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rekilip · 1 year

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He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 17

An: Hello again! Enjoy a sprinkle of fluff (always with some angst of course) Thanks for reading :)

Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 2700

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

I try and mimic the silence of his footsteps. The smoothness of his movements is almost inhuman. Like he isn’t truly in front of me but is rather a figment of my subconscious. Part of me refuses to believe that he is real. But I feel how the air whirls behind his broad frame. How the metallic scent of gunpowder trails behind him no matter the setting. War follows him. I follow him.

Ghost stops in front of a door at the end of a long hallway. To the West, a red exit sign illuminates the otherwise dim corridor with a red glow. Not another soul is present.

The sound of the lock echoes off the cement walls as Ghost slides the key card back into his pocket, pulls the handle down, and holds the door open, waiting for me to walk ahead. After an almost sleepless night, too much caffeine, and the constant feeling of being watched, even my bones feel skittish.

As I step inside, I realize this room isn’t an office or conference area. It’s not a supply closet or interview space filled with intimidating tools. Like my own, this room is filled with a bed, dresser, and small washroom.

I asked him for somewhere safe to talk and he brought me to his room. Something in my heart clenches. This isn’t a part of him I’d ever expected to see.

I know it’s not really his. That it belongs to the task force and isn’t a true reflection of his character. But entering the space – his space – feels intimate. This isn’t something others get to see. Ghost doesn’t just invite people back to his room. Bringing me here is intentional. He wants, no, needs me to know that no one can get me here. No one will even know where I am.

“Is this your room?” I ask as the door locks behind him. Ghost crosses and then uncrosses his arms as he stands at the edge of the room, not sure about the best position to take. His goal isn’t to come off as intimidating, but even with innocent intentions, it somehow just happens.

“It is,” he sighs, considering his next words. “Y/n if I’m going to help, you have to stop hiding from me.”

“I’m trying,” although, I’m not sure that’s the truth. I see how closely Ghost’s eyes watch me. How his trigger finger twitches at his side when he’s stressed. How he clenches and unclenches his hand in a fist to try and get it to stop. I see how much he is holding himself back right now in an effort to make me feel safe.

“When did the Ultranationalist make contact?” Ghost asks quietly, maintaining the stillness of the room.

“Last night.”

“Was that the first time?” his dark eyes follow as I start to pace between the twin bed and dresser.

“Yeah,” I pause. “Since the prisoner.”

“It was just the one?”

“Yeah, but Ghost,” I feel that all too familiar strain in my throat. “There’s more than one.”

“He said that?”

“He said ‘we are plenty and we are strong’,” I hear his words ring between my ears. We are plenty and we are strong. How many is plenty? How many of them have infiltrated 141? I see those same questions and more floating around behind the skull mask.

“Did you recognize him?” urgency creeps its way back into his voice.

“He was wearing a mask,” I start.

“But did you recognize him?”

“I think so,” I know so, but telling him could do more harm than good. Not that I have much of a choice.

“Who?” he urges. Ghost’s feet shift closer and his shoulders lean forward. I see the reminder flash behind his eyes to pull back, to restrain the fury boiling under his skin. If I were brave enough to reach out and touch him I’d only scold the tender flesh of my palms.

“Do you remember that day on the van when we were being transported between bases? I sat between you and Soap?”

“Affirmative,” his response is immediate.

“There was a man, I couldn’t see his face, but he was making jokes about me and soap babysitting until you told him to stand down,” I recall the event in my head and how uncomfortable it was.

“I did.”

“Yesterday the same guy confronted Soap and me in the hall. He said that Friday shouldn’t have gone down like that. That’s why I ran off and Soap did whatever he did,” he intently holds my gaze, clinging to every word. “I don’t know his name. But I know it was him.”

“Bennett, that fucking bastard,” Ghost lowly hisses. He fists his hands as he starts to pace near the door. I watch a variety of horrific torture methods flash through his mind. “I’ll fucking kill him,” his voice is coated with a fatal venom. The kind that burns through its victims' veins. The kind that slowly paralyzes its prey, leaving them to watch themselves be devoured whole in absolute horror.

“Don’t,” the choked word barely escapes my mouth.

“He won’t live to see fucking daylight, y/n,”

“Ghost,” I try again, but see his thoughts running wild. His chest heaves and his pace quickens. If I don’t step in now, he’ll be out the door on a flaming path of vengeance. If I don’t stop him and the Ultranationalists find out that we know who one of their moles is, they will kill even more people.

I take a brave step forward, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice. His eyes are focused on a path beyond my sight. I try again, this time stepping directly in his way.

“Damnit, y/n,” he mutters.

“Simon, you need to listen to me,” my hand reaches for his arm, landing gently, but firmly on his bicep. Searing heat pours from his skin into my own. Finally, he falters, coming to a stop. “Please?” I feel the heat start to disperse as his eyes glance down at the contact. His sleeve is a rough canvas material and I can’t help but long for the smooth texture of his skin gliding against my own.

“He said that they have men tracking five people I care about back home in New York. That my father provided the information and that if anyone finds out their identity, they will kill them. You can’t hurt him. He can’t even know that you know,” the pleading is evident in my voice. I have no reason to hide my desperation from him, yet I hate how weak it makes me feel. How I’ve been stripped of any power I had. How the sanctity of my life and so many others lies in the hands of all these different men who can’t even begin to comprehend the value of such a thing.

My own emotions are so heightened it makes it difficult to tell what Ghost is feeling. His arms are tense with anger, but there’s so much more to him. Part of me wonders if he feels the same type of fear that I do, but his emotions don’t control him the same way mine control me. They don’t manifest in the same way. It’s hard to understand his desires and actions when his mind operates so differently than the average person’s. But Ghost also isn’t immune to the occasional slip-up. Ringing the alarm right now would be exactly that. Unless in his mind it wouldn’t be. Because Ghost doesn’t value the people in my life the same way I do. His job is to bring an end to the Ultranationalists, not keep my people safe.

And that thought is enough to set me even more on edge. Because ultimately, our goals are not the same.

“What do they want you to do?” his sharp eyes drag down my face and I feel myself squirm under the sensation.

“They already suspect a trap, they’re counting on it. And they want me to tell them all the details of how Price plans the exchange,” my voice is low and urgent as my heart thrums against my ribs.

“So they can plan another ambush,” Ghost fills in the blanks.

“He said he’ll stop by my room again,” I whisper. The confession almost feels shameful.

“When?” Ghost’s hands rest on top of my shoulders, his grip stays light but the weight isn’t reassuring.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But he has a key card.”

“That fucker,” he mumbles. I step away from Ghost and pace the room once before sitting on the edge of his perfectly made bed. Stormy eyes closely follow my every move. Part of me just wants to be alone. The other part wants to sink into his chest as his strong arms pull me in deeper until I disappear completely. All I want is to disappear.

Ghost crosses the room to the dresser before reaching in and pulling out a small tin that he slips into a pocket on his vest. Then he carefully approaches the bed. His steps are silent across the cement floor like he’s gliding across a sheet of ice. His shoulders have sunk a little and his hands are no longer in fists. His trigger finger doesn’t twitch at his side. He’s reeled in those dangerous emotions, contained them for now.

Ghost comes to a stop between my legs. An ungloved hand reaches out to grasp a strand of my hair. He gently rolls it between his fingers. I’ve come to notice how often his fingers wind themselves through my hair. It brings out the softer side of him. One more akin to Simon than Ghost.

My eyes lock onto his and follow them as Simon sinks to his knees in front of me. Here he kneels on the floor, his chest resting between my legs as I sit on the edge of his bed. Now, our eyes are finally even. My stomach flutters from our position. Both of his hands come to rest on the outside of my thighs. His thumbs rub in reassuring circles around the fabric of my pants.

“Did he do anything else?” his voice is barely audible. Simon won’t dare say it, but I know where his thoughts have wandered. His eyes are both hard and soft. There’s an everlasting ambiguity about him. He blames himself for letting this happen.

“No,” I match his hushed volume. I think back to the feeling of the knife tracing down my shirt and while the implication was there, ultimately nothing happened.

The comforting heat of his arms seeps into my thighs. Simon’s head tilts ever so slightly as he tries to see where my thoughts went to. But he doesn’t push it.

“Just this?” his hand reaches up to the cut at the base of my neck as the back of his index finger traces the thin line.

“Just this,” I confirm although my neck will hardly be the only scar I have if I walk away from this nightmare alive.

Simon reaches into one of many pockets and pulls out the tin from earlier. He pops the lid off. Inside looks to be half filled with a type of salve. “This’ll help it heal,” he scoops up a small amount with his middle finger.

One hand pulls my shirt down to expose more of the cut while the other rests against my collarbone and lightly applies the salve. My mind drifts to all the times he’s done the same with his own scars. How many times has he sat in this very spot, gently dabbing the tincture on his wounds? Or does he even care about himself enough to try?

I revel in our closeness. How the sides of his stomach and ribcage brush against my inner thighs. The pressure of his hand resting against my collarbone. How the hand once grasping my shirt now lightly holds my hip as he steadies himself. And how the thumb of that hand gently rubs back and forth along my pliable flesh. Simon’s eyes intently watch his middle finger as he dabs the salve on the cut. I want to pull him on top of me, feel his full weight press me further into the mattress.

Even after he’s finished applying the salve, Simon’s hand lingers. Like he isn’t ready to pull away. Like he’ll miss the heat of my skin almost as much as I’ll miss his. Maybe more.

When he finally looks up, I have trouble breathing. There’s something about his eyes that is just so beautiful. Beautiful and heartbreaking. They pull me into an unbreakable trance. All the white noise, all my troubling thoughts, just disappear. Neither of us dares to speak.

I reach up to grasp his hand and place it on my cheek. There it finds its natural place, cupping my soft skin against his rough callouses. Acting so gently, so tenderly, so against the merciless inclinations that have been beaten into him since birth.

Here is a man whose cruelty has defined his identity. Who has racked up a kill count too high to keep track of. Who the enemy tells ghost stories about to scare their recruits. Who is so notorious, yet so illusive, he is no more real to them than the legends that echo the halls. And here he rests in front of me, on his knees.

I lean into his touch. Warmth spreads throughout my body stemming from his hand. It feels like sunbathing on a Sunday morning. The kind of warmth that makes the bad things disappear for just a little while.

“Keep the salve. Apply some more before bed,” Simon whispers. And there he goes and ruins it. Because now I’m thinking about my bed and my room and the impending intruder who’s made a promise of returning.

“Don’t make me go back,” my throat tightens. I know it’s no use.

“You have to be there when he returns,” his soothing thumb brushes along my cheek.

“Let me stay,” I murmur.

A deep sigh is pushed from far within his lungs. It’s the kind of sigh that is paired with a fair bit of deliberation. The kind that says he’s going to act against his better instincts.

“Just until dinner,” Simon responds.

“Will you stay?” I ask.

“Negative,” and he’s already shifting away from me. The warmth slipping away with him. I reach forward and grab both his arms just hard enough to stop him from leaving. His eyes latch onto mine once more. They soften ever so slightly. He wants to stay. God does he want to stay. But he’s already been gone too long. People will start to notice.

“Thank you, Simon,” I mean it. So much so that I could say the words one hundred times over and they’d mean no less. But he’ll never understand that.

“Don’t,” his low voice warns. I second-guess how my hands wrap around his forearms for just a second. But I don’t move. Not now. Not after everything.

“No. I mean it,” I say. “Thank you.”

He stands and breaks away from my grasp, but doesn’t move away. Two large hands cup both sides of my face and urge me to stand.

“You can’t say that,” his voice is dead serious. “Not when this is my fault.”

“Well I’m going to,” he tenses when I wrap my arms around him. I’ve gathered he’s not used to affection. Not from friends. Not from family. And certainly not out here. But that doesn’t matter. I need to touch him. Feel him. Know that he’s real and he’s here.

Another deep sigh escapes his chest. And then something unexpected happens.

I feel Simon’s lips press a tender kiss to my forehead. I don’t know when he rolled up his mask and I don’t dare break away to look. Instead, I bask in the small, yet significant action. I breathe in his familiar scent and let the moment drag on as long as possible. I take note of how he’s shaved since returning from the cabin. How much smoother his skin feels.

His hands move to my hair. His fingers lace through the soft strands and linger there for quite some time. I don’t know how long. But even after he pulls away they’re still there.

“You still have that knife I gave you?” his breath brushes against my face.

“It’s under my pillow,”

“Good,” Simon says, although I feel him slipping away already. “You’re going to need it.”

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rekilip · 1 year

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He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 16

An: Happy Valentines Day! Take some time to love yourself and cherish your beautiful soul :)

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 4100

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

The thud of his helmet against the empty wooden dresser echoes across the otherwise silent room. My eyes snap open. The muscles in my back tense. Who is in my room?

My head slowly turns to take in the shadowy figure just feet away. It’s too dark to see almost anything. The only source of light is what creeps under the door from the hall. But I know he’s here. I can sense his movements as he turns around to face me. I hold my breath as I feel my heart start to race.

The ominous soldier towers over my bed. His movements are almost inaudible. When I squint, I can just make out the outline of the bulletproof vest strapped to his chest. As he gazes down a deep sigh escapes his chest. The tension in my muscles eases. Not a stranger after all.

