawn till dusk, with hungry arms and a cold, dead cunt.

Refugee (6.5 k) | Lazarus (5.7 k) | Immortal (5.5 k)

Man-sized {Romance, flangst, smut, 18+}

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC | Not only did he contact her, he sent her a picture of himself looking like… like war. The tired eyes stared at her from inside what looked like the top of a human skull attached to a black balaclava. He wasn't a foot soldier, or a mercenary, he wasn't even working for the UK version of a SWAT team. He was something else.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

Love is a Heavy Weapon (sequel to Man-sized on Ao3)

On Sarah & Simon's wedding How did the shibari class go? Will they ever have kids? Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Drabbles & headcanons [18+]

Ghost x Virgin!Reader (2.9 k) This is not a Drill (2.2 k, size difference) Wildflowers Grow in Ruins (5 k, Reader tries to break up with Ghost) Couldn't Love You More (3.7 k, breeding kink)

Random headcanons Getting into a relationship with Ghost What would it take to win Ghost's heart?

[yawnderu]

Afraid - Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Reader

I cried the entire time I was writing this and had to take breaks to sob, enjoy

content: angst with a happy ending, mentions of death and injuries, hurt/comfort

''Stray.'' Simon's voice is stern as you walk past him, ignoring the way he calls out to you, moving away from the gloved hand that tries to reach out to you.

''Stray.'' He calls again and this time you look at him, his behemoth frame blocking the doorway with his arms crossed, the bloodied skull balaclava making him even scarier, if that's even possible. You hang by the window, trying your best not to glance at the imposing figure.

You can tell he's staring at you like usual, yet you don't glance back. Your hand pockets the box of cigarettes he never got to finish, digging deeper into your pocket until you feel the familiar metal of his dog tags. Ghost became his namesake— his spirit haunting you every single day, acting like he's still there, yet you both know the truth.

Memories of his last moments flash through your mind every single day, the sunrises that he never got to see make your days even more miserable. You think about what happened yet again— the painful memory of Ghost pushing you out of the way, a sniper bullet piercing what he used to call a cold heart.

You hold him in his dying moments, promises and love confessions escaping both of your lips like prayers. He tells you to look away and when you do, he closes his eyes so you don't see the life slipping out of him, but you know. Oh, how you wish you didn't know, but you still do, his body going limp on you and instantly feeling lighter— you'd like to believe his soul was freed.

''I can't move on, Si.'' You finally speak, voice cracking as the tears escape your eyes, like they have every single day. How can you move on from something like that? You've had your brothers in arms die in your hands and it never gets easier, yet Simon was an entirely different thing. He was a part of your soul, a man who sneaked his way into your heart with the same stealth he used during missions.

It doesn't take much until you're sobbing, knees feeling weak as they finally give up on you, his cold dog tags clutched between your hands as if holding onto his memory. Ghost crouches down next to you, one of his gloved hands attempting to touch you, yet he takes it back after slight hesitancy.

''It's been three months.'' His face is etched with concern, tone serious yet holding the same gentleness and care he always used to talk to you in after realizing his feelings. ''I'll always live within you, sweetheart. It breaks my heart to see you like this.'' He confesses, his heart breaking further knowing he can't comfort you physically, yet he's secretly glad he's good with words.

''I can't carry on, Si— not if it means I'll stop seeing you.'' You were always as stubborn as a mule, yet nothing is more heartbreaking for Ghost than to see the woman he loves crumble down daily because of him, because of a stupid mistake in intel.

''As long as you keep on fighting... As long as you remember me, Stray, I'm not dying.'' He reassures and you finally look up, mesmerized by the raw love and comfort his brown eyes hold. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, and that's an expression you became familiar with throughout the years. He's smiling.

''I'll be with you for this mission, the next, the one after that... I'm always here, love.'' He reassures, eyes softening even more once you nod your head, trying to wipe the tears away from your cheeks as you manage to give him a pained smile.

''Don't forget.'' He whispers, getting up from his crouched position as he waited for you to get up as well. ''Let's finish this mission.'' He gave you a small nod, walking with you as he saw you put on your gear, his dog tags safely secured around your neck alongside your own. You glance back at him before doing your eye black, hair secured in a braid before you put on his old balaclava, closing your eyes for a second as you bask in on the smell.

''Ready, sir.'' Life is better if you're delusional and pretend Simon is still alive. He nods his head, walking alongside you as you both get to the helipad, the rest of the team waiting.

''Saved ya a seat, bonnie.'' Soap wraps an arm around your shoulders and escorts you into the helicopter, trying to pretend like everything was fine, yet you can see the pain in his eyes. You lost a partner, and he lost a brother, yet he always tried to be strong for your sake. The ride to the site is quiet, feet dangling off the landing rail as you close your eyes, the loud vehicle silencing your mind for at least a few hours until you finally make it down.

''Recover the intel and get out— let's unfuck this.'' Price speaks through the comms as you all scatter around the building, checking corners with your finger ready on the trigger.

Recover the intel and get out. Easy enough, right? Right. The human body is an interesting thing, capable of surviving falls from hundreds and even thousands of feet, able to survive hundreds of kilograms crushing it, able to generate antibodies to protect you from sickness, yet nothing can ever protect you from an enemy sneaking behind you, blade cutting through your throat before you even realize what's going on. By the time you realize what's going on, it's too late.

''C'mon, stay with me, kid.'' You can vaguely make out Price's deep, raspy voice as he holds you in his arms, the enemy dealt with the moment he was spotted— you're leaving too early, and the enemy left too late.

''I'm sorry.'' Is all he can manage to whisper out, trying his best to put pressure on your wound, but it's too late. Nothing can ever save you from a cut to the arteries in charge of keeping your brain working. Your hand manages to reach out to hold his wrist, eyes closing as a small smile sets on your lips. I'm almost there, sir. You don't hear his screams of anguish the moment you stop breathing in his arms, instead you hear... nothing.

For a short while, it's nothing. Everything is black.

''Welcome home, love.'' The familiar voice whispers out. The first thing you can feel is his large, ungloved hand running down the length of your hair, gently resting on your hairline and spreading his warmth all around your head. Your eyes open, looking into the brown eyes of the man of your dreams.

''Si?'' You whisper out, hand reaching out towards him, waiting to wake up from a bad dream, yet your hand makes contact with his actual body. Your eyes open wide and you immediately jump up to hug him. He'd never admit it, but... it startled the shit out of him.

''Keep it tactical, Sergeant.'' He reprimanded with mock sternness before his arms wrapped around your waist, holding your head close to his chest while you both embraced each other. Your hearts were filled with pure bliss and love, unable to feel the pain of war anymore. Whatever this was, you'd gladly spend it together.

''I missed you, sweet girl.'' In the cosmos, our energies sit beside one another.

[barbiesmuse]

୨୧ TOLERATE IT.

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָsimon riley + fem!reader

summary: in which you decide to meet up with simon, and to your dismay things happen between the two of you. but in the end, he still left. link to part one!

tags: angst, talk of parental issues, arguing-ish, slight fluff, delena puts some sense into simon, and reader is a pushover!!

head barbies announcements: hi barbie!! this is a lot more angsty and slightly sexual so minors dni! there will be one more part of this, but other than that enjoy!! do something kind today! peace and love!

“I miss you, love.” He missed you? You scoffed and ran a hand down your face. You wanted to ignore it, act like you never saw it. You had a new life. Simon wasn't a part of that new life. You promised yourself a long time ago that it would stay that way. You didn't want to know why he left. You want to forget him completely. But you couldn't. You knew that there would always be a part of you tied to him. Simon squeezed Delena's hand, she wasn't one to be impatient. She was gentle with Simon. She had seen the aftermath of what his father had done to him. It was rough. “Del, what if she doesn't respond,” Simon says, his eyes squeezed shut. He tries to ignore the feeling in his stomach. He felt like a nervous schoolboy texting his crush. Delena simply doesn't respond. She loved her godson to pieces but, she didn't tolerate incompetence. Simon looked up at her, waiting for an answer. Instead of answering, she shot him a tight-lipped grin.

