#simon ‘ghost’ riley x female reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moondirti · 2 months

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( PART 1 of 2 )

DEAD DOVE. RATED R. HORROR/SMUT. 6k. – AO3

please please please read the warnings under the cut before reading. this is leagues darker than my usual work. it is a dark fic, and you know your limits better than i do.

warnings: discussed cannibalism. graphic depictions of gore. vomiting. killing/butchering animals. violent thoughts. malnutrition. alienation/isolation. manipulation. corruption. mentions of somnophilia. dark!ghost – i.e. simon does not conform to human morality. afab reader using she/her pronouns.

inclusivity note: the reader is described as smaller than simon, but he stands at 250 cm in his true form (8"2), so i assumed everyone – if not, most – would fit that category. she's also malnourished/sick at the start and so there are some references to unhealthy weight loss

Situated between a dense network of ancient oaks, a lesser demon would have mistaken the cottage for a boulder had they spawned further than ten metres away. Save for the warm orange glow illuminating its arched windows, the home married perfectly to its surroundings – disfigured and hideous, walls warped by unevenly stacked stone and a roof bowed under a thick blanket of snow. Overgrown bushes stick out from under its gnarled fence, dead branches desperately reaching, and the ivy he assumes was once adhered to its front has since been ripped out by the storm, whipping in the howling wind.

But Ghost is no lesser demon; in fact, he’s far above this whole affair. Something of his rank answering the summons of a novice who could offer no more than sheep’s liver buried in their front yard was an occurrence practically unheard of. For good reason, too. He’s dangerous in the right hands, willing to resort to lengths that even the devil wouldn’t dream of so long as he receives proper payment. Most power-hungry neophytes would slaughter, have slaughtered, to have him as their familiar. Even then, he is above their grovelling.

So, to be lured out of respite by sheep’s liver, of all things…

He supposes he has no excuse for it, not that he has to explain himself to anyone. Perhaps he’s here only to satisfy his curiosity. The call hadn’t come from the lips of someone who’d been practising – sharp and sure, roused by a brand of audacity special to cocksure practitioners – but from someone softer. More sceptical. It’s unusual that an occultist would have both knowledge and skill to summon a familiar, yet still be suspicious as to whether they even exist at all. He’s not so much offended, then, as he is morbidly interested in what reaction his appearance would incur.

Disgust. Terror. Reverence.

Warmth pools in his belly, blood oozing in fat globs to fuel the flame that compels him to head into the small home. It’s hard to make out what’s inside merely by looking through the windows; the glass has glazed over from the contesting temperatures on either side of it, painting a bleary picture of a fire silhouetting vague shapes. The doorstep creaks under his heavy foot, but nothing – from what he can see – moves in response to the disturbance. It’s late, he knows. If it weren’t for the thick clouds shrouding the sky, he would see the moon sinking towards the west horizon. Anyone with any sense in this world knows to be asleep during witching hour.

The doorknob is round. Brass. Worn by a hand that’s gotten very good at grasping it in the same manner every time. Ghost takes a moment to digest what that tells him about his new client before turning it and ducking inside. He was right to assume it’d be unlocked. While he’d have been able to find a way in otherwise, the silly little oversight manages to elicit more excitement in him than necessary. Their mistake is added to his quickly growing character evaluation. A routineer. Garden-variety mortal, too naive for their own good. Someone isolated. Someone–

Small.

Size has always been relative for something of his stature. At two and a half metres, he’s able to tower over even his own. But it truly hits him, right there, how long it’s been since he last encountered a human. He tries to tally the decades in his head, only to fail and fail again by fault of distraction. It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. She fulfils every bit of what he expected, after all; plain, though younger than the typical practitioner of familiar-summoning ability. Fast asleep on a threadbare couch. Drowned in clothing, skin dewy with sweat. A book abandoned, open on her chest, stuffed with spare pieces of parchment and illegible annotations. Ink-stained fingertips.