I was scared Ghost was going to keep giving me the silent treatment. For once, I’m happy to be wrong.

“What’re you doing here?” my voice is barely audible as I push myself into a sitting position. Somewhere in the haze, part of me wonders if he’s real. Or if this is all some wishful dream. If so, speaking too loud would be a mistake. Maybe even speaking at all.

A gloved hand brushes down the side of my face as his feet inch closer to the bedframe. I so badly want to lean into his touch, to be comforted by him, to pretend everything is going to be alright. But just as I feel myself give way, another sigh escapes his chest. My ears pick up on his ragged breathing. The atmosphere starts to shift. There’s something off about him.

Just as I shift away from his touch, the same hand shoots out and roughly grabs my hair, yanking me down so my neck is exposed. His other hand quickly presses against my mouth as a painful cry escapes through my lips. Strong arms pull me toward the edge of the bed.

“I don’t think you were listening to me earlier,” the mask brushes against my skin as his threatening voice hisses in my ear. My blood runs cold. Not Ghost. Not Ghost. This man is not a Ghost. Who the fuck is in my room?

My entire body freezes. Any fight or flight instinct becomes completely scrambled and my mind feels like a broken record. I am at every disadvantage.

The man tightly gripping my skin is one of the best soldiers in the world. Who is trained in hand-to-hand combat. Who outweighs me by over a hundred pounds. Who is stronger than me. Faster than me. And already has his hands woven into my hair, exposing the most vulnerable part of my body.

Even if I somehow managed a lucky knee to his groin, the only exit is locked and I don’t have a key card. Only authorized personnel have access to my room. Whoever this man is, shouldn’t even be able to get in. But here he is.

And here I am: completely at his mercy.

“I’m going to move my hand. If you scream, I’ll cut your throat,” he threatens. Two sets of wild eyes meet. His pupils are completely dilated and I find myself staring into terrifying black pits. Rage and excitement fight for dominance. “Understood?”

I attempt a small nod. What I do understand is that part of him wants me to try and get away. His fingers twitch against my scalp. He wants an excuse to hurt me. The hand around my mouth slips off as he reaches for something strapped to his chest. The silver hunting knife glints in the dark.

“What do you want?” I whisper.

“I just told you,” there’s a tightness to his voice, as though he’s restraining the rage that threatens to tear through the surface of his composed demeanour. “I won’t be repeating myself, so you better pay attention, little bird,” the name perks my ears. Little Bird. The other Ultranationalist, the prisoner, also called me by that name.

“I’m listening,” I feel the sharp blade of the knife shift around my throat as I force a dry swallow. The start of a panic attack pricks at the tips of my fingers.

“Good. Your father is hurt by your actions. He wants to know why you betrayed him-”

“I didn’t-” the urgency in my voice is quickly cut off.

“Don’t interrupt me you fucking snitch,” he snarls as the knife presses harder against my throat and his hand twists against my scalp, sending shooting tendrils of pain through my head. “You did. And now I have to risk being compromised to set everything right. So here’s what you’re going to do: You are going to help Price set a trap for your father. He expects it. When I stop by you will explain the details. All you have to do is tell the fucking truth,” the knife presses harder against my throat as he says this. “A lot is riding on this. Your father can only take so many chances trying to help you before the organization moves on.”

“Okay,” at this point I don’t know if the word even makes it past my lips.

“If you tell Soap – if you tell anyone, our contacts in America who are watching your friends and coworkers will take five of them. We’ve been tracking them with your father’s help. He wants you to know how serious this is. Their lives are at stake. Your life is at stake, little bird,” A sharp sensation tugs at the sensitive skin under the blade and I feel the first drop of hot blood roll down my neck and land between my collarbones. “If you think I’m the only one you have to worry about, you are even more stupid than I thought. We are everywhere and we are strong. And if you think you can keep hiding behind your father, you are wrong. The organization is the most important thing to him. Don’t be naive.”

Deep, visceral fear pulses through my veins. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as my breathing runs out of control. The air isn’t getting to my lungs. My chest burns as panic invades my lungs. I’m hyperventilating. Fuck. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?

“You had so much potential,” his tone changes as the tip of the knife traces down my throat, threatening to break more skin. It follows the path of the drop of blood, coasting past my collarbones, and starting down my sternum. A gross sensation creeps its way up the back of my neck where his hand is tangled in my hair. The knife lightly presses above my undershirt as he approaches my breasts, but just when I fear the gloved hand will go further, I’m released from his vengeful hands and shoved back onto the mattress.

His weight quickly shifts off the bed and then the thud of his boots retreats further into the room. I barely make out the shadow grabbing his helmet off the dresser. Then as a stream of light filters through a crack in the door upon his exit, I can just make out the white numbers sewn to the patch on his shoulder: 141.

I dream of the echo of his shoes against the cold cement floor. My ears ring as the sound grows louder and louder.

“Y/n…Y/n?” my head throbs as the thuds turn into knocks against the door. Burning light floods the room as Soap flicks on the light switch. I recoil from the terrible brightness. “You okay? Ya look like shite.”

“Thanks,” the bitterness in my voice is palatable. Sour and expired. Like a thundering hangover.

“You didn’t eat,” I hear the disappointment in his voice as he stares at the plate on the dresser.

“Wasn’t hungry,” Soap steps closer to the bed, concerned eyes raking across my form, completely hidden by the blankets. I tuck my chin into the softness, hiding from his gaze. Soap’ll think I’m just upset about my father, but he’s the least of my concerns. He can’t know about last night. “Can you leave so I can get dressed?”

“Five minutes,” he reluctantly agrees. “Price is expecting us.”

As soon as he’s gone, I rush to the sink mirror. Red is smeared across the base of my neck from the small cut. It was real. He is real. And out there, waiting for me to slip up.

Something tells me the slip of his knife wasn’t intentional. If he’s as smart as he claims to be, then he wouldn’t have left any marks. Yet here it is, Just above the neckline of where my shirt sits. I wipe away the dried blood with damp toilet paper then pull my shirt back over my shoulders so it sits ever so slightly higher on my neck. Then I tuck the bottom hem into the band of my pants to hold it there. If I brush my hair over my shoulders it won’t be as noticeable.

“Can we stop for coffee?” Soap nods, unusually quiet. The dining hall is busy as they finish up breakfast. He stops to talk to Konig as I head for the drink stand. I need something to clear my head. This is as close as I’ll get. I keep an eye on them as I fill the Styrofoam cup and then immediately down the first cup. The liquid burns my tongue and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I drink half the second cup before refilling it and joining Soap. I just need to get through this morning and then I’ll have time to think. Just get through this meeting.

“You’re gonna get the shakes,” he says eyeing the half-empty cup outside of Price’s office.

“I’ll be fine,” my trembling hands betray me though. But that’s not from the coffee. I’ve always handled my caffeine well and this stuff is far from strong.

Inside I claim the same plastic chair as Yesterday. Price is quiet as he types on the laptop and Ghost is nowhere to be found.

“Just a moment, sir,” Soap slips out of the room leaving just the two of us. My eyes flicker from the coffee to Captain Price seated behind the desk. His light eyes intently scan the screen as his distinct hat sits in the same place it always is. At first, I thought it was a fishing hat until I heard someone call it a boonie. Like Ghost and his mask, I’ve yet to see Price without it.

“You thought about our conversation?” he lifts his head to meet my eyes. The laptop lid is slowly closed and I feel my grip tighten around the warm cup.

“I did,” I fight to maintain a steady voice. He thoughtfully glances over my face. Price’s brows furrow as he presses his lips together. I know I look like a mess. My eyes are hollow and my bags stain the skin underneath. I haven’t seen proper sunlight in weeks and the life feels like it’s draining from my skin. Parts of my bottom lip have split from biting at the skin. I hardly look like myself. I also know he doesn’t really care. I’m hardly the first person here who can’t get a full night’s rest. All that matters is that I’m in good enough shape to help them out.

The door creaks open as Ghost quietly slips in followed by Soap. They nod to Price and find their respective positions. This feels too formal. And also completely unformal, to the extent that none of this is actually happening. It won’t be recorded, that’s for sure. It will cease to exist. I will cease to exist.

“And did you reach a conclusion?” he asks, full attention turning back to me. The coffee swirls in my stomach. Nerves eat away at what little confidence I had walking in here. I tug the neckline of my shirt up, making sure the cut remains invisible.

“I’ll help,” I state simply before pressing the cup to my lips and swallowing the last of the liquid. I feel Ghost intently leering at me. I force myself to look anywhere but toward him. Price nods once. He expected as much.

“Right then, I’ll have a script drafted up so you have time to review before tomorrow. Someone will drop it off at your room,” he shifts in his chair, about to turn away. I nervously pull at my hair, brushing it around my neck and shoulders.

“A script? What do you mean by a script?” my brows furrow together in confusion as he pauses to consider his answer. Price never mentioned how I’m supposed to help. Not that I expected them to tell me anyway. I’m not exactly the first person on their briefing list. Or the last.

“Same time tomorrow morning, you are going to give your father a call. Let him know you’re alright. That we want a peaceful resolution and are willing to work with him for a fair exchange,” I pull at my shirt again when I notice how closely his eyes analyze every expression. But it’s not just him. Soap and Ghost quietly guard the door with their total attention glued to my every action. There’s an air of doubt surrounding my intentions. Now is the time I should tell them about last night. If I leave it any longer their suspicion will only grow. But I run the real risk of hurting people from back home. My friends. People I’ve spent years of my life with. People that I love and don’t deserve a single bad thing to happen to them. Guilt twists in my stomach. I don’t doubt for a second the Ultranationalists will kill them.

“I’m going to talk to him?” My heart skips a beat and the styrofoam begins to crumple under my hands. How the hell am I supposed to talk to him? After all his betrayal, after knowing the horrifying acts of terrorism he’s committed, I don’t think I can even look him in the eyes.

“Over the phone,” Price elaborates. “But you’ll have a script and be briefed beforehand.”

“What will I be asking him to do?” I force an uncomfortable swallow. The urge to feel for the cut along my neck tugs at my fingertips as I grasp the cup tighter.

“You’ll be briefed tomorrow,” Price is curt as he stands from the chair. There are a thousand other things on his list more important than my never-ending spitfire of questions. “Soap, you and I are in the bay with the demolitions team.”

“Yes sir,”

“Can I just ask one more question?” their eyes latch onto me again. This one has been nagging in the back of my mind for weeks now and there hasn’t been a good time to bring it up yet. “Where’s my mom? Is she okay?”

Price exchanges a knowing glance with Ghost. He answers with a quick nod and a small sigh. “Your mother’s fine. She’s at your home in New York, guarded by a team of Ultranationalists at all times.”

“Oh,” his answer is almost too simple. “Thanks,” I say more to myself than him. Is it even true? This wouldn’t be the first time they lied to me and definitely not the last. Maybe he thinks I’ll be more cooperative if I think she’s okay. Or maybe she really is okay. Maybe my father cares more about protecting her than me. We never had guards when I was growing up. I always thought that was something out of our tax bracket, but that’s not the case. I tug at the back of my shirt again, making sure it doesn’t slip down my neck.

“Ghost, escort y/n back to her quarters. She’s not to leave for the rest of the day, meals included. I’ll call later,” as he steps out from behind the desk, Soap is already holding the door open. There’s an air of urgency surrounding their plans. Can the rest of the task force detect it? Or is it under wraps like everything else?

I start to follow them out the exit, but just as I’m inches away a strong arm reaches out, blocking the frame as the door clicks back into place, automatically locking. My chest brushes against the black fabric of Ghost’s sleeve. As my eyes slowly follow up the length of his arm, I notice his attention already on me. I sense a storm brewing behind his mask. The air surrounding us is completely still: a warning of approaching danger. On a summer day, the sky would turn green as the flies swarm and cattle huddle in the corner of the pasture. I fight the urge to follow their instincts and retreat into the corner of the room, but they have strength in numbers and right now I’m all alone.

“I thought I was supposed to go to my room?” already I feel myself walking on eggshells around him.

“Right. What’s up?” Ghost crosses his arms. “Soap says you’ve been acting weird all day.”

I shrug my shoulders, trying to play off the building tension in the air. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” his tone is cold as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. There’s a different type of tiredness attached to him today. From lack of sleep? Sure, maybe that’s part of it. But far from the whole reason.

“Nothing’s up,” I double down, taking a small step away from him. But I don’t get far. Ghost’s hand snakes out and latches onto my wrist. My fingers clench around the cracked coffee cup folded in my hands.

“Y/n, I’m not doing this today. Tell me why you’re acting like that,” Ghost is short with his words. Borderline impatient. I don’t focus on what he’s saying though. My mind drifts to his black balaclava and skull mask. What I would give to be able to hide like that right now. To stop him and Soap and Price from being able to psychoanalyze my every microexpression. To be able to retain my thoughts and emotions as my own. To disappear.

I tug at my collar with my other hand and as his eyes flicker to my hand I realize my mistake immediately. “See, you keep fixing your shirt,” he states.