You didn't want to respond, but there was a small part of you that felt like you should. He brought out something good in you. You always saw yourself as deeply flawed, not good enough, too hostile. Simon saw you as a phoenix. Constantly getting back up again, rising from the ashes. Your hands trembled as you picked your phone up, you had made up your mind. You were going to respond. Simon's eyes went from soft to offended in a matter of seconds. He knew what Delena was thinking, and he didn't like it one bit. Simon scoffed and took a sip of the large bottle of Disaronno that sat by his side. Delena grunted in disapproval and snatched the bottle from his hand. Simon wasn't himself anymore when Delena looked into his eyes she saw his father. That was her biggest fear. “Simon. If she doesn't respond you have no right to be angry with her. You left without any explanation. That girl deserved the world, and you could've given it to her. Yet you decided to let your trauma get in the way of something great, for the both of you.” Delena says, she stands up the bottle of alcohol still in her hand. Simon's eyes turn to his cracked phone, his lips curling into a soft smile. He picks up his phone and studies the text. It was simple, too simple for him. He wanted more, but he was never satisfied. Simon Riley could have the entire world in his hands and still be unsatisfied. He lifted his phone and showed Delena, he made sure the shards of glass didn't cut her hand. No matter how angry he was, he was gentle with the people he cared most about.

“I'll always miss you, Si.” You responded. It was simple, but it held weight. You would've done anything for him. The two of you were toxic and the both of you knew it. The toxicity was like a drug. Once you're addicted, you can't stop. No matter how long you're clean, a part of you will always long for that drug. There was a point in time when Simon angered you severely. You had held onto it like a grudge. He would make fun of you in front of his friends and leave you to do all the work around the house, but what hurt the most? He acted as if your love for him was simply a burden. Yet you tolerated it. Delena forced a smile. Thankfully, Simon couldn't see the hidden displeasure on her face. She had no problem with you. However, she did have a problem with Simon hurting you. “She misses me, Del,” Simon said with a genuine smile. His heart was beating again, he was slowly becoming the man he was. Delena's hands tightened around the bottle of alcohol, her sharp red nails digging into her palm. “You two should talk, maybe meet up. Then you can apologize.” Delena says with a smile. Yet it fades as he shakes his head. “She can't know why I left Delena, she'll think I'm a coward,” Simon says as he stands up. He needed to see you. He needs to make things right, you were his everything. Without you, he was an empty shell of a man. Delena simply shakes her head and walks away. She was getting a headache and did not have time for him. Simon grabs his broken phone in his hands and sighs. His breathing was slow and heavy, almost as if he didn't want to. Simon.

“Meet me at the café, please baby.”

Simon was one thing for sure, a master manipulator. He knew the buttons to push and when to push them. He knew you were vulnerable right now. He knew you craved his touch. The smell of cigarettes and amaretto still lingered in your house. His side of the bed still smelled like his forest body wash. He lingered. You hated it.

“Yes. Be there at six.”

talia talks: this was kinda a filler i guess? the second half of this fic will be out tomorrow morning if uni doesn't kick my ass!

[ficmashup]

Gardening

Summary: Ghost is moving into a new apartment and you just so happen to be the building's owner.

A/N: First dip into writing second person (I think that's the right term?) and I'm not sure if I don't like it or if it was just difficult for me. People who've read my Price fic in first person, please weigh in here. I need to know if this sounds weird or if it's just me. I might rewrite the whole thing in first person and see which feels better.

Warnings: Not much here...overworking? Slight fainting. Not edited.

Word Count: 3k+

Masterlist

The first time he sees you, your hands are elbow-deep in dirt and there’s more smeared over your face. It’s late afternoon and he’s heaving a duffel over his shoulder to head into his new apartment. It’s been a long time since he spent long in an apartment at all and by the time he came back to his old one, the building was being foreclosed. He’d never been one to couch surf and he wasn’t about to start now. Certainly not for a month. Jump to seeing you covered in dirt in front of his new apartment building.

He hesitates on the steps, watching you a moment longer while you grumble to yourself. You’re on your knees digging through a flowerbed as if digging for diamonds. “You alright?” He surprises himself by asking and almost keeps walking with the expectation that you won’t even answer, but you turn your face up to him in an instant. Your arm raises to block out the sun and you don’t even flinch as dirt rains down on you.

“Fine, thanks. Just a few roots being stubborn.” You give him a warm, welcoming smile that keeps him still a few moments longer. Long enough for you to scan the duffel on his back and the few boxes set on the ground by his truck. “Moving in?” He hesitates a moment before answering. He’s not in the habit of giving away information freely, but the conclusion is obvious enough. He nods once.

“Then you’re Simon Riley.” You pull your hands from the dirt as if they’re the ones who have taken root and wipe them off on your jeans while getting onto your feet. Trepidation begins creeping into his chest and he grips the strap of his bag over his shoulder a little tighter. “I’m the building’s owner. Nice to meet you in person.” You offer your dirt-smudged hand as you give him your name and he laxes slightly. He takes your hand, seeing approval flash through your eyes. He wonders briefly if offering your dirty hand was a test that he just passed.

“I’ll walk you to your place and make sure you have your keys. Need help carrying anything?” You offer and it’s clear you mean it.

“I’m fine, thank you.” He replies evenly and you nod before leading the way and expecting him to follow.

“I run a tight ship. Hope you read the rules about staying here because if you break any, I’ll throw you out on your ass.” You move around the entrance easily, clearly knowing where everything is without having to look. A little glance over your shoulder is all you give him to make sure he’s listening and you catch the slight upward tilt of his lips.

“Yes, ma’am. Read over things twice.” He answers honestly and you hum with approval before guiding him up the stairs. Something about the way you hold yourself, the easy confidence, the way you say orders and expect them to be followed, reminds him of Price and puts him a little more at ease.

“You’re on the edge of the building, so only one neighbor on the north side and another across the hall. Delaney is quiet and keeps to herself more often than not, but I let her play music on the roof with friends on Saturdays.” Your voice fills the halls and he notes that the place is very well-kept and clean. Even the windows are clear and gleaming. You go on, “Mr. Cruz across the hall can be a bit miserly, but other than mumbling about the newspaper and the state of the world, he’s harmless. His wife, on the other hand, is a shameless gossip. So I hope you’re not too bothered if you come home and see her peeking at you from her door.”

Simon hums a small laugh. “Don’t mind it. I’m not that interesting.”

“Pity. She’s been dying for a salacious neighbor since Beck moved out because her husband caught her with the nanny.” You quip instantly and amusement flits through Simon as you finally come to a stop in front of a dark green door. It’s quick work to unlock it and you push the door open, but don’t step inside. He likes that. It’s as if the second he signed the lease, this became his space and you won’t enter it until invited. “If you’d like to do me a favor and need some furniture, I have some in the basement from past tenants that I’d be glad to be rid of. Tell me if you’d like to look and I’ll take you. You have my number if you need anything else, but I’m usually around anyway.”

He enters the apartment and looks around at the empty space with a small sigh. It’s a good space with plenty of room and a view of the street below, but being in a new place feels like starting over. It’s a discomforting feeling given that nothing in his life has actually changed except for his address. But he turns towards you all the same and gives you another nod. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

You nod back and spare another moment to look him over. He’s not the first stray soldier that’s wandered into your building, but each one has been different. This one…this one might take quite a bit of coaxing. You give him another smile and see his body shift towards it just like he did the last time, as if your smile is sunlight he’s basking in. “Welcome home.”

*     *     *

The next time he sees you, you’re crouched on the stairs in front of a kid no more than eight-years-old. “It…hurts…” The little boy says between sobs with red smeared over his right knee. Probably from a nasty fall. Simon pauses on the next flight of stairs, looking down at you through the railing.