But his hand could crush her head if he was truly compelled to do so. He could scoop the bare ankles currently peeking out of her quilt and throw her over his shoulder like wild game, skinned and simple to carry back to hell. He remembers the fallow deer he’d feasted on just last week, belly soft as he sunk his teeth into it, and considers letting his appetite get the best of him with the one that’s unwittingly made herself available tonight. Crack open her ribcage to gorge on the gooey insides that no doubt taste like honey to a monster with his appetite. Bury his snout into her sweet-scented neck and get a sense for prey that can fight back, if just barely.

But the moment passes. In her slumber, she shifts to lay on her side, spooning the grimoire closer. The minor hint of life reawakens another, more primaeval urge in him, last felt aeons ago when he was a younger fiend and the world had been a much more vulnerable place.

(The urge to take, to bend and break to fit his fancy. Chewing on cartilage until it smacks like gum between his maw, flossing the foul curl of his canines. To sink his claws into tender calves and carve an irreversible Ghost-shaped hole in her home, a haunting so stubborn she’ll turn to a fake God to try and expel him.)

And it’s violent. A rather restive longing. But placed next to the patience he’s learnt in the centuries since, he makes his choice. A natural conclusion to a creature who’s always gotten what he’s wanted.

Yes, he’ll stay. Be here when she wakes and revel when those eyes widen at the sight of him, darkening the corner of her room. He’ll stay; trail around and observe as she tries to make sense of her routine in light of the beast looming over her shoulder. He’ll stay, maybe ravage what's between her legs, devastate her sense of preservation and instead make her beg for the damage. Fall short on his duties as a familiar. Stay until he gets bored, when he’s had his fill of the crying and the quaint box she calls home. When playing with his food any more will lay the morsel to waste. Only then will he finally tear into the temptingly delicious meal in front of him.

For now, though, his neck aches from having to stoop under such a low roof. He resorts to a bygone human form instead, one he consumed ages ago – bones snapping, flesh dimpling, folding, morphing into a much smaller thing, a man – and waits.

Morning finds you doubling over the side of your couch to retch up what little food you had scavenged the previous evening.

The loss is sore. Your stomach protests as the stale bread and water emulsion punches up your throat, emptying out onto the hardwood floor. Acrid. Bitter on the back of your tongue, sharp like the cramps that erupt in your abdomen once you lay back down. Sweat plasters baby hairs to your forehead, crawling down your back and pooling underneath your bandaged breasts. You wipe it off with trembling hands, kicking the suffocating quilt until it slouches off the armrest on which your feet lay.

Last night’s fire is little more than smouldering ash. Still, the cottage maintains a pervasive heat, the air buzzing with an unnamed vigour. It’s unlikely that the blizzard has ceased long enough for the snow blanketing your home to melt – and given the walls’ remarkable ability to release warmth faster than they absorb it, the current temperature is enough to confound you.

Likely a fever, you think, pressing knuckles to your temple. The timing is unfortunate enough, though something about your conclusion falls apart when tested against the churning of your gut. You’re clearly unwell, that much is apparent by the bile spoiling your floor, but you’d be a fool to miss the supernatural root of it. Like a perpetual tremor, never waning despite the way your muscles flare. A delirium that unfurls from your nape to slowly embrace your ears. You blink, trying to make sense of the queasiness that continues to wrack you.

You’d run out of herbs two days after the blizzard snowed you in, the remaining potions lining your pantry ones best left untouched. It couldn’t have been anything you took, then. Nor was it a spell; the last one you’d cast was an ignition charm you’ve performed so often you know its effects like the planes of your cheeks. You cycle through yesterday's happenings with febrile imprecision, sipping long gulps of oxygen to tame the queasiness lapping up your chest. Like bailing water out of a quickly sinking raft. Cupping it in your palms and throwing what you can overboard. You get nowhere, and your nausea only worsens.

You’d gone to sleep with your grimoire in hand. Had you cast something while in a hypnagogic state? Possible, though rather uncharacteristic. Your fingers dig into the cushion gutters, poking for any sign of the thick book. As a migraine begins to tear at your skull, your search borders on unhinged. Pillows fly across the room, cushions following suit. The quilt billows as you air it several times over, providing some fleeting – yet much needed – airflow.

You’re so focused on finding it that you almost miss the fact that the charred voice behind you is not your panic made material. Not the voice inside your head.