“Let go,” I try pulling my wrist from his grasp to no avail. “Ghost,” I tug again and this time the crushed cup tumbles from my hand as his grip tightens. I know well by now just how strong he is, but I think Ghost underestimates his own strength sometimes. As his hand twists around my wrist, a throbbing pain shoots up my arm. “Fuck. Can you stop doing that?” he pauses for a moment, considering my request. “Just don’t… don’t grab me like that.”

“And you’re shaking,” the irritation behind his eyes switches to concern.

“Just had too much coffee,” it’s already too hard to hold eye contact with him. My gaze stays on the remains of the coffee cup, but as his hand tightens yet again I can’t help but react to the discomfort.

“No. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Do I?” I bite back. “Is it not enough that I’m about to get my father put in jail? Killed? Do I need to tell you every damn thought that crosses my mind too?” I overplay my emotions on the off chance he’ll decide it’s not worth arguing about. But then in one swift motion, he tugs me closer using my arm.

I brace myself against his chest with my hands, putting what little space I can manage between us. It’s hard to think properly so close to him. His scent starts to twirl around in my thoughts and makes me want to trust him. His sharp words pull me back into reality.

“Do you really think I don’t know when someone is trying to hide something?” Ghost’s hand brushes up the length of my arm, landing on the side of my neck, urging me to make eye contact. “Don’t make me resort to other options,” his low voice threatens.

“Like what?” I jerk my head away from his grasp. “You gonna torture me? Pull a couple teeth? Break a few fingers?” my empty words fly through the room and hit him with at least some impact. Enough to distract him.

“Do you still think that of me?” I note his change in posture as he leans away from me. A pang of guilt hits my chest. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. But it’s not like he’s respecting my boundaries either.

“You said so yourself, I don’t know how this ends,” I twist his words from the night at the cabin. Ghost’s dark eyes search for evidence against my claim.

“Y/n, I thought you trusted me?” his voice softens and mixes with confusion as his hands gently embrace my shoulders.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from taking my words back. I do. Fuck, I do. He’s seen me in my most vulnerable state, curled under his hands and gasping into his mouth. But I also trust the Ultranationalists to do everything in their power to hurt the people I love back home, if they haven’t already. I trust that we are in more danger here than anyone realizes. I trust that if I say something, people will die. I don’t miss the hurt in his eyes. But the urge to comfort him is overshadowed by the metastisizing fear growing taking over my entire being.

Fear courses through my veins and rattles my bones. It stains my every thought and desire. I’m terrified of more people getting hurt because of me. The weight of the possibility is crushing me.

But as Ghost’s intelligent eyes scan my frame once more and his arms pull me closer, his entire body freezes. I look up at him, his sudden silence, concerning. And then I see where his eyes have landed: just above the neckline of my shirt. Ghost’s hands tense around my arms. His back stiffens and when he speaks I hear the thick restraint in his heavy voice.

“Who did this?” one hand leaves my arm, his fingers wrap around the hem of the fabric to pull it lower. His warm, bare knuckles brush above the swollen cut, a thin scab starts to form in a short, straight line. The air is so tense it feels hard to breathe. If I were to try and run now, it would feel like navigating through quicksand.

“I did,” I whisper. “It was an accide-”

“Damnit y/n.” my name reverberates through Ghost’s heaving chest. A strange mixture of feelings flood my mind: hurt, anger, guilt, pain, fear, sorrow, fear, yearning, fear, fear, fear. “Stop hiding from me,” behind the mask his brows furrow and his bottom lids pull tight, just trying to understand why the hell I’m acting like this. He thought we were past this.

“I can’t,” my shaky voice is just above a whisper.

“Did they threaten you?” he pushes. The familiar edge to his voice is back, but I’m not the intended victim of this blade.

“Please stop,” I beg.

“Was it the Ultranationalists?”

I start to shake my head, but the swell of terror in my eyes is all Ghost needs to confirm his suspicions.

The charged space between us starts to shrink despite neither of us moving. No one dares to make the next move. I see the thoughts racing behind his mask. I feel the vengeance buzzing under the pads of his fingers. Ghost is ready to unleash all Hell on whoever did this. It’s exactly what I was afraid of. If he acts now innocent people will die. I will die.

“Is there somewhere safe we can talk?” his eyes snap up, my soft words bringing him back to Earth.

Ghost nods so subtly, I almost miss it. His knuckles linger on the cut a moment longer, trying to absorb the pain he’s brought onto me. I break our contact and start toward the door before I get too accustomed to his gentle touch.

“Y/n,” I feel the heat of Ghost’s chest press against my back. Strong fingers press into my hips, urging me to turn around. My heart clenches at his softness. I long to feel his flesh mold with mine. To hear his husky voice against my ear as our breaths synchronize and our bodies connect. As I look up, those dark pools mirror my own, but with a deeper sense of urgency. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

I wrap both my hands around one of his and raise it to my neck. I press his calloused fingers to the ridge torn across my skin and revel in the tenderness.

“They already have.”

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rekilip · 1 year

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💕 V-Day Special

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rekilip · 1 year

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part four —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 2.8k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. lowkey cannibalism implication. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: i'll try to get the next part quicker. my grandma wasn't doing well this past week but she is all good now~

Your fingers are decisive. You slot an arrow on the bowstring and release. It drives through the air with a silent whirl. Your aim is far from the best— it buries into the man’s shoulder rather than his skull.

The revolver falls from his grip and skitters across the ground. Your lips part to warn Blue, to tell her to pick it up before he can, but now his eyes point wildly in your direction.

An inhumane snarl rips through him. He is withered by hunger, aged beyond his true years. Matted hair and leathery skin. Still, he moves quick. He doesn't bother picking up the gun. Something animalistic drives him towards you. You find yourself unable to breathe. This isn’t what you expected. You fumble for another arrow, but as you try to get it on the string, it slips from your hand.

You are fucked.

The realization splinters your bones with adrenaline. It takes only a few blurred seconds for him to reach you. A weight greater than your own shoves you to the ground and your bow is knocked out of your grip. A human stench fills your nose as your arms flail around to keep a snapping mouth from reaching your cheek, your neck, your nose. Close combat is not a skill you’ve mastered. You have rarely needed it. Range weapons and retreating have been the tactics to shape your survival so far.

You can’t hear much besides his growling. You think you hear Blue shout. Blood pulses thick in your veins. You can’t think. A knife— you have that, but it’s in your coat pocket. His body is pressed against it and moving an arm to grab it could be enough for your fragile defense to crack.

It feels like you are being attacked by a dog, one with ribs that poke out and teeth that flash viciously.

Only when he pulls out his own knife does an idea occur to you. There is still the wooden arrow sticking out from his shoulder. It nearly pokes you in the face from all the movement. You wrap a hand around the base of it and snap the wood. You stab the splintered arrow into the first part of him you can reach - his torso. It doesn't stop him. Crazed eyes narrow. His blade goes for your neck but you block it. It cuts through the sleeve of your coat, earning you a gash to the plush of your forearm instead.

“Fuck,” you hiss, and tears prickle. Where is Blue? Maybe she could get—

The man is on top of you, and then he isn’t.

The weight is lifted, and the snarling ceased.

Through stinging eyes, you make out the shape of a dark shadow against the grey sky. There is an abrupt sound - the crack of bone. A snapped neck. The man’s head is bent haphazardly to the side before it rolls forward, limp and silenced. You breathe heavily through lungs that hurt.

A growl.

This is one you are familiar with.

But the arrival of it offers, for the first time, a sense of relief.

Your gaze slides over the form of broad shoulders and thick arms that toss the dead body to the side with ease. With the view from where you lay, Ghost looks even taller. Blue is dwarfed by him as she approaches his side, her eyes widened with concern more than fear.

She must have called for him. Or maybe he heard the snarling and rushed over.

Although you are the one laying on the ground, freshly attacked, she is the one he checks. Ghost touches a gloved hand to her cheek, moving his eyes to sweep over her.

“You alright?” he asks, firm yet gentle. “Did he hurt you?”

She gives a dismissive shake of her head. Then, it is she who bends down to help you up. It is a feeble attempt with only a child’s arm as your crutch. Your body feels like it’s been pillaged of energy. The wound on your arm is not nearly as bad as what their caltrops did to you, but it is enough to make you choke in pain.

“Fuckin’ hell," Ghost mumbles, before he gets the job done right by scooping you up. Only for a short moment are you in his strong arms, before he plants you on your feet.

"Did you know him?"

You press your palm over the gash, applying pressure over the oozing blood. Through tight teeth, you utter, “No.”

“Were there other camps in your area?”

You stand there bleeding, and he is interrogating you?

“I-I think so. Yes. One or two.”

He speaks under his breath, more to himself than to either of you. “Maybe he had to run, too, huh? Crazy fuck.” He roughly taps a boot to the side of the man’s body, inspecting it without care for its corpse. He glances around the trees for a short moment. Then, he looks back at you.

“Can you walk?”

It is less caring and more practical.

Can you?

“Yes,” you tell him, nodding lazily. Your eyes roll to the ground, having to watch each step of your boots to keep them moving steadily.

The walk back to camp is silent. Before you leave, Blue fetches the fallen revolver in the snow and gives it to him. Ghost discovers only one bullet in it. He carries the bow for you. You keep hold over the gash, hand soaked red.

At one point, a small hand brushes against your free one until her father grabs it and tugs her back to his side.

Everything feels like a blurred dream. Your brain decides to block out any thoughts of who that person was and where they came from. More importantly, what he could’ve done to you or Blue.

By the time you’ve made it to the cabin, you can’t recall what time of day it is. The boarded windows block out most light except a few stray strips. Ghost turns on a dim lamp.

To your surprise, he instructs you to sit on the couch and disappears for a moment before returning with his medical kit, which you have been a patient of once already.

This time, you are awake for it. Blue stands near the couch. He pulls a stool beside you. You shuck off your coat and roll up your soaked sleeve to reveal the gash that runs from the middle of your forearm to the knob of your elbow.

You know it could have been worse. If the blade had nicked bone, you’d be howling right now.

“Wet a cloth for me, Blue.”

She does so.

You twist your shoulder to offer the wound to him. Rough fingertips dab the damp cloth to the area and you roll your lips. You try to look at the wall to distract yourself, but find your gaze shifting to your nurse. He is a pragmatic one. All you can see are ashen lashes that line firm, shadow-cast eyes. Warmth rolls off his body in billows.

He puts the cloth down and rummages around for a needle and one of the rolls of black thread.

Before he can pierce the first stitch, his daughter’s soft voice stops him.

“Ghost,” she murmurs to break the silence. She walks over to the kit and grabs a small tube. Antiseptic, you believe. “You… You forgot this.”

His eyes lift from your arm and he looks back at her. There is a silent language they share. You’ve acted as a witness to it a few times now. You are not fluent in it, but with the way Blue’s brows furrow together, you have an idea of what he is trying to remind her of.

He is willing to offer the stitches.

You’ve spotted at least two rolls of the stuff.

But the antiseptic isn’t for you this time.

None of their medicine is for you.

“It might get infected,” she argues against his stare, her voice congealing into something firmer. She studies him.

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he tells her lowly.

“She saved my life, Dad.” She grips the tube in one hand. With the other hand, she rubs the heel over her eyes. “That guy went after her because she… she protected me.”

You stare at the shorn rug, finding a distraction in the worn threads of red and blue. This conversation thickens the air.

Blue continues, words pushed out in a ramble now, “I didn’t even see him there. I wasn’t,” and her eyes drift to the floor before she admits, “I wasn’t aware of my surroundings, okay? But she saw him and she helped me. That is why he—”

“And how many times have we helped her?” he interrupts harshly.

He is either unconvinced of your role as a savior or doesn’t particularly care, not when it means sharing vital resources. He hadn’t witnessed the whole thing. It all happened so fast.

“We can help her more,” his daughter insists. “We can make sure she doesn’t get an infection.”

Ghost’s voice travels a notch louder, “Then that is one less time we can make sure you don’t get an infection.”

You can remember this type of tone - your own father used it a few times on you as a kid, but never did it carry the weight of life or death. Your arguments usually involved doing your homework or eating an extra sweet after dinner. For Ghost and Blue, most of their disagreements are about survival and mercy.

He turns to face his daughter fully. “Do you understand?”

“I just think—"

“Look at me,” Ghost says. There is no room here for her to bicker with him. “Do you understand?”

She meets his gaze under lashes that flutter hesitantly, casting shadows across her pale temples. With a swallow, Blue quietly answers, “I do.”

She puts the ointment back.

He stitches you up.

You bite your palm to keep silent.

Sleep evades you.

You jolt up against the floorboards when you hear the shed’s door creak open.

“Just me.”

With the light of a small flashlight, her eyes glisten. You sit up, spine sore. You didn’t eat dinner tonight; you hadn’t managed anything during your short-lived hunt, and you didn’t dare to ask for food. You didn’t think it was a good idea to further test Ghost’s generosity.

“Hey,” you give her a small smile. “It’s late.”

“I know.” She carries something in her other hand - a lumpy pillow. She sits down on the floor of your shed and you scoot your legs over so she can have space. “Ghost said I could give you this. Something to sleep on.”