“Aw, yeah, I know it does. You’re being brave for me though.” Your voice is soft and gentle as you clean the blood away. “Bet that wimp Eric would be wailing this whole time, huh? Remember when he stubbed his toe and screamed for a minute straight?” There’s a little giggle and his heart squeezes at the sound.

The kid sniffles. “Yeah, I remember. He fell on the ground like he broke it or something.”

“That’s right.” You approve, smiling at him and reaching to the side where a first aid kit sits. “But I saw you play baseball and you didn’t even flinch when that pitcher hit you with the ball.”

“Yeah, that’s true. And that hurt!” The kid leans back a bit, relaxing as you distract him and I idly think about how many medics I’ve seen use the same tactic on wounded soldiers.

You finish cleaning up his knee and press a large band-aid to the ripped skin. “But you were so tough then and you were tough now. All done.” You muss his hair a bit and he giggles, slapping your hand away. “Now, what are we not going to do?”

The kid’s head droops. “Sprint up the stairs.”

“Smart kid. Now, wear that scrape with honor.” You tilt his chin up and he grins, sniffling again before leaning forward and giving you a hug.

“Thanks.” He squeezes tight before getting up and heading down the stairs at a slightly slower pace than running. A wait a moment as you pack up the things from your kit before heading down. Your head lifts and you smile at me, the same as the other day, and it strikes me just like it did then.

I clear my throat and tilt my head to where the kid went. “You seem to know everyone in this place.”

You hum and stand with the first aid kit in hand. “It’s my job to know everything that happens in this building.”

 He quirks a brow at you. “That’s not a position taken by most owners.”

“You should have easily learned by now that I’m not like most owners.” You quip instantly and are rewarded with a little upward twitch of his mouth.

“I was hoping you might have time to show me some of the furniture you mentioned?” He asks, unassuming and polite despite his size and clear musculature. It makes you like him a little more.

You nod and take a breath in the face of another task. “Sure. Let’s go.” You turn on your heel and start moving, Simon trailing behind with surprisingly soft footfalls. You jingle slightly with each step from the keys on your hip and he can’t help but think of a cat with a bell.

The basement is dark until you pull a heavy switch and illuminate a surprisingly large space littered with furniture. “Pick whatever you like and I’ll help you carry it up.”

“You ever stop working?” He asks and you can hear the amusement in his voice. You shrug a shoulder and lean against the wall beside the stairs as he slowly walks through the room.

“There’s always something to be done and no one else is going to do it.”

“You could hire people.”

You immediately roll your eyes. “Then I’d have to fix whatever they screw up. Better to do it myself and get it right the first time.” He exhales softly and you swear that it’s almost a soft laugh.

“You remind me of someone.” He says and pauses next to a little kitchen table with two chairs in pretty good condition.

Your head tilts and you give him a little smile as he glances over. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

This time, you get an actual chuckle. “From me, it’s a compliment.”

“Hm. Then thank you.” You’re not sure you want to know why it would be an insult coming from someone else. He knocks on the table and the wood makes a dull, solid clunk noise. He nods and apparently that means it’s passed inspection. He lifts it up into his arms with a grunt and surprise widens your eyes as he carries it towards the stairs. You clear the way, grabbing the two chairs and staring at him as he bypasses the elevator in favor of more stairs without making a sound. It’s not exactly professional the way your eyes linger on his muscular arms, the shifting of his back under his t-shirt, and especially not how his thighs fit his jeans oh-so-well.

He grunts again as he sets the table down in his apartment and you sidle in to set the chairs on either side. There’s almost nothing else in the apartment. There are a few blankets and books in the bedroom along with a few cushions on the floor of the living room facing a tv. That’s it. He certainly isn’t one to overdecorate. “Anything else?” You offer with a hand on you hip.

He nods once. “Mind another trip?”

You smile and start walking to the door. “I’d be glad to empty out my entire basement if you like. Seems like you need it anyway.” The corner of his mouth lifts.

“I suppose that’s true. I appreciate the help.” He says and his voice is deep, but gentle. You only grow more curious about him and during the few more trips up and down the stairs, you realize that this guy might need a bit more than a little help with living.

*     *     *

It starts slow.

A few neighbors start bringing him some food throughout the week. Leftovers, baked goods, all under the guise of welcoming him to the building. Then there’s a small flyer set outside his door for an estate sale nearby where he finds a few more things to make his apartment less sparse. It’s a tad overbearing, but in an amusing way and he finds he doesn’t mind. Something about being aggressively looked after reminds him of Soap’s family and any thought of the Scot is a welcome one. He has little doubt that the interference is due to your instruction. You run this building better than most people in charge of the military.

His favorite spot in the apartment becomes the little window seat in the living room. It has a good view of the street and without fail, he gets a glimpse of you working in the flowerbeds in the front of the building. On the nicer days, he’ll even crack the window to hear you cussing at your rosebushes. But you’re a little quiet one day, moving slow, still working amongst the thorns in jean shorts and a tank-top dark with sweat. When you stand and wobble in place, he puts down the book he was pretending to read.

You heave a breath and wipe sweat off your brow before grabbing onto the railing leading into the building. Ugh, it’s hot. The sun is beating down like a physical weight and your sunhat is currently somewhere in Delaney’s apartment after her girlfriend borrowed it. Best to just bear the expense and get another one. “You run yourself ragged.” That deep voice disturbs your thoughts and your head lifts to see Simon standing there with a water bottle held out to you.

A soft laugh leaves your lips as you gratefully accept the water and settle on the steps. “Too much to do to stop. Thank you for this.” The bottle is blissfully cold as you press it to your neck and take a deep breath of relief.

Simon moves across from you and leans on the railing, looking you over. Something you’ve noticed is how careful he is to give you space. He never comes too close. “I’ve seen you running around the building at least three times today. Once unclogging the garbage chute, the second time greasing the hinges of a door down the hall, and the third—” He gestures to rosebushes you were just digging in.

You finish drinking half the water and raise a brow at him with a teasing glint in your eye. “Keeping track of me?”

His lips part, but he’s interrupted before he can say a word. “Sweetie, my air conditioner is on the fritz again.” An older woman peeks out of the front door and Simon recognizes Mrs. Cruz from across the hall. She scrutinizes him through her big glasses before blinking innocently back at you.

You sigh, but nod. “Alright, Mrs. Cruz. I’ll be there right away.” She shuffles back into the building while you heave yourself up onto your feet and your vision immediately goes black. It almost feels like you’re outside your body as you feel it sway backward before a large hand slides onto your lower back and another grips your arm. Your hand tightens on the railing as your eyes snap open, the world swimming in front of you.

“Steady, now.” A pair of concerned eyes are the first thing you see as your vision clears. “Let’s get you inside.” He moves closer and begins to stoop, but you grab his shirt in a fist.

“You are not picking me up.” You grind out, every word a command. Not in front of your building, not by a tenant, not with Mrs. Cruz waiting inside who would assuredly spread every type of rumor she could about the scene. “Just…walk inside with me.” He hesitates a beat before straightening and letting you use his arm and the railing to get back into the building. You shoot a smile towards Mrs. Cruz waiting exactly where you expected her. “I need my tools, but I’ll be along in just a minute.”

Her eyes squint, but she nods a moment later before vanishing into the elevator. “Slowly and steadily, then.” Simon murmurs with his hands gentle and sure as he moves you towards your office in the back. You hold your tongue despite the desire to insist that you do not need help because you very clearly do. Still, you can’t hold back your heavy sigh as you both slowly walk back and he helps you settle into your office chair.

“Thank you.” You murmur, pride a little wounded but ultimately grateful you didn’t have to crawl in here. “I’ll just be a few minutes. Then I’ll head up to help Mrs. Cruz.” Your head shakes as you make yourself drink the rest of your water while taking some steadying breaths.

“Unfortunate we’re not closer to my apartment. I’d give you something one of my neighbors gifted me earlier this week.” Simon comments with amusement lacing his tone. Maybe you weren’t as subtle about filling his pantry as you thought you were.