“Under the couch.”

This one is hoarse. Deep. It almost instantaneously shatters the heavy atmosphere cloaked over your shoulders, breaking your pyrexia with a sharp shiver down your spine. Pure ozone injected into the bubble you’ve made for yourself, the one you thought was so secure. Where the knife you taped to the underside of your table has remained untouched in the years since you moved in, unneeded. Hunched the way you are now, you can see it. Glinting as a mocking smile does; all teeth. Too far for you to retrieve without alerting your intruder. Too far for it to be an option. Your instincts rear.

Slowly, you crouch lower, hand skimming under the couch. Your pinkie grazes the well-loved leather of your grimoire’s cover. It manages to ground you to the situation at hand, though the reality is far more horrifying than what you could’ve conjured on your own. Distorted still, rippling with the impact of your fear. Paralysis battles adrenaline – your mind freezes with the shock of drowning, your body championing for survival. It doesn’t give you time to catch up.

Wood splinters under your heel as you twist, springing in the general direction of the voice. Heavy book in both hands. Your shoulders square, steadying as hinges to your attack. The figure is just visible; you barely make out the silhouette of its head before you aim for it.

But it grabs your wrist and flings your grimoire across the room in a fraction of the time, the spine splaying open onto an adjacent wall. Your stomach capsizes. The raft tips, flips, sends you crashing into frothing waves. Migraine blinding you for a brief, horrifying moment; one where you can’t see the thing shackling your wrist, or anticipate the hard kick it gives to your ankles. You buckle with the pain, held up by one heavy paw. A low whine syphons from your chest.

“Enough of tha’, now.”

Your vision comes into focus several seconds later. Still watery, brine spooling over your eyes, readying them for pruning, but clear enough to make out the depth of this ravine you’ve shipwrecked over. And it’s–

Uncanny. Teetering the thread between jarring and inhumane. Nothing about it – you’ve a hard time believing the moniker of ‘man’ – strikes you as superficial. Nothing skin-deep. Like a mountain seen breaking the horizon line from continents away, its rocks humming a song too closely resembling a banshee’s shriek for it to be alluring. Something concealed within its caves; underground, bubbling, molten. An impetus for myths, undiluted by tired parents using it to scare their children into bed. Still crowned by its original savagery, conceptualised centuries ago by a peasant who made the mistake of getting too close.

But it isn’t a concept, you quiver. It’s here – fleshly, corporeal. And it's even made an attempt to look human. As if you wouldn’t feel it itching to burst out of this skin, suffocated by too small constraints. Over six feet and then some, shoulders doubling yours and fingers that stretch a bit too long, a bit too thick. No face: everything but its eyes covered in knitted headwear, framing the pair of pale pupils, shadowed by a heavy brow.

Some suicidal, hare-brained part of you wonders what would happen if you were to lift the bottom of its mask. (What you would see. How it would react.) But the compulsion is quickly stifled by another wave of gagging, empty stomach looking for anything to regurgitate. The thing masquerading as a man catches on fast, flipping you so your back tucks against its chest. You end up projecting water over the carpet, coughing until your head pounds like a ripe bruise. It’s then that you realise your condition has everything to do with its presence, souring now that you’re practically nestled against its abdomen.

“What…” You question between dry heaves. “What are– What do y-you want with me?”

“Better question ‘s, wha’ do you want?” It murmurs back, rumbling too close to your ear. Rot thickens its breath, potent enough that it draws the tears already dotting your lash line. No doubt a corpse remains stuck somewhere down its gullet, stored away for later. No doubt you’ll join it soon, gnawed on until your flesh falls off the bone. The perfect victim; all alone, the town pariah. A witch by the common man’s standards. Cast out to a dismal forest to die.

“I don- I don’t–”

“Summoned me, didn’ you? Dug a nice little hole and all. Well,” His hand shifts, clasping tighter around your struggling arms. “I’m ‘ere now. ‘Bout wha’ you expected?”

You use your retching as an excuse to play a game of catch up, squeezing the last of your tears out. Your memories bleed into one another, ink on wet parchment. Summoned. Dug a… hole, to call on this thing of supernatural proportions currently occupying your home. Why would you want that? What have you done? The past year has been marked by loneliness of a drastic degree, certainly, yet–

And then it comes flooding back to you.