“Oh, thanks.” You can’t help it, the words leave dryly: “He’s so generous.”

A look passes over her illuminated face - something apologetic, something wary. She looks down at the pillow in her hands and runs a hand over the fabric.

“I asked if you could sleep inside now,” she says quietly, sighing. “He said it’s a bad idea. You could steal our stuff and whatnot.”

“That’s okay. The pillow will help a lot. And—” you wave a hand around, “Kind of like my own hotel room here.”

“Maybe we could decorate it.” Blue looks around. “At least, in the spring when the flowers come back. There are these really pretty white ones by the pond."

You want to tell her you’re not sure if you will be here that long. Instead, you tell her, “Maybe.”

“I wanted to say thank you,” she then says. Her hair is still in the braids, but a few wisps have slipped out. Blue toys with one of them thoughtfully. “You really did save my life today, huh?”

“You’ve saved mine before."

Probably more than once.

She nods. She seems deep in thought, and the color of her eyes appears less youthful than usual. You really didn’t need to think twice about protecting her. A child’s life - her future - means more than whatever awaits you, anyway.

“Ghost always says that the only person you can trust is yourself,” she mutters into the small space. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s right. I think that being careful with who you trust is smart.”

“Do you trust me?” whispers Blue.

“A little bit.”

You can’t trust her fully. She still has a higher power to answer to, despite her innocent intentions.

It is then that Blue flips the pillow over. Her hand slips under the faded, cotton case of it and reaches for something hidden inside— what you now realize to be the cause for the lump at the bottom. What she digs out and reveals to you in the palm of her hand has your breath catching in your throat. The tube of antiseptic.

“I can’t,” you choke after a beat of silence.

Moisture dallops the rims of your eyes. You don’t know why; this kind gesture feels foreign, inviting a strange weight to your chest.

“Blue... thank you, but I can’t.”

“You can,” she says and begins to untwist the top. “You had my back, and I have yours. I don’t want your arm to get infected.”

But your hand reaches to cover hers, halting the removal of the top and pushing the tube closer to her chest, away from you.

“Ghost will notice,” you explain. “And then you will get in trouble and he will make me leave, alright? Thank you, but I can’t.”

“Just a little,” she insists in a hushed voice. “He won’t notice if I put it right back.”

With great reluctance, you move your hand away and let her continue. Even just a little could be enough to save you from a nasty infection, and it’s not like you have antibiotics. If you did get an infection, you’d have to take the treacherous journey to a pharmacy and hope that there is still something left on the shelves. You’re not confident that you are in strong enough shape yet to survive a trip like that.

You shrug off your coat.

You’d rinsed out your shirt and dried it by the fireplace before retreating to your shed. Lifting up the cleaned sleeve, you reveal the gash sealed with sutures. The ridge of it is a swollen range of ugly mountains against the rest of your unblemished forearm.

With soft fingertips, she dabs some on. You swallow and offer another thank you.

When she is done, you lower the sleeve and rub at your damp eyes.

“I will put a liiiiittle more on tomorrow night, too. Just a little,” she tells you, and the youth sparkles back in her irises. She gives you the pillow. She puts the tube in her coat pocket this time. Not as great of a hiding place but you hope she knows what she is doing.

Before Blue leaves you to sleep, she tells you:

“I trust you a little bit, too, you know.”

a/n: more sweet papa ghost in the next one i promise :)

taglist: @cool-0-n @savagemistresss @morganvoorhees @dinsverdika @cated18 @lolszass @jeswiii @all-good-things-have-an-ending @alternatealt @uvoiid @underatreedrinkingtea @ramadiiiisme @crissteetee67 @lexi-zsy09 @spikespiegell @littlezarp @rebel-soldat @4headkissess @mckenzieriley69 @moxxiestar @palomaxaxaxa @msjaeger @galacticstxrdust @anubiseqq @l-0-v-3-r-z @kakashiislut @a-queen-blr @random0lover @hehatesmati @ghost-with-a-teacup @konigbabe

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rekilip · 1 year

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rekilip · 1 year

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Ghost.

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rekilip · 1 year

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ㅤㅤ𝟽︭ㅤㅤㅤ.하늘 ㅤㅤׁㅤㅤm︭𝖺︭r︭ㅤㅤ﹚﹚ㅤ﹠ ㅤ♥︎ ㅤ࣭ㅤ ૮ㅤ

ㅤ 𓈎ㅤㅤ𝚝𝚘.ㅤㅤ𝖾t𝖾𝗋nıtyㅤㅤ𓇬ㅤㅤׁㅤㅤ𝟿𝟺ㅤ࣭ㅤ

ㅤ ﹙﹙ㅤㅤs.𝖾𝖺ㅤㅤ★.ㅤㅤınfinıㅤׁㅤচন্দ্ৰ ㅤ 𓈒

ㅤ ♥︎.ㅤㅤ𝚏.lum𝖾ㅤㅤ﹠ㅤㅤm𝗈𝗈𝗇ㅤׁㅤ𔐬ㅤ࣭ㅤ

ㅤ𓏲ㅤㅤ̷ㅤㅤ𝘄ınt𝖾r ㅤ࣭ㅤ𝚋.𝖾arㅤׁㅤt︭h︭v︭ㅤㅤ☆ㅤ࣭ㅤ

ㅤㅤ✫ㅤㅤׁㅤ𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋ㅤㅤ𝑜𝑓.ㅤㅤr𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍ıonㅤׁ . °ㅤ 𓈎

ㅤ

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rekilip · 1 year

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part three —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: let's build some relationships :)

From behind a tree, your eyes narrow with precision as you draw the string of your bow. The feel of it in your hands offers satisfaction; you used to love new makeup, blushes and creams, or sweet custards from the market. Now, you love a good weapon.

Is there anything Ghost doesn’t know how to do? And you thought Paul had skillful hands.

You’re not sure exactly where Ghost and Blue have gone, because after leading you out the gate of their camp, Blue showing you the exact maze of steps needed to avoid their booby traps, they went their own way. Again, they disappeared among the white trees. You were left to pick a direction and stick with it. So you ended up here, the opposite way of the pond, with your eyes finally catching sight of a small deer. A fawn.

It’s young but perfect.

The blood that courses through its limbs switches on the predator part of your brain. It will be enough to keep you fed for at least a week, perhaps more, and promote the healing of the wound that aches with each shift of your waist. You inhale, exhale. The arrow is ready to release.

A single gunshot rings out.

Straight through the fawn’s eye.

It doesn’t even have time to cry out as it falls over, a small thud filling the quiet air. Your heart skips a beat and your eyes flicker in the direction of the gunshot, but you already know who has stolen this kill from you. In the distance, you see his bulky form, the lowering of his rifle, and then you see the girl bounce down from a tree and whirl towards the dead animal.

Are you kidding me?

You want to snarl and sneer. Instead, you flare your nostrils while lowering your bow. Meters away, Blue kneels down by the deer and you see her gently mouth words to its corpse. Perhaps, a childish parting that helps her feel better about its death. Ghost arrives and bends down to Blue’s level, and you can’t see his mouth with the mask on, but you know he is speaking to her by how he gestures his gloved hand around.

You’ll have to find another animal.

Squirrels aren’t your favorite meal. They’re not much compared to the taste of venison. But if you char squirrel meat just enough, it can get a nutty flavor that, with your eyes closed, you can pretend is a juicy slab of chicken home-roasted by your mother.

There is no room to be picky.

There is no room for wants anymore, only needs, and from behind the tree, you move your gaze to spot a grey squirrel that will be enough for the day’s needs. You take aim again. You’d put your washed hair in two French braids to keep the strands from interfering, but without ties, they are starting to come undone at the ends. There was a time when you cared about the fashion of your hair. Now, styling is a tactical choice.

Squirrels are trickier. They are small and require greater marksmanship than you are confident you have. Archery was never something you did until the world bled grey and demanded it of you.

The animal flicks its bushy tail, prancing about over thick tree roots. You wait for the moment it stills.

“How’s it going?” someone says, and you jump back in a step, fingers nearly slipping and releasing the arrow off at the ground.

Blue. You whirl around to see that she’s snuck up in a tree behind you, nimble and light on her feet, with curiosity filling her eyes as she sits perched on a branch, one that would be too high for you to ever climb. Her brown hair is hidden under her hood, the tip of her nose flushed pink from the air, and she rubs her hands together to brush off the crumbs of tree bark. Her movements remind you of the squirrel.

It takes a moment for your muscles to soften. You glance back at the squirrel and it’s already scampered off.

“Going great,” you tell her flatly, sighing through your nose. You can be patient with her. She’s nice, young. She’d snuck you extra food. “Shouldn’t you be with Ghost?”

“I’m just stopping by to tell you that we’re leaving. And—“ she squints her eyes in the distance for a moment, “That there’s a couple of those fucks due south.”

Those fucks.

Lovely. You glance around at the unfamiliar trees. From down here, you don’t see anything, but from her vantage point, her scope of sight is better for scouting threats.

“They’re pretty far off. Just be careful, okay?”

“Thanks. I will,” you nod.

Her bright stare then flickers to your braids. “You did your hair... What are those called again?”

She frowns, searching for the word somewhere in a corner of her young brain. You’re surprised that a ten-year-old girl doesn’t know what French braids are; they’d been all you wore as a kid. But then you realize her normal life came to an end at age five. Perhaps many of the memories have faded, replaced with more useful knowledge that her father has had to stuff in there.

You swallow. “Braids?”

“Braids,” she repeats, tasting the foreign word with a click of her tongue. “Right. They look really cool on you.”

“These ones are pretty shitty because I don’t have anything to keep them in.”

Blue starts to say, "Maybe you could—"

But a gruff call cuts through the trees, beckoning her head to turn.

"Blue. Let's go."

Your own eyes follow the voice and land on Ghost some odd paces away. He is already staring at you through lidded eyes, a palpable energy rolling off his body in waves that you can feel even from this distance. Over his shoulders, he carries the fawn with ease. Large palms clasping the knobby ankles. A steady drip of its blood creates a red stain in the snow beside his boot.

He looks horrific. A smear of crimson on the skull. Dressed in all black, carrying a dead animal as if it is nothing. You recall how he'd pushed you to the ground like you were nothing, too. You swallow the thought.

Before you can even look back at Blue, she's already gone. Whirling down from the branch and running over, following in his footsteps as they head back.

It takes another agonizing hour but you manage to kill a squirrel. The Greys don’t find you, luckily. You stuff your coat pockets with some pine needles and decide to call it a meal, knowing that you will have to hunt again tomorrow.

This area of the forest is still new. In your brain, you’ve already etched some markers to find your way back: the pond where they found you, a circle of pine trees to the right of their camp with a big stump in the center, a small creek past the hill. But the way you return back today leads to you approaching the camp from the backside, and you notice something.

Behind the cabin is something covered in a big black tarp. The tarp is peppered with fallen twigs and snow, but still, you think you make out the shape of a vehicle underneath.

They have a car—?

Irritation finds you. How did Ghost manage such things? A goddamn cabin, a deep trench that you assume he dug all by himself. And now a car. Did he also have petrol stored somewhere? By the looks of it, the tarp hasn’t been moved in a while. What is the car for? Is this what he uses to get medicine from the cities?

You almost scoff as your boots crunch the snow.

You won’t have any of our medicine.

There hasn’t even been a chance to consider how you might fend for some yourself.

For now, you will just focus on food.

Ghost has tied the deer upside down on a branch by the time you are back. You carefully recall the way through their traps. Blue has to unlock the bolted gate for you, but then she runs back to Ghost, who hands a thick blade to her.

“Go on, then, kid.”

“I hate this part,” she mumbles, but he lifts her up so she can reach the knife to the animal’s hind legs, beginning to skin the hide top-down. She wears a concentrated expression as she does so, nose scrunched, and you can tell that skinning deer is a skill her small hands have practiced before.

Ghost is the one to butcher it.

You skin your squirrel.

They use the fireplace for cooking, and of course, their dinner is prepared first. While you wait, you undo your braids and snack on the pine needles. Blue is surprisingly quiet, helping her dad cook a little and playing with Grim on the floor, but also flickering her gaze to you every minute or so.

“Your hair is curly now,” she comments softly during dinner. “From the braids?”

“That happens when you take them out,” you say after swallowing a piece of meat. There’s nothing to wipe your hands on, so you use your trousers as a napkin. Your mother would’ve had a fit.

“Do you…” you clear your throat, glancing at Ghost and then back to the girl. “Do you want me to braid your hair after dinner?”

She nods sheepishly, but Ghost huffs out a low breath. “I could do that for you, Blue.”

“Ghost,” she sighs. “You don’t know how.”

“How hard can it be?”

But Blue licks her lips and shakes her head, mumbling, “I want her to do it. She’s good at it.”

The way Ghost looks at you is rarely anything but uncomfortable. However, when you sit down on the rug with Blue, your hands finding purchase in her hair, his eyes seem to burn holes through your body deeper than any time before. It is as if letting someone touch his daughter physically sickens him, and causes his breathing to turn weighted and deep. He begrudgingly allows it but supervises, sitting on the couch as you begin braiding her hair.

Grim sits in her lap. She strokes his fur.