“I ate today. Just pushed a little too hard in the heat. That’s all.”

“Mm.” He hums, watching you from the doorway with the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “A habit of yours?”

You can’t resist returning his near smile. “Practically my occupation.”

He huffs a small laugh before clearing his throat as if trying to hide it. The fact makes you smile a little wider. “I’ll get you another water, then walk with you up the stairs.”

“Oh, there’s really no need—” But he’s already walked out. You sigh again, relaxing back into the chair and closing your eyes for a few moments. Time passes, a bit too long than it should have taken, but when you open your eyes there’s another water in front of you and no Simon. You feel a bit better and rise from your seat with a groan, grabbing your toolkit and heading up to Mrs. Cruz. But it’s an utter surprise when you get to her apartment to find the usual whir of her air conditioning uninterrupted.

“That handsome man across the hall had it fixed in a few minutes. Didn’t complain or say much other than asking what the problem was.” Mrs. Cruz reports with rare approval in her voice. Mr. Cruz grumbles quietly from his usual seat in his favorite armchair. You sigh and glance out the door towards Simon’s apartment with a hand on your hip and a half-smile. Seems you’re not the only one keen to help. Whether it’s asked for or not.

(Lmk if you want to be tagged in future installments of this!)

[blingblong55]

Serving your master- Simon "Ghost" Riley NSFW

This is based on a request:

Ok but.. as I read the title to the latest fic “Starving” I thought it said “Serving.” Can you imagine? Poor little sub reader doing whatever our sweet Lieutenant wants. He wants to use your throat? Yes sir. He wants a nice home cooked meal? Yes sir. He wants to bend you over the table to go chasing after his own pleasure? Yes sir.

F!Reader, smut, 18+, MDNI, Sub!reader, Dom!Ghost, housewife!reader, manhandling, (all topics done/said are consensual), masochism,

A/N: voted to be posted first 2/3 votes...so here ya go

A while ago, Simon and you started this new and exciting part of your sexual life. You two started things slowly, first it was him commanding you to kiss him, then slowly undress, this all started off with simple requests. Your needs were no longer his priority...well at times they weren't. If you let another man think you were single, you'd have to get on your knees, ready for his mercy. He takes his wedding ring off and slaps you across the face, each time a little harder, his little toy has been letting other men see her? yeah, he will not have any of that.

It has been months since you two started this Sub and Dom relationship, you both enjoyed it, it was the time when you can have your wildest fantasies made, be treated poorly by him but still be loved. How you loved when he took control, never letting you think for yourself. And how he loved when he'd watch you cry from pain, begging to be hurt more and how easily he complied.

-- A collar on your neck, "Crawl to bed, like the good girl you are." his voice rough and low. You nod, skirt lifting up every now and then when you'd move, his hand prints from minutes ago on your bare ass. You were always at home, so he only allowed you to wear revealing clothes. If you cooked or cleaned, it'd be only when he told you to do so. --

"Make me food, my little toy" his voice soft. He never knew you were into this, letting him be more than a Dom, over doing your role as his wife and his favourite little toy. You were in the kitchen, a somewhat tight skirt on you, hickeys on your legs as you made him lunch. He leaned against the wall, a smirk on him as he watched you make him lunch. -- "Fuckin' listen to me," another slap to your face, "been such a naughty little thing," and another slap. You plead, begging to be touched, but all he does is tie you up whilst you cry. Legs shaking from the quickie you two had in the coffee shop. The car ride back home he made you give him head, thats the reason why your lipstick is smudged and why your mascara was proof enough you have to buy waterproof when with him. -- "She'll have the pasta carbonara," he looked at the waiter and dismissed him. "I actually wanted the-" he gave you a stern look. "never think for yourself, I do that now." was a sentence he had mentioned when you two made the rules for this side of the marriage. He wasn't so controlling, only when he knew you'd be looking at him, pleading him to control you, happened every other day though. -- One night, you had to use your safe word, he had been manhandling you. Tossing you on the bed, slapping and spitting on you. "Fuckin' tight." his hips slammed against your bare ass. The pain was always easy to take and so were his words. You both are masochists, always getting off on the pleasure the wax, life on your skin brought you both. How he would lick the small trails of blood that the knife would bring. But that night he pushed it too hard. He drags orgasms over and over, but you were too sensitive, feeling a little sick and his constant ass slaps weren't helping. "Starfish." you softly say as tears run down. He immediately pulls out, unties you and carries you upstairs and into bed. The entire time he kept apologising.

"I'm sorry, love." he cuddled to you, your back to him. He leaned over and wipes the tears off. "...it hurt a little more than the other times.." "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get carried away that much.." -- Days when he came back after being gone for months and his missions wouldn't go right, he'd fuck his anger out on you. You'd go and pick him up, as always in your tight shirt and short skirt, he would get in the driver seat, you back to being his passenger princess. He would finger you, lick his fingers and park at some empty place. Take you to the backseat and start to undress you. You weren't aloud to speak, just watch as he undressed you. His fingers in you, his other free hand pressing your stomach, making you scream his name. Eyes shut as he kept finger fucking you. Your wet cunt leaking on his fingers, he would every now and then make you taste yourself. His spit on your thighs, your cheeks red from his slaps, your freshly changed nipple piercings digging a little into your skin, causing that masochist in you to be pleased. -- When you would ride it, he made sure to have your leash at his fist, just in case. Your hands on his neck, choking him lightly, dragging moans and various orgasms from him. He'd slap your face every now and then. He'd pull the leash when he'd tell you to behave, "shut it, I don't need your moans right now." But you didn't listen, you chased your own pleasure. He pulled more, choking you a little, turning you on even more. "I said shut it," a slap to your bare and sensitive tits. Cum leaking from the bouncing, he easily came four times. -- A/N: Not much of a full story...but snippets of your life as his whore...I mean sub :) Better thank me for feeding you, ya nasty whores😝

[iifishizzleii]

no because the real f!american y/n isn’t a southern sweetheart. she isn’t a small, pretty thing with a viper’s tongue who has a soft spot for the 141.

she’s a military brat who despises politicians, hates america but is the only one in the task force allowed to hate america, shits on british foods, and is as big as the rest of the men because she fucking hates working out but she refuses to have her bench press PR be beaten by a guy that asks for a ‘cuppa’ after a mission. she grew up with both sisters and brothers, and knows how to cook/clean not because she loves it but because it’s a basic human necessity.

she’s got a temper, but she can control it because she’s a grown ass woman. she’s kind of awkward and quiet at first being the only woman on a previously all-male military team, in a career dominated by men. but, they’re respectful if not awkward as well, unsure of how a woman would fit into their space, and they realize how dirty their previous habits are when they notice how tidied she is. she doesn’t clean up after them nor does she take care of them, but she does inspire better hygiene habits in the men that keep them from smelling less like greasy mud slabs.

she wears the same uniform as the men, and her hair hasn’t grown past her shoulders in years because it’s a hassle to constantly braid/tie into a bun to be kept up during missions. her call sign would be inspired by something stupid or ridiculous she did, because that’s how most callsigns are made. probably something like ‘buck tooth’ because she called soap a ‘buck toothed buick-built bitch’ during an argument of whether american sweet tea was better than britains (she won through sheer creative insults).

she’s not the picture beauty most people visualize because war dirties everyone, and being a woman doesn’t stop her knees from falling in the dirt. she’s not the brains of the team either, but she isn’t the breath of fresh air that brings humanity to the team either. she’s funny when she wants to be, creative in the moment but can’t solve a math problem for her life, vulnerable only because she knows it’s out of trust for her team, not weakness. she gets into arguments, sometimes adds toxicity to an already broiling argument, and starts fights that get physical. and there’s no apologies, just days of silence until she’s suddenly talking to the men again (those days of silence are hell on the new recruits).

for me, f!american y/n is what a lot of other countries know americans to be like meshed together— kind, a little arrogant, dumb but not stupid, strong through sheer will, and america’s #1 hater until someone else who isn’t tries to hate on them. <3

[dotcie]

━ BAD DOG SERIES. multi chapter | romance | slice of life.