(Washing the salt off of preserved sheep’s liver. Fastening it to a bouquet garni with twine. Folding the modest sacrifice under layers of earth. Pouring milk onto the upturned dirt.)

“Aren’t you supposed to be an– an animal… Or something.” You choke.

(You never thought it’d work: this magic amateurishly scribbled onto the back of your book by a hand long necrotized. The runes had been difficult to fathom on their own. And the way the spell had sounded on your clumsy tongue made you sure you’d done it wrong. It was purely a pursuit of curiosity. Something to keep you occupied, for lack of anything else to do.)

“Or something.” It answers.

A familiar. Yours, to be precise. In service to you since it took the offering you fashioned. Or, of greater import, one that can’t do anything to you lest you ask for it.

(Foolish to think you can clamp a collar on a feral beast and expect it to heel.)

The girl has a harder time adjusting than his original estimate.

Of course, there’s the illness. The affliction that plagues all mortals who come in contact with a demon for the first time. She’s violently sick for days, verging on the full first week of his arrival. Constantly bent over herself, holding a metal pail close for the inevitable purge of bile, that which her liver overproduces to compensate for a lack of food. Her under eyes blacken five shades darker. Her cheekbones grow more pronounced. Ghost watches it all with a macabre sort of interest, unable to take much satisfaction in the affair as his meal withers away before his very eyes. Wrists thinning into willow branches. Lips flaking like dead bark.

He's almost tempted to do something before she begins to recover herself. Gets more used to his unnatural presence, it seems. Gradually. Slow.

It starts when she wakes up one morning, having slept in later than he’s known her to, hiccupping but otherwise solid. After laying on the couch for an hour, she limps off with dwindling energy to fry a batch of velvet shank for breakfast. The meal is hardly enough for one, yet she plates two-thirds of it for Ghost and places the dish on the table he’s commandeered for his own. It’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t have it in him to be kind about it, though. Yet before he can criticise her efforts, she waddles off to pry a window open. Frigid winds encroach on her sheltered home at once, snow flurrying in, but she braves the cold until a crow lands on the windowsill.

“Hello.” She croons, smoothing a knuckle across its crown. “Sorry I’ve been away. Here,” Digging into her breast pocket, she pulls out a handful of chokecherries and feeds them to the bird. “make them last. Supply is low.”

The crow merely picks them off her palm, coos lost in the roaring storm that batters at the door. For the first time since his arrival, Ghost is tempted to bleed into the shadows. The affair he’s made voyeur to is delicate, an understated glimpse into a life entirely foreign to him. It aches when he can’t piece together why she would give up her food for nothing in return, or why she treats him the same way she does a feral bird. He thinks it must be ego, this snarling anger in his chest.

So when the crow flies off with a final farewell pet down its back, he hardens into a nastier version of himself. Ghost still hasn’t touched the paltry breakfast when she turns her attention back to him, a fact she meets with a gingerly raised eyebrow.

“’Fraid I won’t eat tha’, pet.”

She takes a moment to process his epithet of choice, eyes narrowing in an almost comical turnaround of her previous gentle expression.

“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” She scoffs.

The indignation alone should be enough to incense him further, never mind the apathy she adopts when she shucks the contents of his plate onto her own and marches back to the couch. It doesn’t. If anything, he calms a little at her willingness to take away what she so graciously offered. The cat does have claws, then. Albeit petty, piddling little claws – like the runt of a litter who’s learnt to bite back at anything that gets too close – but a fire, nonetheless. He appreciates that, perhaps more than he assumed he would.

Her sickness, he finds, is not the only issue.

Ghost lacks context for her situation – why she lives alone when the closest towns are just bordering the forest, or why no one ever seeks her out – but it does not escape him that the girl isn’t properly socialised.

In the centuries since they first emerged, he’s absorbed a keen sense for mortal behaviour. Credit to their alarming predictability, pattern recognition has halved the effort needed for his hunts. Not that he pretends to be at one with their psychology, but it’s easy to pin just where exactly she deviates from the norm when his strategy for ravaging her depends on it. More than once, he finds himself inexplicably engrossed in her habits.