“You have pretty hair,” you tell her.

Blue softly wonders, “How can hair be pretty?”

“I… I don’t know,” you say. “The color, the length. It’s just pretty, I think.”

“Ghost cuts it for me,” she says, turning to look at him.

“Wait, don’t move. It’ll mess me up.”

“Oh, sorry,” she turns back but continues. “He gets it wet and has me lay my head on the tree stump so it’s all flat. Then, he chops it off with his knife. Right, Ghost?”

His response is a low hum. It’s stiff, pushing through a tense jaw.

You finish the two French braids, running your fingers over them.

"I don't have anything to tie them, but they look really nice on you."

It is then that Ghost stands up and disappears for a minute. When he returns, he has a roll of black thread that you believe he used for your stitches.

With the knife from his belt, he cuts two pieces, bends down, and silently offers them to your palm. Blue lights up. You tie off the braids and she stands, toying with them happily, and asking her dad what he thinks. Finally, you notice his shoulders soften.

"Beautiful," he murmurs quietly, just for her. He strokes the braided hair and then gives a gentle brush of his thumb over her cheek. "Always look beautiful, Baby Blue."

"Don't—" her cheeks flush and she briefly flashes her eyes to you, "Don't call me that."

"Used to call you it all the time,” he grumbles. “Gettin' too old for it, are you?"

What you learn Blue isn't too old for is curling up with him on the couch. This is the first night you stay in the cabin after dinner rather than retreating to your shed, simply because they've left some embers in the fireplace for warmth. You sit on the floor beside it. Blue sits with Ghost and he pulls out a book to read quietly to her.

You try not to look.

It touches you in a way you didn't think it would. It seems so normal. For a moment, you imagine a world where things could be different. A world where Blue wore braids to school every day. A world where Ghost could pick a new book out, rather than read the same ones over and over. A world where, maybe, you could have a family of your own, rather than be an uncomfortable witness to theirs.

But your family is nothing now. You never even knew what happened to your parents. The end arrived when you were away from them. No wifi. No service. Whether they died or turned Grey, you could never be certain. A pit in your gut told you their end happened years ago.

You’re brought out of your daze when Ghost stands from the couch. Blue has fallen asleep. He carries the girl to her room, and you take it as a sign to leave for your place outside.

But before you can open the door, his voice stops you, dropping down to an even lower octave.

“Hold on.”

You turn. “What?”

“We need to talk.”

Despite the warmth from the fireplace, your blood goes icy rigid. You stand there and press your lips. “If this is about the braids, then I won’t do it again. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No. Not that,” and he holds your stare, unwavering, “It’s about your old camp. The other day, you said there were… hoards of ‘em.”

The words roll off his tongue thoughtfully as if this is something that has been mulling over in that brain of his for a while. Thoughts belonging to a skull. A ghost. A father.

Ghost continues gruffly, “Where were you?”

“West of here,” you say. “Jesus, I think, at least. I couldn’t really tell where I was going.”

“How far?”

“Far, but not that far.” Your eyes drift to the floor. “By the forest’s edge.”

“We don’t see that many of them here,” Ghost mutters. This might be the most he’s spoken to you in five days. “Only ever a few at a time. Ten at the most.”

“That’s how it was for us. But more came, and then,” you exhale, “And then there were too many.”

Your eyes close, recalling the frantic manner in which you escaped. The last glimpse of your old life had been the mangled arm of your sister, thick bites cutting down to white bone. In a way, you were glad there were enough of them to kill her.

Your eyes reopen. “We should’ve had an escape plan, something for emergencies. We got too complacent after making it for so long.”

All Ghost says is, “Yeah. You should have.”

And then he is dismissing you with a lazy wave of his hand, turning to give you his back. You scowl, roll your eyes as he is not looking, and leave the cabin. Your spine already aches before you even lay down on the floorboards for the night.

You wonder if Ghost has his own emergency plans; what would have to happen for him to abandon this perfect setup? How would he do it? The memory of the car out back finds you as you drift off. But your sleep that night is haunted by terrible, grey dreams.

It usually is.

Hunting on your own is different than hunting with Paul. There's some learning to do. You have to study the tracks on your own and observe the marks of antlers against the trees. For the first week, you don't get a single deer. Only squirrels. One skinny hare. Ghost and Blue don't go with you; the fawn, rabbits, and stored cans and jars hold them over.

Most evenings are spent braiding Blue's hair. I like the way it feels, she claims. Ghost gets used to it. He still watches from the couch but rather than stiffly staring, he lays down and relaxes, placing a hand over his chest.

The next time they go hunting, Blue's hair is still woven in the French braids when you catch an interesting sight through the cabin's window. She stands on the dining chair to reach Ghost's mask, peeling it off. You can only see the back of his head: brown hair, chopped short.

So there is a human under that thing?

She sets the mask on the table and picks up a clean one. A different one.

When they come out, Ghost with his guns and Blue with her knives, he appears more like a father than a character from a horror film. There is no plastic skull. Instead, a cutout in the fabric reveals the tops of his temples and the strong bridge of his nose. You would never say it, but you prefer this one.

Blue must catch your staring because she tells you, "The other one was starting to smell. I made him change."

"Good call," you quip under your breath.

Again, you go your separate ways. You head for the pond. You think you can hear them somewhere nearby, but ignore it, focusing on the deer prints in the snow. It's hard to tell if they're fresh. It hasn't snowed in two days.

Your footsteps quiet to a halt when you hear a light crunching sound. Another living thing is close by. You take position behind a thick pine, eyes scanning the wooded area and the pond to the right of you. But you know the sound of deer, and you're starting to learn the sound of Blue.

She's scampering towards the pond, just her. You can't see Ghost. As protective as he can be, he allows the girl some length to her leash. Offers bite-sized moments of independence. She's allowed to play in the tree just outside their camp before sundown, but only if he is watching. So you imagine he has let her run off ahead only because he is somewhere nearby.

From the distance, you watch her lurch for a squirrel.

She is quick about it.

Grabs the neck, and holds it up. A quick slice to the jugular. Blood seeps. She frowns, closing her eyes and murmuring something that, in the quietness, you think is along the lines of: I'm sorry. Tried to make it quick for you.

And then she begins to skin it, right then and there.

Young, nimble hands taught to survive.

As she does so, you decide you've seen enough. You have your own food to find.

But as you move from the tree, your eyes drift to find another watcher. A form takes shape behind a distant oak, near the pond. Your heart spikes; a Grey? But no— a Grey would already be running towards her scent. This shape belongs to a human, a withered man with hair that juts out in grey clumps, and crazed eyes pointed right at her.

More so, a revolver pointed.

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rekilip · 1 year

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

masterlist

After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Parts:

one two

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rekilip · 1 year

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part two —one

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: let me establish some things/characters/relationships ya know.

You dream of that house in Norbury. The one you grew up in. Your mother calls you for lunch. You are caked in dirt, fingers just leaving the soil where they’d searched for bugs and worms. Your sister watches in disgust but now she is pulling your arm.

You follow her, bare feet padding the wood floors. The lunch is on the table - pine needles on a porcelain plate. An empty glass which should be filled with juice. Your stomach howls. You look up to ask your mother for something else.

Right before your eyes, she melts into something grey. Maggots bleed from the corners of her eyes. The irises turn white, staring down at you with hunger even stronger than your own.

“Mom?”

Across the table, your sister melts away, too. Her body is mangled to the point that it tumbles to the kitchen floor.

You wake up just as your mother’s decomposed hands grab your shoulders and her mouth finds the crook of your neck.

Your eyes peel open to find darkness.

Not the house in Norbury, just a sheet of black that covers the cold forest. This has become your new home, and likely, your soon-tomb.

You wipe your eyes.

You lean back against the tree which you have managed to hoist yourself in. Sleep finds you again, but this time, the nightmare arrives when you wake up, once more in the form of a rotten smell and hissed groans.

These ones are real.

By the time you awake at dawn, your joints ache. You barely remember how you even got up here, or how you got back up after the man and his daughter left. You sat there next to the broken bow for minutes, hours. Then, something moved you. The last piece of your humanness. It stood you up, forced you to find some pine needles to swallow down since meat was now out of the question, and it brought you to this tree branch before the night settled.

The sunrise over the white forest is pretty, you think.

But you hear something. Smell something.

You look down and what your eyes find beneath the tree branch is not pretty in the slightest.

"Are you serious?" your numb lips whisper, now fully awake.

Only a few meters below you stand three Greys.

They must have wandered near the tree during the night, catching a waft of your smell from up above. Their tattered heads are tipped back, pale eyes pointed at you. Mindlessly, their arms squabble up towards the branch. But it's too high for them to reach. One of them, once a young woman your own age, pathetically claws at the tree trunk.

The thing with Greys is that they are terrible climbers. That is something they all share because their infected brains cannot muster enough strategy for it. What they don’t share is how long they have been decomposing, and what kind of physique they started out with. For instance, a Grey with a child's body will be less of a threat than one who was once a thick-boned man. Similarly, a Grey who was recently infected will have more muscle mass than one who has been rotting for years.

If you had your bow, you would be fine. But Skull-Face took this from you. Bitterly, you understand why. Who was he to trust that you wouldn't point it at them the moment they turned their backs?

But now there is no way to kill them.

You will have to figure out something else.

You shift on the branch to get a better look.

One looks bigger than the others. It still has some hair left. The others only have exposed skulls and a few clumps jutting out that resemble black worms. The female clawing the tree looks pretty weak and slow. You could probably outrun her. But even if you are faster, the Greys do not tire. They don't have the need for rest that you do, and even after a night's sleep and some pine needles, you are beyond exhausted.

Fuck. He really should have just killed you.

You want to cry. If you were hydrated, you would.

But instead, you carefully stand up on the branch, hugging the trunk to keep your feet steady. You scan the area. You didn’t make it very far from the pond the man and girl found you near.

What direction did they leave in?

You think you remember but even if you run that way, what sort of protection will you find?

You don’t know, but it seems like the best bet you have. Desperation seals this plan in your brain. First, you need a head start, so without much to lose, you shrug off your coat and wait until the three are close together before dropping it over their heads. It’s enough to disorient them, even for a moment, so you can slip down from the branch, scraping your knees at the bottom, and take off.

The cold bites but the adrenaline warms your muscles. Your body feels heavy despite being so thin, but something drives it. Your legs carry you towards the pond and past it.

But it is not long before they trail behind you with grunts and clambered, uneven footsteps. You don’t need to look over your shoulder to know that the biggest one is running the fastest. By the sound, there is likely only a ten-meter gap between you and him, living and undead.

It must only be a few minutes before your stamina nose-dives. So little fuel.

They’re gaining on you.

You whirl past trees and snow.

A camp.

A high fence around a small cabin.

The sight is enough to push you forward, energy spent but your instinct driving you. It must be them. You run and run, but then you stop, a gasp slicing through your lungs when your feet just barely stop in front of a deep trench. It is dug around the perimeter of the camp, wide enough to require a jump.

There is no time to think. In an instant, you decide you'd rather be killed by his knife than turned Grey. Bitten.

So you leap across it.

Your boots just barely land on the other side.

You fall from the impact and there is a sudden intense pain as something sharp under the snow pierces your torso and causes your eyes to roll back, fingertips clawing at the frost. A ringing in your ears.

You make out a flurry of sounds: the pathetic moans as the Greys fall in the pit behind you, someone's heavy footsteps crunching the ground, and then a gritted-out “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

Then, blackness.

You wake up to the touch of rough fingertips.

"Should be enough. Hand me the knife, Blue."

Eyelids heavy, you see log-stacked walls that form a small living room. Your body lays on what you believe to be a sofa, the sprung cushions so different than the hard surfaces you’ve slept on for years now. Your coat - Paul's old coat - is long gone. You are left with only your soiled shirt, the fabric hiked up just below your breast.

Seconds later, you are aware of the two other people in the room. A girl with mouse-brown hair stands over your head. She hands something to the behemoth sitting on the stool, leaning over to look at your midriff.

Knife.

He will finally put an end to it all. He should have done so the first time. You clamp your eyes shut and inhale, ready for it again, but the stab to your gut never comes. Instead, a soft hand brushes your forehead and you hear the sound of his knife cut something.

"Hey, it's okay. He just finished the stitches."

"What?" you mouth.

"You may or may not have fallen on one of our caltrops," the girl says with a scrunch of her nose.

Confused, your head shifts against the cushion to look down. You see it now. The wound. Black sutures unevenly close it up, but still, some blood seeps.

“Don't get comfortable. Fixed it for you, but tomorrow you're out." He shakes his head as he speaks in a growl under his breath. "You have some goddamn nerve, you know. Leading those fucks over here."

"I— I had no other option," you croak, but just these few words take so much energy to push through your teeth, and you lean your head back.

"She made a smart choice," the girl comments quietly. Blue. She nudges her father's shoulder. "Come on, Ghost. Maybe she could—"

"No."

A petulant sigh blows up a piece of her hair. She looks back at you and in your half-aware state, her youthful eyes remind you of your long-dead nephew.

You are not awake for even a minute longer before your eyelids flutter shut again.

Blackness.