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: banner is this wonderful artwork by @fillkassan! thank you so so much for letting me use it! please show sui some love!! ♡ 》 WARNINGS: MDNI | all tags on AO3 》 CHAPTERS: 2/? [work in progress]

━ [O1] Chapter | 3.1k words

━ [O2] Chapter | 3.9k words

— thank you for reading! ♡ — masterlist.

[simonzmama]

boxer!simon when his baby ain’t there

rage spills across simon’s skin like gasoline, your sweet breaths setting it off like a raging fire that stings under his skin.

“needed you…” he trails off, face scrunching till the cut on his cheekbone splits, blood pooling in the dry skin till it’s rolling down his cheek. “where were you?”

his voice rolls cool, madness ever so slightly hinted in the grumble of his throat. his knuckles sting as he fists the fat of your thighs, fucking into you in something of anger, desperation.

you were his good luck charm, he swore by it. every fight he’d lay a sweet kiss against your lips, knotting his tongue with yours till he could feel his eyes roll and skin itch for more. yet, you didn’t even bother to show up. you left him to fuckin lose, to take every hit without an ounce of effort to fight back.

“where were you?!” he spits down at you, voice cracking with the slight betrayal. “lost cuz’ you can’t eve’ bother to show the fuck up.”

his words knot in your stomach, eyes filling with tears as he fucks his anger into you, forcing you to feel every bit of disloyalty you’ve burnt him with.

“si-simon…” you gasp, fingers reaching out for him in a desperate attempt to slow him down, to calm him. “just slow down.”

his scoff hits you with a flinch, sweat rolling down his face till it stings at his open wound n has his face creasing, teeth baring and hands settling down on your body. “you want something? need it? well, so did i. y’think you deserve what you want, huh?”

[ghouljams]

Also on the subject of Ghost with his bubble gum, sunshine and rainbows, partner. The sex? God. He loves seeing your pretty pink nails wrap around his cock, loves the way your lipstick smears, loves that he gets a pink ring around his dick each time you take it a little further down your throat. He loves the short skirts and the heels, he loves that you flirt with him at bars like he isn't taking you home. He loves pushing your face into your nice bedspread and seeing the mascara run down your face and just-

He loves that you let him make all the pretty a mess. Loves that you smile like there isn't a thought in that sweet head of yours with drool running down your chin and your eyes rolling back. He loves that you're so eager to show him new lingerie, and even more eager to have him trace the tip of his knife along the little straps holding it all together. He's utterly enamored with the way you coo at him and pull him close. Completely smitten with the way you look at him from across a crowded room, completely surrounded by people desperate for a fraction of your glow, and it feels like you're the only too people in the room.

He loves having a spot of sunshine that he can dirty up a little bit, and yet you never seem to lose that sparkle that first drew him to you.

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

Wild Horses

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Doctor!Reader, Soap x Reader Part 2

Part 1 , Part 3 , Part 4

A/N: Y’all have asked and y’all have received. Enjoy! Let me know what you guys think, I always love to hear your thoughts! Reblogs are much appreciated! 😊💜

Summary: Imagine being the new physician assigned to the team and a certain masked individual takes a new keen concealed interest in you. The two of you are too awkward to function.

Warnings: language, fluff, angst. This one might be a little sad and Ghost is a bit of an ass-jerk so be prepared.

As mentioned before, Ghost completely stays clear of your vicinity after stepping out of your office. It’s not that he hates you. He’s just slightly irritated. With himself? Or is it you and that pretty face of yours and your comforting voice and your goddamn politeness and your accent. To be honest, the whole team adores your accent. He can’t tell. Remind you, this is a man who has probably never been shown any affection or tenderness so don't expect him to fall for you on the spot. This man needs therapy, like a lot of therapy. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to go through whatever it is he is feeling, finding the whole thing to be an inconvenience really. And because he doesn't know how to understand or face whatever these emotions are, he just buries it. It's easier for him that way.

Poor dude couldn’t even sleep last night, staring at the ceiling of his room and haunted by the idea that he accidentally offended you. This man may have a cold exterior but your scalpels are colder and sharper than the devil's jawline. He almost couldn’t blame you if you decided to inject some foreign substance into his bloodstream and make the whole thing look like it was a stroke. Wait, could you do that? Bloody fucking hell. This man spends too much time with his thoughts I swear.

The man spends the whole night trying to assess his feelings, or rather his attraction towards you, convinces himself you're just another pretty face. The man may be touch-starved but he knows there are other methods to handle his needs, even though it's been a long time since he's slept with a woman, like a really long time. But even then, that situation was different. There was never any intimacy involved, like a quick business transaction that finished just as quickly as it started. It only left him feeling as empty as he was before. Not to mention, he doesn't do well with human interaction and that one and only moment he had with a woman daunted him more than it needed to, and so he has remained abstinent ever since. And if he were being honest with himself, you're just a distraction. And how do you handle distractions? You steer clear of them.

So what does this man do? He does what he intended to do. He avoids you at all costs. Oh, is that you walking towards their small, makeshift kitchen to fix yourself a bagel in the morning? Guess what, he’s doing a full 180 and lurking behind a wall like Michael Myers and his stupid hedge, waiting until you’re finished so he can make himself his morning tea.

Not only that but he makes sure to take extra good care of himself, Vitamin C supplements or multivitamins, whatever it takes to keep himself in best health. He even looks up on Google for extra tips to prevent himself from having to send himself in. He had heard of the saying “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” and goes out of his way to buy an apple during his morning runs. But the poor chap has it all mixed up because when you walk into your office the next morning, you're surprised to see an apple just sitting there on your desk.

Ghost doesn't know that it's supposed to be the other way around and that the apple is actually supposed to be for himself. He doesn't bother to search up the meaning, nor does anyone bother to tell him because they don't even know that he's doing it in the first place. So every morning he goes on his run, he goes out and buys an apple, and so every morning you find one placed on your desk.

The first time you saw the fruit sitting there on the table where you worked, surrounded by your scattered paperwork, you were confused no doubt. You picked it up curiously in your hand, inspecting the bright red fruit before giving a shrug and biting into it, after you wash it of course. You think it's just a small little token of thanks from one of the men. Possibly Soap considering how flirty he was yesterday. Alejandro doesn't seem like the type to give fruits. He's more of a red rose and a bottle of wine kind of man.

But as days go by, each day you find an apple sitting on your desk. And as thoughtful as this gesture is, at this point, considering the amount of apples you've eaten, you're either going to have serious digestive issues or die of cyanide poisoning, as if you don't already have IBS. So what do you do? You start to collect the apples each morning, deciding to throw in your own twist to this gesture until one evening, the men come back from one of their missions to find a freshly baked apple pie and a stack of paper plates and some utensils sitting out on a table for them, including a small little card with the handwritten words "bone apple tea". What in the hell.

"What in the fucks is bone apple tea." Gaz scrunches his nose at the writing on the little card.

They're all standing around at the table staring at the pie with confusion written across their faces. All except Ghost of course, the way his eyes slightly widen once he sees it. His gut is telling him you're behind it. Hm I wonder what gave it away.

"What’s this?" Alejandro asks, tilting his head at the thing.

"Looks like apple pie." Gaz answers.

"Yes I know that." Alejandro remarks. “But what is it doing here?"

"Doubt it's from any one of you muppets." Price speaks up. He knows damn well none of these men know how to bake. There’s only one person here whose hands are skilled or nimble enough to make the braided trim on that crust. Not to mention the detailing in the center, like the way you carefully placed little leaf designs made from the crust on top of the braided design. Yup this was definitely you, unless someone else here had a secret talent they had been hiding.

Literally why are these men acting like the pie has poison it. As if Graves sent it or something. Just shut up and eat the pie before it gets cold you himbos.