Given her home is limited to the living room, kitchen, and washroom, she struggles to find a space where she can escape his oppressive presence. Ghost does not make it easy for her, either. He could choose to blend into the darker corners of her cottage, embodying the moniker he’d been given all those years ago and disappear almost completely – or enough to give her a mental break. But the mood strikes him more often than not, and he’ll loom over her like a spectral shadow, looking to provoke the grave mood swings that seize her like Satan does his miscreants. By far the most entertaining outcome had been when overstimulation trounced her usual level of tolerance and she pulled a knife on him, zeroed in on his jugular. He’d managed to scruff her by the nape until she wore herself out – which isn’t to say she didn’t put up quite a fuss.

Since then, she has yet to lash out to such an extreme, instead locking herself in the washroom when her temper skyrockets. Ghost is almost disappointed.

That’s his pet at her worst. At her best, she opts for quiet coexistence, either whispering to the crow who visits daily and appears to be her only friend, or cradling that ugly book in both hands. The back of the couch where she lounges most often obscures his view of her, but he’ll get the occasional vision when she pokes her eyes above the top to check on him. He maintains eye-contact – the heavy, uncomfortable kind that engenders pure humiliation and pummels her back into place, eyebrows furrowed and contentment spoiled – until the boredom gets to him.

The next time she sneaks a peek, then, he effects a gruff “Still ‘ere.”

She keeps to herself after that, nose buried in her grimoire like a chastened fawn.

It takes three weeks for her to settle into normalcy. By that time, Ghost’s patience has already started to wear thin.

The girl operates under the impression that he can’t do anything unless she orders it of him. He doesn’t blame her, credulous thing that she is. The notion is generally accepted by most of her grade, propagated by some text meant for beginners, written by a man who lacked the subtlety to discern between rules and good form. It’s true that familiar’s tend to only perform feats their counterparts ask for, but only because to do otherwise is bad practice. What else motivates a symbiotic relationship if not trust? Dependency?

Of course, that’s if a demon has anything to gain that a human can provide. He’s always found it to be a little more than pathetic. Reared to hunt, formidable in his thaumaturgic ability – Ghost has lasted centuries by remaining self-sufficient, unwilling to lean on the inferior class of rational beings. Unwilling to do their dirty work in exchange for blood he could obtain very well on his own. At least, that had been the conviction when he’d answered her graceless summons, bent on killing both his curiosity and hunger with one stone.

But something about her had made him glad to abide by the niceties. Had soothed the spring of his haunches as he prepared to pounce, or otherwise convinced him to play passive until golden opportunity struck. He’d wanted her to have as much a hand in her own unravelling, like a frog brought to a boil, entirely oblivious of its impending death until much too late. Her erroneous understanding of their dynamic, then, had paired nicely with his purposes. So he led her on to believe it, wasted most of his days amenable at the dining table as if waiting for instruction. As if she was the one in control, buzzing to shatter the perception when she inevitably asks something of him.

What he’s found, unsurprisingly, is that she’s blossomed under the reassurance. The initial fear that gripped her once she realised he wouldn’t be going away has since watered down to a weak, background agitation. He tastes it in the air; the mild unease as she flits about her cottage, the first thing to go when something else captures her attention. The way she hardly takes note of him anymore, waking up or retiring to sleep with nothing but covert glances to where he monopolises space.

So that feeling of frothing irritation returns at her docility, only more powerful than it had been when she’d offered her last chokecherries to the crow. No witch or wizard of her acumen has ever been so lacking in spite – and from what little she’s allowed him to see of her outbursts, he knows she isn’t short of it either. Yet she’d given up so quickly. Forfeited her home and comfort to a monster she hasn’t attempted to make any use of. And fuck– if that isn’t what he’d wanted. He needed her secure in him, pretty and soft enough that she’d be tempted to trade him for favours, for little feats of magic or the completion of chores she no longer has to worry about now that she doesn’t live alone.