The next time you awaken they are sitting at a table in the corner of the room. You lift yourself against the couch with a wince, your hand instantly holding your torso. Your shirt has been tugged back down over the wound, and your brain is a bit more aware than before. You look around again, taking in more of this new environment.

When was the last time you’d been inside a house?

It's a modest cabin, but far homier than the tents of your old camp. There is a shorn rug on the floor and a small stack of board games: Scrabble, Monopoly, Battleship. Against the wall is a steel fireplace, the ash inside suggesting it was recently used. A lamp on the table casts a soft, yellow glow. You notice the outlines of windows that have been boarded up with planks of pine.

When your eyes finally land on the food they are eating at the table, your stomach hisses.

Ghost has the black fabric of his mask inched up so he can chew on a piece of meat. Blue sits on her knees in the chair, scooping her fingers in a jar of peanut butter. Some of it coats the corners of her mouth.

He notices and reaches over to swipe a thumb against her lips.

“Thanks,” she mumbles. She swallows a mouthful as her eyes curiously drift across the room. They widen when she sees that you are not only awake but trying to sit up.

“Ghost. She’s awake again.”

His response: wordlessly nudging a small plate and mug in front of the free chair at the table.

You swing your feet down, nostrils flaring to rake in the smell of food. Standing is a difficult task, one that causes the muscles around your wound to spasm. But hunger is stronger than your pain. Desperate. Hungry. You don’t have it in you to question the situation, not yet.

The small plate truly is small; it looks like he has given you scraps of things they didn’t want. Stale crackers. The hard pieces of dried meat from an animal you aren’t sure of. But it’s more than you have had in a week. With just how fast you inhale it, there is no time to wipe the crumbs from your lips.

Blue is staring wide-eyed when you are done.

You gulp down the mug of water.

“Shit balls. You really were hungry.”

Ghost pulls his mask back over a stubbled jaw and lets out an irritated groan. “I told you to stop with that. What are you even sayin’?”

“And I told you—“ she shoots him a look, tongue poking out. “ —that I like to be creative with it.”

They are talking to each other as if you are not even there.

“There is no being creative with it. If you’re gonna swear, do it right, yeah?”

A few more bickers. One voice low and gravelly. A cockney accent. The other voice, soft and pettish. But you don’t care to listen. Rather, your eyes stare at your empty plate and you press the tip of your thumb to the crumbs and lick them off.

The moment Blue is done with the peanut butter, a big boot under the table taps the leg of her chair.

“Time for bed, kid?”

“Dad—”

“Go on.”

He juts his chin in the direction of a small hallway where you can make out the shape of a few doors in the dim light. One must be her room because, with a sigh, she stands from the table and heads towards it, leaving you alone with him.

He is a man who threatened to kill you, and now a man who has stitched you up and fed you.

Tomorrow you’re out.

Sucking in a breath, you look up at him. “What is your game?”

He narrows his eyes. “That how you say thank you?”

“Thank you for what?” your voice rattles through fragile bones. “Keeping me alive for one more day? You should have left me there to bleed out.”

“I should have.”

“So why didn’t you? Are you fucking evil or what?” Your teeth tighten and the muscles of your face clench. “I have nothing. No one. You know I won’t survive out there. What was the point of this— “ you gesture to the spot where your wound lies under the shirt, then to the plate in front of you, “—and the food? There is no good reason to, right?”

“There is no good reason,” he repeats in a murmur. "Maybe I jus’ pity you. You look like you’re one of ‘em already.”

He leans back in the chair as his eyes drag over you. He is covered head-to-toe. Wearing a long-sleeve black shirt and jeans. The mask is just as intimidating as before, a plastic skull sewed crudely to the black fabric and two faded, white lines painted down the chin of it.

Where you’d been terrified of the sight the first time, you are now angered.

“I don’t want your pity. I want you to stop being a coward and fucking kill me already,” you say, waving around a bony hand, “...or fucking help me. Make up your mind, but don’t send me out there again to suffer.”

You continue, quieter, wiping your wet nose.

“You can do it now,” a curl at your lips. “She’s not here to stop you.”

Dark eyes flicker away and stare dully at the cabin wall. He is boarded up like the windows. There is nothing to see except for the growing tension in the muscles under his clothes and the way his hands roll up.

The silence is dizzying. It could be fatal.

But finally, he looks back at you.

He pulls his broad shoulders into an intimidating posture before offering his decision in a growl.

“You will sleep outside," and your heartbeat staggers, "You won’t have any of our medicine. You will get food for yourself once that shit is healed. And—“ his voice lowers into something that makes your frail body shiver, his hand moving to grip the table. “—if you lay a finger on her, your neck will be the next thing I break. Understood?”

Your lips part. They close.

Your eyes flutter shut and you lean back in the chair. With a gargled gasp, you nod.

“Understood.”

Something soft touches your foot that first morning.

It gently rouses you.

"Hey, I heard you're a part of the team now."

A head pokes into the small shed you've been banished to and sunlight filters in. Groaning, you shift against the dusted floorboards. Your body only fits with its knees bent. Ghost gave you a thick blanket to sleep with, but nothing to lay on. Still, this shed is within their fortification.

You are still alive.

Somehow.

The game of survival has spat you out here, at the camp of a father and daughter. The memory of your first encounter takes the form of a phantom welt on your throat. Could you trust that he wouldn’t change his mind?

It’s not like you have a choice.

"Huh?" is all you can say, looking up at the child who you suspect had great influence on the moments leading you here.

"You know... the team."

Blue smiles down at you. The soft touch to your foot ends up moving right by your cheek. A puffy tail tickles the skin.

"What is—?"

"This is Grim," she says cheerily, and reaches down to pick up what you now see is a chocolate rabbit. "He's a good friend of mine."

"You have a pet?" you ask, rubbing your eyes in surprise. The pain in your torso has faded just a bit. Still, your body feels like a corpse. You sit up and the blanket falls to your waist. You miss the couch.

"Not a pet, a friend," she says. "Come on. Get up."

Painfully, you follow her out of the shed. Now that you are not running away from Greys, you can observe their camp better. It is... impressive. Not only is there the fence and trench outside, but within it is more than you ever had at your old camp. Covered in the snow lays a wood planter, which you assume they use to grow crops in the other seasons. Just next to the house is a large wooden hutch housing more rabbits than you have seen in a lifetime.

Blue leads you there, plants a kiss on the top of Grim's head, and slips him back in.

"You have a lot of friends.”

“They aren’t all my friends,” she says. “Only Grim. The others are food.”

Rabbits for food? It's brilliant. They breed like crazy. Having this food supply at their fingertips means they must not hunt as often as you and Paul had to— which means, fewer encounters with the threats outside.

Ghost is smart.

The mere setup of this place is evidence of how well he understands their needs. And with how well-fed Blue appears, they have not yet struggled the way you have.

But their food won’t be for you much longer. With your lack of a bow, you wonder how you’re meant to hunt.

Instead of worrying about it yet, you ask Blue, “Where is your dad?”

“Huh? Oh, Ghost is cleaning up your mess from yesterday.” She gives a shrug. “And he’s shoveling the trench. Doesn’t really work if there’s snow in there.”

“Why do you call him Ghost?”

You take a good look at her.

Her fair skin covers soft cheekbones, the skin of her rosy lips has been chewed a bit at the corner, and her eyes are truly the opposite of his: full and bright. She thinks the question over for a long moment as if it is something she’s never had to prepare an answer for.

Maybe, there has just never been anyone around to ask.

“He used to play outside with me,” she finally says. “He was in the military, you know? And when he was home, we would play this survival game. Pretend to shoot each other. Climb the trees. He had his codename, so I had to have mine.”

Military. That makes sense.

She continues, eyes flickering down to the herd of rabbits as her fingers brush thoughtlessly over the edge of the hatch.

“When things happened, I just remember him telling me that it was like we were playing survival again, except - you know - not a game this time,” her brows furrow, then she shrugs, “He’s called me by my codename ever since and I usually call him by his. Sometimes Dad fits better.”

“So," you say, "what is your real name, then?”

“I’d tell you," she gives a smile, "...but then I’d have to kill you.”

It is then you notice that Blue carries two knives on her. One strapped to her ankle, and the other tucked in the belt of her trousers.

Breakfast consists of what you now realize is rabbit. Again, your plate is much smaller than theirs. Ghost feeds you like one would feed a stray dog. You thought it might be awkward, sitting at the table with them. Part of the team. Except, not really. You feel more like a pest.

It's not really awkward apart from the fact that Ghost doesn't spare you even a glance. Blue's curiosity fills the space. She asks for your name. She wonders where you came from and why you were alone, her head tilted and her elbows leaning on the table. You explain your story quietly, shifting your gaze to her dad, and do your best to leave out the gritty parts. She listens, and offers a few gentle "sorry's".

"I can't imagine having a sister," she says when you are done. "And I also can't imagine having to watch her die like that."

Ghost stares at her.

You respond anyway, "I never imagined it, either."

After eating, Ghost leaves to fetch the same blanket he'd given you for sleep. Finally, he looks at you. Dark eyes that have the smallest flicker of disgust.

"You smell like shit. Come on."

You learn that bathing for Ghost and Blue means using a small rag and soap made from resin. The cabin has a bathroom, but there is no running water. Instead, there is a bucket of water collected from a nearby creek. Ghost hovers near the bathroom door for a moment, before shaking his head and leaving you.

The cold water stings. Ghost was blunt but not wrong. You smelled like rot. You drag the rag over your skin and the valleys of your ribs, disgusted by what you see, and have a hard time remembering what your body once looked like. Your wound is still puffy against the stitches. Red, screaming. The small, scratched mirror above the sink shows you a ghastly face. You look away. You use the blanket to dry yourself.

Outside, you find Ghost and Blue playing tic-tac-toe in the snow. It's something you used to do with your nephew, only it was usually one-sided because he was always too withdrawn to care. Blue, on the other hand, narrows her eyes in fierce competition and Ghost sits on a tree stump, his elbows on his knees.

“How come you always get to start, huh?”

“Because,” she sings, drawn out, “Youngest goes first.”

“Doesn’t sound very fair.”

“Life isn’t fair. Remember, Ghost?”

“Jesus, kid. Not even a teenager and you’re already usin’ my words against me.”

"Don't say them if you don't want me using them."

"Just go, it's your turn."

This is how those first few days go.

It is mundane. Games, scattered meals, and walks to the creek for water. You don't join them. Ghost ignores you for the most part except to silently offer bits of food and checks to your wound. His rough fingertips never soften, not for you. He finds your old coat on the second day and gives it back with a cold: M’not giving you another if you lose it. It still smells like Greys.

You feel like an intruder, sticking to your shed most of the time. Blue pokes and prods at you curiously. It is as if she doesn’t know how much she is allowed to interact.

On the third morning, she greets you again with a soft wake-up call from Grim and, to your relief, an extra piece of meat that she slips into your palm while whispering: Don’t tell Ghost, okay?

And it's on this day, after breakfast, that the two of them decide to leave the camp to go hunting. Ghost is a big guy. Rabbits alone can't keep up the thick sinew of him.

"You're comin' with us," he tells you.

You almost choke. "What?"

"Your stitches are lookin' fine and you're walking alright." His voice is flat, with an edge to it that teeters towards irritation. "You can get your own damn food."

"I don't have anything to hunt with," you remind him.

He tucks Blue's hair behind her ear before asking her to wait outside.

Then, he disappears into a room down the hall, coming back a moment later with a wooden bow in one hand and a military-grade knife in the other. On his back is a rifle, and in a sheath on his jeans is a handgun.

He sticks the bow in your hand, then the knife in the other. With wide eyes, you look over the carved wood. It is stronger than your old one, carved smooth from oak. Along the curve of it, Blue is etched.

"She doesn't use it much," he says.

Suddenly, the metal tip of his handgun presses to your torso - the wounded side - and he loops his fingers around the back of your neck, pulling you close.

"Don't even think of trying anything," Ghost growls in your ear, digging the end of his gun hard enough to make you whimper. Your healing wound cries out. "Do you hear me?"

"I hear you. I won't."

taglist:

@cool-0-n @savagemistresss @morganvoorhees @dinsverdika @cated18 @lolszass @cristeetee67 @jeswiii @all-good-things-have-an-ending @alternatealt @uvoiid

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rekilip · 1 year

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He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 14

An: Well, it only took 36,000 words to get here, but here we are! It's a long one and I had so much fun writing this part, so I hope you like it! My school is ramping up again, so I won't be able to update as often, but I'm still working away!

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 6100

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: 18+, Smut, nsfw, angst, military setting, explicit language, graphic depictions of violence, use of guns.

I’ve never shot a gun before, but as I hold Ghost’s in my hand, I try to imagine what it will feel like.

The weapon is like solid lead in my hands. I weigh my options as I click the safety on and off. I feel like a broken scale and I’m indecisive at heart. Tonight is no different.

I twist the weapon around to get a better look at the black coating. It’s well taken care of. Everything Ghost does is so meticulous and thought out. So, to see him leave the cabin in such a haste is cause for concern on its own. Did my words really affect him that much? Or was that all his own doing?