"So who made it?" Soap asks, looking towards the others for answers.

"This," Alejandro chuckles after finally realizing, "this was made by the hands of a woman."

"Who, y/n?" Gaz quirks a brow, you're the only woman here.

How in the hell did you get the means to bake a complete fucking apple pie in a place like this? They always heard doctors have skilled and steady hands but what the actual fuck.

"Well don't mind me." Soap literally cuts a big ass slice for himself before going off to devour the thing.

The boys watch Soap basically almost moan once he takes a bite of your pie as he goes off yelling out something along the lines of "well tidy scran", before helping themselves to a slice.

Ghost is the last one to cut himself a slice. He was hesitant at first before finally giving in, plus he also got back from a mission and he's hungry. So when he digs in his fork and has his first taste, it's kinda like that scene from Ratatouille where the food critic Anton Ego finally takes a bite of Remy's food and is reminded of his childhood, except Ghost doesn't have a childhood.

Let me tell you these men are obsessed with your pie and are practically fighting over the last slice like a pair of siblings so don't be surprised when you wake up the next morning to the see that the plate that your pie was in is completely empty without a single crumb in sight. Jesus. Did they lick the table down too?

Also I think you may have just given Ghost a newfound sweet tooth. When he went back to his room that night, he's debating on whether he should keep his daily routine of giving you apples, so far it’s kept you away. What he doesn’t get is that you made a whole damn pie out of the apples he gave you when they were actually supposed to be for you, or him, if you look at it from his distorted perception. But wait. What if you know it's him, and that's why you made the pie in the first place? A way to a man’s heart is not only between the forth and fifth ribs, but it’s also through his stomach. And as much as he wants to deny it, he also kind of secretly wants you to bake another one. It's almost as if he's completely forgotten why he placed those apples on your desk in the first place.

So what do you see when you wake up the next morning? An empty plate and yet another apple sitting on your desk. Okay what the fuck. You've let it slide all those times but now you have got to know who's pulling this shit. It’s not that you hate apples, but the conception that you have no clue who’s behind this is making you start to view the poor defenseless fruit as an object of taunting and torment. And to be honest at this point, you're beginning to think this is some kind of joke. So with the apple in your hand, you head towards the common area where the others are currently settled.

“Okay who did it?” You call out once you enter the area.

Crickets chirping.

All heads snap towards you to see you standing there with an apple held in your hand. They're almost stunned to see you wandering about. They rarely ever see you since you're usually locked up in your office or your room.

The men have done a lot of shit so just what is it that are you asking. They stare at you with not a single thought behind their eyes, that is until their blood runs cold at what happened last night. Was the pie not meant for them? Shit.

“Did what?” Gaz gulps, trying to play it off as nothing happened.

"Who keeps leaving apples on my desk like I'm about to host a county fair?"

"Come again?" Price asks, not that he didn't hear you, but it's probably the most anyone has heard you speak that isn't related to your work. Not only that, but they’re so used to hearing your “doctor” voice that your normal voice is a whole pitch lower and almost sounds foreign and alien to their ears. Not that they’re complaining because they honestly love hearing it.

"Someone has been leaving apples on my desk every single day." You repeat yourself more slowly. "And I'd like to know who."

So you're not mad about the pie.

Ghost immediately snaps his head away from your direction and nearly chokes on his tea. It's almost a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash from how fast he turns away.

The others are still staring at you, a tad bit scared of the expression that sat on your face. They couldn't make out if you were upset or not.

"Well?" You ask, leaning against the doorframe with your hand stuffed in your coat pocket while your other hand tossed the apple about in the air.

"Couldn't be me." Soap answers.

The others shake their heads as you squint your eyes at each and every one of them, trying to decipher the culprit. "Whoever it is, I will find out." You take a bite out of the apple before tossing it to the nearest person, who happened to be Alejandro, before starting to leave the area.

Alejandro catches the apple between his hands, staring down at the fruit with a chuckle to see where you had bit into it before taking a bite of his own.

Soap can't help but clench his jaw at Alejandro's cockiness. Ghost just turns away unbothered, it’s none of his concern. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

"Wait you're not mad about the pie?" Gaz calls out after you.

"What pie?" You turn back.

Wot

"The pie....from last night."

"I have no clue what you're talking about." You put on your best innocent expression before walking away.

The men snap their heads towards each other. Have they been poisoned? The longer they stare at each other, the more panicked they get.

Alejandro glances down at the apple you had thrown in his hands and is so close to spitting out the bite he had taken.

"I'm kidding." Your voice nearly makes them jump out of their skin as they turn to see your head popped through the doorway. "The pie was from me." You walk away again before turning back around. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have your blood results so if you're free, come see me when you get the chance."

Shit. Ghost thinks to himself after hearing you mention the blood results. He is hoping his blood sample got demolished in some shape or form, but the way you didn't even try to pull him aside to break the "unfortunate" news tells him otherwise. He's just not going to show.

The men watch you walk away in silence after your little moment of humor. They almost don't know how to react. The way the warmth of your voice blended with the obscurity of your words threw them in for a loop.

All except Ghost have no clue who has been sending you apples, but whoever it is that is sending you the fruit, they think that person is trying to win you over. So what started out as some misunderstanding on Ghost's end has now turned into this whole peacocking ordeal. Now it's a competition of who gets you better gifts in order to gain your affection, mainly Soap and Alejandro and even Gaz, but mostly Soap. Price still shows you appreciation for your work and what you do in his own way.

Poor Ghost was just trying to manifest "an apple a day keeps the doctor away". So who’s gonna tell him?

Anyways, when you return to your office to work on your paperwork, the boys go out to get you a little something before meeting up with you to go over their bloodwork results. Despite Soap and Gaz's efforts, Alejandro is the first to leave and the first to return. And just as Soap returns with his little gift for you, Alejandro beats him to it, a smirk playing on his lips as he enters your office with a red rose in hand. Poor Gaz wasn't able to find you anything special so he gets you a cool looking rock he saw instead.

Soap is practically fuming. If you squint hard enough, you might see smoke coming out his ears.

You hear a knock on your door and look up from where you sat at your desk to see Alejandro stepping into your office, a sly smirk on his lips as he holds out a rose.

"Alejandro." You quirk a brow. "What's this?"

"For you, hermosa."

"Oh?" You cock your head back in surprise as you take the rose from his hands. "What for?"

"Oh just a little way of showing appreciation." Alejandro leans against your desk.

"Why thank you Alejandro" You blink, trying your best to push down the blush that tries to creep itself onto your cheeks.

"My pleasure."

You decide to place the flower inside the empty vase you had already set out from before when you moved your things in. "I had been meaning to get some flowers to brighten up the area."

"There's no need" Alejandro smirks. "I'm afraid the rose doesn't compare to you. You do that all on your own."

Little do you know Soap is listening in on the whole thing with a frown. If he pressed his ear any closer he'd fall right through the door. Sure the Scots have their special charm but Alejandro is different and has the most rizz out of all of them, and Soap is fully aware and has always heard they make better lovers and that only adds to his panic.

Now you're definitely not able to hide the heat that spread through your face. You can't tell if it's the state of being flustered or just social anxiety. Well they weren't wrong about Alejandro having a way with words. "Geez, thank you Alejandro. But there really is no need for flattery."

"For you, anything hermosa."

Omfg this dude.

You look away from his strong gaze, managing to shove your flustered state away and stopping yourself from releasing the sharp wit you inherited from your father. Clearing your throat, you open up his file. "Well that really is kind of you Alejandro. And since you are already here, I have the results from your blood work."

"Oh? Everything should be good yes?"

"Well yes, for the most part but-"

"But what?" Alejandro looks confused. What's wrong with his blood?

"Your cholesterol levels are pretty high." You open up his file and read over his results.

"They are?"

"I'm afraid so, but not at a dangerous level. You should probably cut out some of that fried food and red meat and watch your butter intake. Nothing too serious though. Add some greens into your diet, as well as some nuts and whole grains and definitely more fruits and veggies and you're good to go." You hand him a copy of his results before giving a look of grimace. "But watch out on the fiber though. Too much of it can lead to increased bowel movements."

"Increased what?"

"You know, a case of the shits."

The way Soap pulls his ear away from the door and slaps his palm on mouth to keep himself from letting out the most offensive laugh known to mankind. If only you could have seen it. Is he going to bring this up in Alejandro's presence? Maybe.

Alejandro looks over the papers you gave him. "Wait really?"

"Yeeaaah." You give the poor fellow a sympathetic smile. "But hey, everything you need to know is right on those papers, so as long as you cut out the foods mentioned and get a higher intake of the others listed, you'll be back to normal in no time."

"Oh uh. Thank you y/n. I appreciate it."

"Anytime Alejandro." You smile. "You know where to find me."

The way Soap nearly trips over himself as he backs away from the door after hearing footsteps, as if he wasn't eavesdropping on every thing.

Alejandro opens the door and walks out of your office, eyes glued to the papers while Soap is just standing there trying not to be noticed.

The moment Alejandro is out of sight, Soap goes over and knocks on your door.

"Come in." You look up and smile to see Soap. Over the course of the few days since you first arrived here, you were to quick to warm up to the young Scotsman, finding comfort and humor in his personality. You enjoyed hearing him talk about just about anything, and his accent always helped to make whatever he had to say all the more interesting. It really is a good thing he does most of the talking since you make a better listener and love to hear what others have to say.

Soap knows you don't talk much and how you prefer to listen and hear stories, so he always makes sure to keep you entertained. This man is 100% golden retriever energy. Also he calls you lass and lassie and you just eat that shit up, he loves how you blush and that small restrained smile appears on your face whenever he says it. Don't worry, so would I. "Soap! You can have a seat if you want, this will be brief."

"Oh uh, I've actually got you something." Soap hands you a small box.

"Oh?" You quirk a brow as you take the box from his hands? What is it with everyone giving you gifts? Are they in on something you're not? "What is it?" You ask as you open the small box to see a bunch of what looks to be biscuits.

"Scottish shortbread." Soap smiles, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. "I brought them along with me from back home but I thought you'd like them with your morning coffee."

"Wait, are you sure you don't want them for yourself? I feel bad."

"Nah. I can always get more.......if-when I go back home. You keep em. It's for ya. Think of it as a welcoming gift.....for all ya done, and the pie ya made for us."

"Soap, I don't know what to say." You give the man a heartfelt smile. "Thank you.....really, it's very thoughtful of you. It'll give me a variety from my bagels."

"Don' mention it." Soap places his hands behind his back before noticing a small framed picture you had set up on your desk that definitely wasn't there before. "Is that you?"

"Hm?" You raise you brow to see what he is referring to and seeing him gesture to the photo.

"Oh. Yeah, that's me as a little girl." You glance at the photo as a soft smile appears on your face. It was a picture of you when you were a little girl around the age of 5, when your dad took you on a camping trip to Zion. The two of you were sitting near the tent he had set up overlooking the mountain range with you sitting in his arms while he played his guitar, wearing that same old baseball cap of his that you had grown accustomed to seeing as you grew up. The longer you looked at the picture and relived that core memory, glancing at the crooked grin that sat on your little face and the way your father beamed, the more your face began to match the fond look that radiated off your father's eyes as he looked down at your giggling state.

"That's quite the smile you got there." Soap teases, chuckling at the expression you held in the photo.

"Oh please." You roll your eyes, knowing exactly what he was joking about. "I know I looked goofy. My baby teeth were falling out."

"And that's yer dad?"

"Yup. That's my old man."

"Ya have yer father's eyes." Soap smiles at you, knowing now where you inherited that certain warmth held in your eyes that was able to put the coldest man at ease by just one look.

You let out a soft chuckle, glancing down at the ground to blink away the tears that have yet to form before looking back up at the soldier. "I've been told."

"Where was this taken? The scenery is absolutely braw."

"That was taken at Zion National Park in Utah. My dad had taken me there on a camping trip."

"It's absolutely gorgeous."

"Maybe I'll take you one day."

"Ya mean it?" Soap turns towards you, a grin forming on his face.

"Why not? It's been a while since I went, not since the photo."

"I think you've just made my day lass." Soap smirks before turning to the other photo. "And I'm guessing that's you as well." Soap gestures to the other photo of you around your middle school years that your dad had taken of you, wearing a wet suit as you sat on your surfboard, a grin on your face and your hair matted with salt water while one of your hands formed the shaka sign. "I dinnae ken you surfed."

"Oh yeah, surfing was my life. This was back when I had caught my first wave in Hawaii. My dad was so proud. Took me out for shaved ice right after and couldn't stop bragging to everyone there about how effortlessly I had tube ridden that thing."

"Your dad sounds like a great man."

"The best."

Soap notices the way your smile ever so slightly dropped at one of the corners, as if some sadness had managed to overcome whatever memories that lied in your head so he clears his throat, deciding not to press on the subject any better. "So how does my blood look?"

"Good actually." You blink, his statement reminding you of what you were going to do since he stepped into your office in the first place. "Your levels are all pretty balanced." You hand him a copy of his results. "As for the muscle cramps you mentioned, try to get a higher intake of electrolytes like potassium, magnesium, and calcium. And most importantly, don't forget to stay hydrated and drink lots of water."

"Aye ma'am. I'll make sure of it."

"Thank you Soap."

"No, thank you." Soap gives you one last smile before heading out. "I'll see you around."

"Bye."

It was not long after Soap left that Gaz entered next followed by Price, hearing you go over their results with intent ears. You actually really loved the little rock Gaz had given you, he had even drawn a smiley face on for you. You thought it was really cute despite his embarrassment in not finding you something better. And after the two left, there was only one person left that had yet to show up at your door. Simon 'Ghost' Riley.

Not wanting to pressure the man who looks like he'd stab you for looking at him the wrong way, you decided to stay at your desk, working over some paperwork of your own until the time comes when he decides to show up whenever he sees comfortable.

Picking up your mug, you decide to get some more coffee, leaving your office and heading to the kitchen area to brew yourself a new cup. Looking up from your feet, you see Ghost walking walking in your direction in front of you.

"Ghost!" You call out to him, or as much as you can call out. You never were one for raising your voice, despite the many times your previous teachers had urged you to speak up, displeased with the way you preferred to keep to yourself as opposed to your more extroverted peers. But even when carrying out their commands to speak louder, you always hated doing so, thinking it drew too much attention towards you. It's a wonder you got through med school and became a doctor in the first place.

Ghost had heard you calling out his name and immediately his muscles tense. The last thing he wanted was for you to see him because that only meant one thing, being dragged into your office to go over his blood results until something else insulting slips from his lips. I promise he doesn't hate your guts! So in order to evade you, this man does the first thing that comes to mind, he walks straight into the nearest room, which just so happens to be the shared showers. Simon you dumb fuck. Let’s hope Price isn’t butt ass naked in there for Simon’s sake.

You blink, standing there with your mug that your friend from college thought would be funny to gift you when you started med school, the one that had the words "I have a PHD" in bold colorful letters with the finer print "pretty huge dick" right below it (of course you never used that mug back at the hospital or else you'd hear about it).

So with your mug in hand, you watch the masked man walk straight into the room where the shared showers were. Huh. Well that's weird. You try to give the man the benefit of the doubt, thinking he just did not hear you. Maybe he'll stop by later. So shrugging off what just happened, you head into the kitchen to make yourself a fresh cup of coffee. God an iced coffee sounds good right now.

Once you had headed back to your office, finishing up your work and taking little breaks in between to read your book or snack on something, an hour turned into two, and so forth. Until you looked at your clock and it was already past the time of sunset. Jesus. Where did this dude go? Getting up from your chair, you step out of your office, holding the door open and seeing not a single soul headed in your direction. What in the-

With furrowed brows, you step back into your office, staring down at Ghost's results that just sat there waiting to be picked up.