Part of me wonders if he’s watching through the window. Does he think I’d risk attempting to shoot him? I could turn the gun around in my hand. He wouldn’t expect that. None of them would. But then neither of us would get what we want. I’d never see my family again. There’s no satisfaction in the thought.

I also know I couldn’t kill anyone else either. No matter the harm they’ve done. There’s already so much pain in the world. Who am I to add to it? Who am I to decide who gets to live or die? I’m no God.

Yet, I can’t help but wonder if the world would be better off without men like him.

So, I set the gun back down on the table. And then I pick it up again. I slide the magazine out and take each bullet. I slip them into my pillowcase. This is as much power as I take back tonight. Whatever Ghost does if or when he returns is all on him. I am staying as far from this game as possible. I never wanted any part. There are enough men dead because of me.

I sleep with the sound of bullets quietly rubbing and clinking against each other beneath my skull. When I feel his hand cold against my skin, I swear I see Death himself.

The ragged gasp for air feels like my first breath. My heart is racing. I feel the hot, meaty muscle as it climbs its way up my throat and suffocates me as it beats against my windpipe. Thump, thump, thump. My eyes immediately lock on the ominous shadow.

Ghost slowly retracts his hand. He smells like sweat and the outdoors. The cold scent lingers on his clothes and mixes with the smell of burning wood present in the cabin.

Moonlight filters in through the window and mixes with the warm glow of the fire. Between the two, I can just make out the watchful eyes behind the balaclava. He sits on the edge of the bed with both hands now resting on his thighs. I didn’t even feel the dip.

I sit up and pull my knees to my chest and away from him.

“How long were you there?” I don’t expect much of a response. I don’t know if I want one. Once I open this door, there are only so many places it can lead.

“A while,” Ghost’s voice is quiet and strained. He says he’s been here a while, yet his hands are still cold. Or maybe I just imagined they were cold. None of this feels real anymore, only my drumming heart demanding resolve. “Where are the bullets for my handgun?” his question catches me off guard. I didn’t think he’d notice so soon. Maybe he has been here a while? Maybe he already knows. I glance at the table to see the shadows of the weapons in the same spot as before, visibly untouched.

“I hid them,” I say without making eye contact. If I do, he’ll know for certain where they are. There’s something about him that’s almost angelic in the way he reads people. It’s utterly terrifying.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure anymore,”

“Y/n, you know I’m not going to shoot you,” It almost comes out like a question. I know, in theory at least. He can’t shoot me because he needs me, but does that mean he won’t?

Part of me knows he won’t because there are better ways to kill a person. Cleaner ways. More personal ways. They could make it look like an accident. 141 could erase me from existence - make it look like I was never born - if they haven’t already.

“Why are we doing this?” my voice is barely audible. His actions over the last day have left me feeling more confused than ever. First, he says it was all a part of his plan and now he’s saying it wasn’t. Deciphering the truth has become more frustrating than ever.

“Could you recognize the men who did this to you?” I hear the strain in his voice again, like he’s holding back.

“I was blindfolded,”

“Their voices?”

I shake my head. “They all blend together,” A pent-up breath escapes my chest. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does,” he lowly urges. “Y/n, I need you to know what happened to you was unacceptable. That was never the plan. You were to be kept on a low dose of drugs for a limited amount of time, just enough to disorient you. What they did – those marks on your skin – should have never happened. Never,” He insists. I wrap my arms around my knees as he shifts closer. An anxious feeling creeps up the back of my neck. “I can’t punish them if I don’t know who they are.”

“I don’t want more people getting hurt because of me,” I finally look at him. He leans toward me with one hand resting on the bed. There’s a nervousness in the air.

“Not because of you. Actions have consequences,” he says. “Their behaviour will be corrected.”

“Please don’t,” I quietly beg as I shift onto my knees. I take a risk and gingerly grab onto his forearm. “It’s not worth it,” I’m livid it happened in the first place, but their punishment is just spreading the pain around in my name. I don’t want that. I want it to end.

“If I don’t, it’ll happen again,” Ghost says as he looks down at my hand. His words are resolute. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. His strong arm is tense under the henley, but I don’t pull away.

“What about the man behind this one?” I reach to pull my shirt over my shoulder. His soulful eyes latch onto the bruised skin. Ghost’s chest heaves with a deep sigh. He knew this was coming.

“He needs more than just correction,” Ghost’s eyes are glued to the marks.

“Like what?” I risk the question. It’d be so easy for him to shut me out. To turn around and leave. But I need to know. What kind of a person is he? How does he perceive his own cruelty? I silently pray he stays.

“Only Hell can help him,” Simon finally looks up. His eyes are filled to the brim with so many emotions, they’re hard to discern. But what stands out the most is how much pain is evident behind that mask.

“I don’t believe that,” I grip his arm tighter. Part of me is afraid of his answer. I don’t know the truth behind his words. I only have a small idea of the violence he’s capable of. Only glanced through a crack in the window the pain he’s caused and even that was significant.

“You don’t know half the things I’ve done, y/n,” his hands tighten into fists.

“I’ve cut, burned, fucking butchered people without a second thought. I kill men. It brings me so much pleasure to watch those animals die, y/n. I’m not someone who can live without violence,” Ghost starts to tremor. ”There are only so many places for a man like me.”

I shake my head. “I don’t…I don-”

“Believe it,” Ghost cuts me off. “Look at what I did to you,” he moves closer as his other hand reaches up to my exposed arm. Ghost’s fingers lightly trace the bruises. His hands are hot, different from how I remembered them moments ago. There’s a warmth to him, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Part of me wants to make excuses for him: that it was the heat of the moment, or because I knowingly withheld information that put us all at risk. That doesn’t make it okay. None of this is okay. My moral lines have become so blurred within the last several weeks, it’s hard to know when they’ve been crossed.

I don’t know what to say to him. I focus on the feeling of his gentle fingers on my arm.

“It was the only thing that fixed my father,” His voice deepens. I’m not prepared for where this conversation is about to go. I feel my heart racing in my chest, ready to break free. “I used to hate him for the things he did, how he’d hurt my brother and mum. Fuck, would he hurt her. He hated her and took every ounce of hate out on that woman. He left her beaten and bruised for years,” Ghost wraps his hand around my arm, under the dark bruise. “And look at me now. Look what I’ve done to you. You don’t deserve this.”

My throat tightens and I feel tears prick at my eyes. I tilt my head back and force them down. I feel his careful gaze follow down my neck, across my collarbones, then land on the damning marks above his fingers.

“You’re better than he is, Simon,” it’s barely a whisper.

“You don’t know me,” Ghost’s voice cracks.

“Maybe not. But you’re here right now. And that tells me all I need to know,” our eyes lock together. I see the distress behind his mask. How he so badly wants to believe me. “Simon, I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t. You don’t know how this ends, y/n,” he murmurs. I shift closer to him again so that our legs rest against each other. His breathing deepens at our proximity. His hand leaves my arm to wrap around a strand of hair. He examines it quietly, his thumb slowly tracing the length.

I feel the heat and tension radiating from his body, yet find myself strangely at ease in his presence. He cares. He won’t dare say it, but I can feel it in his gentle touches, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. He had my back when his men were making crude jokes in the van. I think of his concern for me when we were at the last safehouse and I didn’t have shoes. How he lingered to make sure I was okay. How he gave me an extra blanket and touched my shoulders when everyone else was sleeping. I remember when he immediately noticed something was off after the prisoner confronted me. The first thing he did was make sure I was okay. He’s always cared.

My heart still races, but not because I’m scared. My fear has morphed into a more dangerous emotion. One I can’t say out loud. One that would put both of our lives in danger.

When I look into his dark eyes, I see them mirroring my own. Shadowy pools of desire lap at his irises.

“Y/n,” he warns as I look up at him. His eyes flicker down to my bottom lip brawn between my teeth.

“Can I lift your mask?” his head starts to shake even before I’ve finished speaking. “Just a little,” my voice is barely audible. The warm glow of the fire bounces off the walls. Ghost is tinted red. He tilts his head down, searching my eyes. Part of him is still reluctant to trust me. There have been so many people in his life who’ve betrayed him, who’s to say I won’t do the same?

“Ok,” he whispers, dropping the strand of hair.

My hands meet the hem of the balaclava, resting just above his sternum. I slowly roll the fabric up, leaving time for him to stop me. This is the first time he’s ever allowed another person to do this. I feel his vulnerability with each shaky breath. The backs of my fingers trace along his neck as I move the fabric. The scruff that lines his neck and jaw brush against my hands. His adam’s apple bobs as he forces down a nervous swallow. “Just a little more.”

I move the mask just above his jaw. Like the rest of him, it’s sharp and strong. Dark hairs fill in the space after missing his daily shave. Ghost’s hands move to my outer thighs and his thumbs rub along my skin with a reassuring pressure. I bring the mask over his lips and rest the excess material over his nose. Ghost presses his full, slightly chapped lips together as he watches my eyes roam his face.

Part of me wonders why hasn’t he stopped me. Does he yearn for the same type of connection? Does he think about me in the dead of night with wandering hands? Is this something we’ll use against each other in the future? Will there be a future? All of this is a bad idea. But I can’t help the longing. The yearning. How badly I want to feel his hands on my bare skin. Tangled in my hair. Reaching the darkest parts of me.

When I look up, his eyes are so incredibly intense, it’s impossible to look away. A large hand cups my cheek and wraps around the back of my head. Neither of us dares to move any further. We stay frozen in a state of almost vulnerability. It’s not too late to turn back.

It’s hard to see where his irises end and pupils begin, they’re so dark. His eyes hold every word he’s too afraid to say. Words are dangerous. They confirm every want and desire. I’m no braver than he is, not by a mile. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.

Ghost leans down and rests his masked forehead against mine. The soft fabric presses into my face. His nose tenderly brushes against my own.

“Y/n,” he murmurs as his thumb tenderly traces along my skin. “You have no idea the things you do to me,” I feel goosebumps run down my back at his low, sultry voice. Simon’s cool breath fans against the nape of my neck.

The air between us is charged with tension. I feel a heat start to burn low in my stomach.

Ghost doesn’t move any closer. He has aired his desires. Now it’s my turn. How far do I want this to go? How far am I willing to take it? Nothing happens unless I initiate.

I run my hand along his strong jaw as I lean forward. I hesitantly brush against his lips, providing one last opportunity for us to turn back. Simon ghosts his lips above my own. My muscles tense in anticipation and my breathing is fast and shallow. I loop a finger through his belt loop and pull him closer.

Ghost takes this as permission and gently presses his lips onto mine. The kiss is soft and fearful and longing. After a breath, I pull away ever so slightly to read his eyes. They open slowly and linger on my lips for a moment longer. Ghost swallows thickly before looking up. There’s an insatiable hunger swimming in those dark pools of desire.

I long for those hot August days spent on the poolside almost as much as I long for him to drag me under the surface. I feel Ghost’s calloused hands moving up the side of my body like waves. Shivers run along my spine. My senses feel heightened. My lungs burn as icy water floods every cavity. I want him to hold me under until every breath of air is stolen from my lips.

Ghost shifts onto his knees and slowly stalks above me. His moves are calculated and predatory. There is only one thing he is on the hunt for. Only one thing that can fully satisfy his appetite.

I lean back as he moves closer until I’m fully pressed against the bed. Ghost leans down on his elbows as his knee urges my legs apart. A dull pulse throbs in my lower stomach. A large hand brushes the hair out of my face as he leans closer.

The kiss is harder this time, needier. Simon’s breath is hot against my mouth. My lungs smoulder with each breath, threatening to burst into flames. I run my hand under the back of his mask into his hair. I want more of him.

“Sweetheart,” my heart skips at the name. “How far can I take this?” his hands cup the side of my face. There’s a different type of seriousness in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.

“All the way,” I watch as he licks his lips in anticipation. “I want all of you.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I have to be gentle with you,” but I don’t want him to be gentle. I want every pent-up emotion branded into my skin with an iron rod. He’s held back so much from me. I want everything out in the open.

“All of you,” I repeat, brushing my thumb against his jaw.

“Y/n,” he warns as his lips brush against my ear. There’s an exciting sharpness to his tone.

“Don’t hide from me,” I whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he holds his head up to search my face. There’s genuine fear behind his eyes, but as they flicker down at my lips again there’s an even stronger desire. Once he starts, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. Every part of his life is so disciplined, that once he relinquishes control, all self-restraint is gone.

“I trust you,” I trace my thumb above his full lips, pausing in the center. His brows furrow, waiting for me to take my words back, change my mind, tell him I don’t mean it. But I do. “I trust you, Simon.”

He uses the last of his restraint to search my eyes one last time. There’s no uncertainty, no fear or hesitancy. I want all of him. Need all of him. Desire burns within my core and he is the only one who can satisfy it.

His lips are hot and fervorous. Ghost’s eager fingertips drag across my pliable flesh as his hands skim under the hem of my shirt. I want to feel his touch everywhere, my lips, my neck, arms, and chest. I need him everywhere. I want to be consumed by him.