"Goddamn it." You hiss between your teeth. You have no idea what his issue is or why he avoids you as if you spit in his fruit loops or tea or whatever. But if he keeps this up, it could interfere with your own job. Looking around at your desk, an idea pops into your head as you grab two things that lied there, a sticky note and a two dum-dum lollipops, a sugar cookie flavor and a butterscotch one.

Heading out of your office, you head towards where the men's rooms are located before stopping at a certain particular one, surveying the area around you to make sure no one sees you before staring straight at the door in front of you. Taking out your pen, you write on the note "please stop by my office when you get a chance", making sure to add your initials in the corner before taping it to his door along with the two lollipops, hoping the candy will be some sort of bribe.

"God I hope this works and he doesn't shoot me in the head." You mutter out before heading back to your own quarters that was separate from the men's due to standard protocol. Throwing off your coat and your clothes, you threw on an oversized t-shirt and some sweats, eating a microwaveable dinner in your own room before getting ready to go to bed. There was nothing you craved more than to collapse onto the mattress and bury yourself under the covers. And as you finished brushing your teeth, turning off the lights and getting into a comfortable position under your blanket, all you could do was stare at the ceiling above you.

Little did you know, that same night, in that same moment, there was another who could not sleep, staring at the ceiling as you did now. He had saw the note that you had left him on his door, as well as the two lollipops. It almost annoyed him, whatever it was you were showing towards him. And it did not help that the note had smelled of you, of that perfume that oh so enriched his senses. The man literally has your note laying on top of his bedside table along with the lollipops. He'll throw it out first thing tomorrow he tells himself.

"Oh come the fuck on." You moaned as you turned over onto your side but to no avail. No matter how hard you tried to shut your eyes and shut out any thoughts that attempted at keeping you awake, you just could not fall asleep until you finally give up. "Jesus fuck shit fuck." You hiss to yourself as you throw the blanket off you, sitting up on your bed and throwing on your sweatpants before getting up. Usually on nights like this where you couldn't sleep, you'd find a way to calm your nerves, whether it be reading or drawing or listening to a comforting audiobook.

So, grabbing your pillow and blanket, you open up your closet and grab your father's acoustic guitar, going back over to your bed and staring at the framed photo of your dad that sat on the bedside table before taking that with you as well. Leaving your room, you make sure to be as quiet as possible, looking both ways before heading up towards the roof of the building.

When you were little and had trouble sleeping, your dad used to take you outside to where the two of you had built a little fort, where the two of you would lay under the stars, brushed over by the cool night breeze as he played his guitar, singing old folk and slow classic rock songs until you finally fell asleep. And as you stepped onto the roof, craning your neck to stare up at the stars above you, you were reminded of those moments and the peace it gave you. Setting your bedding down, you prop the picture of your dad up next to you before sitting down with the guitar in hand.

"Hey dad." Your voice is a whisper as you look down at the photo of your father beside you. The photo was taken not even a month after you were born. He had taken you to the fire station he was stationed at, excited to introduce his team to his new precious baby girl, his first child. You could almost say it was your favorite photo of him, sitting on the front bumper of the firetruck in his uniform with you bundled up in a pink blanket in his arms.

"I know it's been a bit of a while since we've last talked." You sigh, forming your fingers into a chord on the fretboard of the guitar. "So to make up for it, I'm going to sing you one of the songs I always used to sing. You know the one, it's one of my favorites, and yours too."

Despite his efforts to fall asleep, Simon had ended up stepping out of his room, walking about the grounds to somewhat ease his mind. This was obviously nothing new to him, he always had trouble sleeping. And during those nights he had trouble sleeping, he'd take a walk to help clear his head. He found comfort in the silence of the night, when everything and everyone was asleep. He would usually go to his favorite spot on the rooftop, where he would seek refuge under the obsidian skies and the silver stars.

As he goes up the stairs that lead up to the roof, he stops at the sound that comes from beyond the door, what sounds to be someone singing and strumming the guitar. Curious to know who the hell had taken his spot and had the radio playing, he goes up further to investigate. So imagine his surprise when he finds you there instead, wrapped up in your blanket and strumming against your guitar, singing The Sundays cover of Wild Horses.

"Childhood living is easy to do The things that you wanted, I bought them for you Graceless lady, you know who I am You know I can't let you slide through my hands" Your voice is ethereal as you sing out the lyrics, your face molded into these deep emotions you can't quite explain.

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away Wild horses couldn't drag me away

I watched you suffer a dull, aching pain And now you've decided to show me the same No sweeping exits or offstage lines Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind

Wild horses couldn't drag me away Wild, wild horses couldn't drag me away

Faith has been broken and tears must be cried Let's do some living after we die

Wild horses couldn't drag me away Wild, wild horses couldn't drag me away

Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them someday Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them someday."

During the entirety of the song, Simon stands there in the distance behind you, hidden in the shadows, entranced, and can't seem to explain the tingles he feels washing over his body. He thinks he has intruded upon you and wants to leave you to your solitude in what seems to be an intimate moment for you, and yet he can't seem to be able to get his feet to move. Instead he's watching you with this newfound interest. He had never expected you to play the guitar as you did, nor have the voice that you did. So as you finish your song, he almost trips over his own feet trying to back away, scared that you might somehow notice that he had been there this whole time.

"God I miss you dad." You wipe away at the tears that start to spill down your cheeks despite your attempts to wipe them away with the back of your sleeve, scanning your eyes over the stars that scattered across the sky, imagining he was up there amongst them. "I miss you so much."

Regaining his footing, Ghost is careful to open the door leading back into the building, that is until he hears you let out what sounds to be a choked sob. He turns his head back towards you, seeing you bring your knees up to your chest as you cry out, mumbling something he can't quite understand. With his hand still holding the door open, he looks down at the set of stairs, turning his head back towards you for one more time before going down the steps, being careful to shut the door without any noise possible.

Part 3

Tags: @souls-rain @euovennia @i-wish-we-could-stay @depressedacidtest @gh0stm3g @thequeenofbigmacs @k1llerch4n @abbiesxox @feraltiddies @wand-erer5 @1redheaded3dragon @anisa269 @joceymoo @mango-corner @classickook @trueee33 @sockertop @lupskelly @chxbits @kuwizo @sluxm3ozt @tobybestupid @anarchygoose @lez-zuha @thatoneautor0123 @marvelmysterywoman @ella-error505 @awkward-0 @ariessux @kermitdefroghere @urloverx @alldaysdreamers @rat-elbows @nananarc @watersquirtpewpewboomm @izzyisstuff

[babygirl-riley]

Simon x Reader Guide

Here is revamp of the Simon x Reader List. It is growing and instead of having the list become super long, imma shorten it into small categories 💅🏼🖤 Each one does have warnings of the same, just more focused on what type deal. Also, MNDI will be enforced better, so if I don’t see an age on the bio, unfortunately you will be missed. 🙃 I do go through once a month through each like to see who is and not.

Here is a taglist for all of you as well 🖤🫶🏻

Simon x Reader Smut Edition

Simon x Reader Fluff/Angst Edition

Simon x Reader Family Edition

Ghostly Ruins Series

OC Series

I am open to suggestions! I usually put them on top of the list when writing, so send your ideas and I will have them jot down!

[vampykween]

Second Chances - series

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader summary: little poppy is simon riley’s entire world and you’ve just had yours turned completely upside down. despite everything, it seems like everything falls into place when you’re with each other. a/n: feel free to drop in my inbox with any and all of your thoughts about this series! i love adding little scenes and ideas yall come up with into the story! ☻

❀ poppy's first day of school part 1

❀ once more to see you part 2

asks/requests:

❀ simon at parents' night

❀ singledad!simon drabbles

bonus parts:

❀ we’ll be alright