His sweet tongue slips between my lips. It’s a natural motion I welcome with my own. He’s gentle at first, cautious even. But then the hunger grabs a hold of him. His teeth latch onto my bottom lip and pull. Dark eyes test the waters as he gauges my reaction. How far can he really go? A small gasp escapes my chest and I almost miss the corner of his mouth twitching into a devious grin.

“When I tell you to do something, say yes sir,” his husky voice whispers into my ear as a large hand lightly wraps around my throat.

“Okay,” I respond. He’s not the only one testing the waters. I feel the strong hand tighten ever so slightly. I can’t help a sly smile at his reaction. “Yes sir,” the words noticeably arouse him. Ghost draws in a deep breath as he drags his bottom lip between his teeth. I think of all the times I offhandedly called him that the last several weeks. I wish I knew what a hold it had on him. “Is that better, sir?” I tease.

“You’re trouble,” his tone is suggestive. I love the feeling of his hot breath hitting my neck. I want to feel it drift even lower.

Ghost’s hands are back at the hem of my shirt. He gently tugs at the fabric and I take the signal to sit up and slide it off. I toss it to the side as his eyes take in my figure. I notice how they falter on some of the larger bruises, but in another instant, they’re back on me.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmurs.

His rough hands travel up my torso - taking care to avoid the bruised areas - as his lips find my neck. He starts off slow, deeply kissing me behind the ear, before moving towards the nape as he begins to suck on my tender skin. One hand begins to tenderly massage my breasts. I feel my eyes flutter shut with pleasure, but then a small part of me remembers I don’t want marks left above the hem of my shirt, especially these kinds of marks.

“Your turn,” I tug on the bottom of his henley.

“That’s not how you ask,” he mumbles as his teeth rake against my skin.

“Please, sir?” he thoughtfully hums against my neck.

Ghost sits up as he straddles me to pull his shirt off with one hand. My breathing hitches. He is stunning. Years of relentless work have shaped him into the machine he is today. Ghost is built like a predator. Strong, sturdy, and sharp. Scars from past challengers and victims litter his chest like medals. His tattoo wraps around the entire length of his arm, around his shoulder, and spanning across half his chest. I’m left speechless as he leans down to meet me again.

My hands unapologetically travel across his vast chest. His muscles flex under the pads of my fingers and I’m reminded of just how strong he is. But I don’t get far, Ghost grabs both wrists with one hand and pins them above my head. He enjoys looking down at me, completely under his power. There’s something about our size difference that is thrilling. He is in complete control. He can do whatever he wants.

Ghost’s lips return where they left off, slowly moving down my delicate body. Past my neck, down my sternum, and right to the spot he is looking forward to the most. His other hand wraps around my back, finding the clasp to my bra. His eyes peer up through his mask, looking to me for permission to keep going. I give him a small nod and immediately I feel the release of the band. He slides the bra up my arms, letting go of my wrists only to free us of it once and for all before grabbing them again. Ghost’s other hand returns to my back, urging me to arch my chest to his lips.

Sharp teeth nip at my soft breasts between deep kisses that are certain to leave more bruises. Ghost adds more pressure to my back as he pushes me closer. He takes his tantalizing time teasing me with his tongue as it swirls around my nipple before the abrupt feeling of his teeth pulling on my skin takes over. I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips. I press my lips together to hide my heavy breathing, but it doesn’t get past him.

“Let me hear you, sweetheart,” he tastes the tender skin. “No one around for miles.”

Both his hands wrap around my waist as he pulls me flush against his chest. I take the opportunity to run a hand along the waistband of his pants, slipping a finger just under the edge of the fabric. Ghost pauses as his chest heaves from the movement. I grab his jaw and guide his lips to mine again, mimicking his previous movements by tugging on his lower lip with my teeth. I can’t help the growing smile on my face.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart,” his hand trails down my stomach, slipping between my pants and underwear. Two thick fingers circle around me above the thin piece of fabric with growing pressure. My head sinks back into the pillow as my breathing becomes more jagged. Sparks fill my vision from the intense pressure.

“Oh fuck,” I whimper from his touch. His eyes are intent on my face as they watch the pleasure wash over me.

“That’s a good girl,” he says eagerly. “Wet for me already?”

My thoughts are too twisted to come up with a smart response. I press harder against him for more traction. If only he knew how much I’ve thought about his hands and all the things his fingers can do.

While slipping a hand under the fabric, he leans down letting his lips press against my neck. Our bare chests brush against each other and his other hand winders through my hair. Ghost fists the strands against the back of my head and slowly pulls back, further exposing my neck for better access. I feel the edge of his teeth take my tender flesh between them. I imagine the marks that will litter down my neck leading across my chest.

A thick finger slips into me while his thumb focuses on my clit. The feeling is so intense I can’t help the moans escaping from deep within my throat. Ghost pulls harder on my hair. A deep chuckle reverberates through his chest. He’s enjoying this.

I wrap a hand around his belt, pushing the leather through the loop, ready to pull it off, but then a large hand clasps over mine.

“So soon?” Ghost teases. The intense pressure of his other hand leaves between my legs as he slides his belt off. The buckle jingles as he twists the leather into itself. When I look down, I realize what he’s created.

There are two spaces for a set of hands to slide through while the belt acts as a pair of handcuffs.

“Simon,” his name is breathy on my tongue.

“Arms up,” he orders.

I raise my hands above my head and feel the leather restraints slip over my fists. “Not tight,” I tell him. His eyes glance down at me and he seems to understand. He pulls the leather band, leaving just enough space that I could escape if I really needed to, before looping the leather back through the buckle.

“Okay?” he whispers and I nod my head in response. “Atta girl,” the side of his mouth quirks up.

I watch Simon trail his thoughtful lips down my torso. He pauses at each bruise, pressing a tender kiss lightly on top of each one. Butterflies swarm inside my stomach. I never thought I’d see such a man be so gentle.

Simon’s thumbs rub in circles over the corner of my hips as he makes his way even lower. There’s a growing anticipation between my legs as I wrap one around his back, pulling him closer.

The black mask lowers between my legs. Swollen lips kiss the inside of my thighs. The edge of his teeth grazes the tender flesh. I draw in a sharp gasp as he bites down. Hard. A full pain throbs along my inner thighs. His previous gentleness slips away. This will leave a bruise lasting for days.

“These are the only marks I want to see on your skin,” his passionate eyes look up from between my legs. The black balaclava covers the rest of his face aside from his lips. How I’d love to run my hands through his hair.

Simon’s arms wrap around my legs to hold me down by my hips. I grasp the belt with whitened knuckles as he moves up, leaving another mark, but not before pressing an apologetic kiss to the area. Small whimpers escape my tight throat as he switches legs and leaves a growing trail of marks closer and closer to the hem of my underwear. I want him to make me feel good again.

“Please Simon,” I feel his lips humorously twitch against my skin.

He pulls away and all of his delicious warmth leaves with him. Simon rests on his knees, his eyes hungrily taking in the sight before him. All I can think about is the heat of his hands as they travel over my skin. Fuck, I need him. I need him everywhere. In the darkest parts of my body and soul.

A rough thumb traces over my lips. “You still want this?” there’s doubt in his voice, like he’s expecting me to change my mind.

“So, fucking bad,” my lips move against his thumb. I take him in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the thick digit, lightly starting to suck on him.

“Fuck, y/n,” he mutters under his breath. His other hand slides beneath his jeans as I press my mouth further down on his thumb. But I don’t let him relish in the feeling.

“I need you, Simon,” I murmur. “Please, sir,” my voice is breathy and desperate.

I can feel the need pooling between my thighs. I ache for his touch.

His hands light my skin on fire as he slips my underwear off, pulling them down my legs. Simon wastes no time stepping out of his jeans, his large erection straining against his boxers.

“Of all thing things I’ve wanted to do to you,” he cups himself over the fabric. I wait for him to expand on his thoughts, but he doesn’t, simply leaving them to hang in the thick air.

Simon grasps himself over his boxes, slowly stroking as he watches me. My eyes never leave his. I feel the growing heat of the fire burning within me. With every stroke, he stokes the flames.

He leans down, lips hovering above mine. One hand gently holds my cheek while the other wraps around his tip. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathes into my mouth before tenderly meeting my lips. A small vein of nervousness is present at the back of my mind, but I channel all of my attention into my growing desire.

Simon adjusts his position as the boxers slide down. The anticipation is too much. He bites his bottom lip as the head of his cock traces my entrance. My heart is pounding. My hands grasp at the belt.

“Relax,” he glances up at me. “You’re tense.”

A gentle hand massages my inner thighs along the bite marks he left. The length of his shaft glides across my clit, sending tingles up my spine.

“Simon-”

“Look at me y/n. I want to see your face when I stretch you out,” my breathing falters at his words. I dare to look him in the eyes just as he pushes in for the first time. Fucking hell. The feeling is completely unmatched. My breathing is heavy. Simon’s thumbs rub reassuring circles along my inner thighs to ease the sensation between my legs.

“Oh God,” I whimper, tensing around his thick tip. His eyes hungrily watch my expression, burning it to memory. The amount of pleasure he gets from watching is almost equal to that of participating. Simon’s fingers circle my clit with a heavy pressure. I feel the throbbing intensify as he begins to push deeper. I hold back a whimper as he pushes deeper, stretching my tight walls around him.

“Fuck, y/n,” he growls. “You’re doing so good.”

Simon gently moves back before thrusting further in. My walls pulse around his thick cock as he picks up pace. My legs are wrapped around his broad back. One of his hands roughly kneads a breast as he bows his head into the nape of my neck. The metal dog tags hanging around his throat swing in the space between us, bouncing against my skin.

Simon’s breath is hot as it travels down my neck and across my chest. With every clench around him, I’m rewarded with soft needy moans into my ear as he nips at my lobes.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” his breathy voice rumbles against my neck. I feel the tightness in my stomach begin to build as he thrusts harder and his hands press into my clit. The world around me blurs. I’ve never been fucked this hard before. He feels so damn good; it’s like he was made just for me.

His hand drags across my breast, up to my neck as he wraps his strong fingers around the vulnerable area. I should’ve known he wants complete control. For so long he had none, now it rules every aspect of his life.

“You take me so well, y/n,” my name drips sweetly off his tongue like honey. I want to hear him say it over and over again. y/n. y/n. y/n. Fuck, does that sound good.

Every muscle in my body begins to tighten. My breathing quickens. My heart is racing. Every sense feels incredibly heightened. A lucid feeling begins to take over as Ghost’s grip around my throat tightens.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” his hand moves to my jaw.

“I’m close,” I gasp as the blood rushes back to my face. My cheeks feel hot under his intense gaze. “Simon I-” his name rolls off my tongue, but I lose track of my thoughts. With every thrust, I feel him deeper in my soul. All of the pain. All of the tortures of our diverged pasts are melding together. Right now, I have all of him.

Simon keeps his pace but thrusts his throbbing cock even harder. The sound of skin hitting skin overtakes the crackling fire. The heat is almost too much. Like a flame under a tank of propane. Pressure builds under the heat, ready to combust.

“I, I-” fuck, I can’t think. It’s too much. His hands are tightly woven into my skin. My fingers are white against the leather. My heartbeat is so damn loud. My face twists towards the covers as my body writhes under his touch.

“Don’t look away now sweetheart,” his voice is so incredibly thick with need. “I’ll stop if you look away,”

His dark eyes are a whirlpool pulling me in. Suddenly I forget how to swim. Simon drags me under as his thick fingers wrap around the sensitive bundle of nerves. I gasp as my lungs breathe in water. His lips are heavy against my own. My vision darkens and no other pleasure in the world can match the burning sensations coursing through my veins. My orgasm is the sun’s light from the bottom of the ocean.

I break the surface as Simon’s hot lips hastily press against my forehead. His movements quicken and his grunts deepen. His hands roughly grab onto my waist as he thrusts into me with uneven, jarring movements.

“Fuck, Simon,” the whimper is soft against his skin and the cause of his undoing. His hard cock throbs against my walls once more as he collapses against me from pleasure and exhaustion. Simon’s heavy body lays limp on top of mine. The weight is comforting and safe. No one else in the world can touch me. Only him.

Simon reaches up to undo the belt and free my hands which find their way to his broad back. I trace invisible pictures across the vast space, skimming across old scars and the edge of his tattoo. His hand gently runs down the length of my hair, petting the top of my head. I feel my eyes begin to droop as sleep creeps up from behind me. I want him to hold me forever.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, arms caging me in as his dark eyes peer down at me. The emotions behind Simon’s eyes are too conflicted to decipher. A cautious thumb brushes along the side of my face. For a moment, he simply stares at me, trying to memorize everything that’s just happened and the gravity of it.

“Y/n, I need you to listen very closely,” he murmurs, pulling the balaclava back over his jaw. I feel my brows furrow as a different type of tension takes over.

“Okay,” my voice is barely audible.

“No one can ever know about this,” Ghost’s tone is soft, but I don’t miss the significance that is present. I pause to think about his words. Really think about them. What are the consequences of what we’ve just done? Our actions have just irreversibly complicated 141’s entire mission. Possibly even damaged it.

“What happens if they find out?”

Simon doesn’t respond. I feel a growing, hollow, cavity within me as I consider what happens to the people who interfere with their missions.

This was a mistake. A consequential mistake.

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