Nevermind the detail that she refuses to ask anything of him; it still claws at him the wrong way, razor-sharp and deadly as it tears up his throat. This anger on her behalf. A compensation for the response she should be having. It stirs him when he realises that, for all intents and purposes, what he feels is pity. Perilous, committed sympathy.

There’s a reason he steers clear of it, too. Quick to snowball. He already feels it growing, avalanching into the hollow recess where he’d suppressed the soul of his first meal. Something shifts, then. He can’t place it. Just knows that the outcome he’d envisioned – where her bones serve to pick his teeth of the soft flesh from her thigh – is no longer a viable option. Just knows that his intentions with her mutate into something perhaps more dangerous, a little more unhinged. To weed out the wickedness he’s only seen in flashes. To see her corrupted into a far worse version of herself.

It’s late into his twentieth night when Ghost decides to do something about it.

He wedges back into her cottage when dawn splinters over the virgin snow. If he were a passionate man – not this hellhound trailing blood behind him like breadcrumbs – he’d remark on the way the tepid sunlight stains the forest in shades of peach and lurid blue. But the crow between his teeth hangs limp, and he’s hurried for the best way to present his gift, too absorbed in the task at hand to pay much mind to scenery.

The house is as tranquil as it always is at this time. Suspended in amber, a fossilised quaintness he’s grown used to. Golden, almost sticky slow. She’s still fast asleep on the couch, soft snores whistling from underneath a patchwork quilt (which smells so much like her that, to his mutt senses, they’re one-in-the-same form.) Despite the precarity of the moment, he makes no effort to keep quiet. His natural disposition isn’t prone to making any unintentional noise though, and so the only thing he disturbs are the dust motes bobbing in suspended animation.

Ghost places the dead bird on the table. It won’t be long before the blood drains from the punctures in its neck, and he prefers his meat iron-rich and wet, so he makes quick work of morphing back into his human form and washing his muzzle clean. There’s a sick thrill that curls in his gut; something like adrenaline, ozone-rich. Ruthless. He holds a crystalline picture of her reaction to the slaughtered friend he dragged into her home; angry, doe eyes glazed with tears as she yells at him for acting against her best wishes. Bad dog. Perhaps she’ll pull the dagger she keeps taped to the bottom of the table to indulge a sense of security. Perhaps she’ll drive it into his chest. That’s for hoping.

Standing over her now, he imagines the way her serene face morphs into something foul when she’s pushed to her limits. His cock twitches at the mental picture, aching behind the confines of his pants. A heavy hand moves to adjust it, stilling once it cups his balls to consider whether it’d be overkill to tug it over her face while she remains nice and still like this. It would be – not anything he’s above, granted, but excessive nonetheless. Besides, she’ll have plenty of time to accept the attention. Learn to love it, even.

When she wakes, Ghost has already plucked the crow. The feathers pile in the centre of her round dining table – distinctive even when detached from a body, meant for her to draw parallels to the game he currently masticates. Yet she hardly notes his presence at all. Instead, the unsuspecting thing merely clears the sleep from her bleary eyes, weighed down by a heavy cloak of sloth, more focused on wiping the drool off her chin than him. If she had been, perhaps the pieces would fall that much faster; at least, that’s what the quick-tick rap of his pulse insists upon.

But he’s no over-eager brute. He can wait.

Yet he is tense when she shuffles to and from the bathroom, bare feet padding along hardwood. Like a flood, his body grapples against the tidal urge to grab her jaw and force her gaze upon his bloody teeth, sharpened and marred behind the mouth of his true form. Look at me. Have you no survival instinct? There is a threat in your home and you parade in front of it, blind as a mole. You’ll get eaten like this. You’ll be condemned to hell between the jowls of horrible men.

(More monster than ever, really. Even like this, bound by his approximation of what a mortal man looks like, his face remains stuck to its original construction. The knitted mask he wears is more for her sake than his; he’s never been able to replicate the particulars of humanity. The delicate planes of their lips or the angles their noses protrude at. Better not to try, then. Better to hide it all away.)

It’s as she scrounges for breakfast that she finally heeds the pinpricks of blood dotting the floor. Fat, dark splotches draw a clear line from the doorway to a very calm Ghost, sat with his thighs spread over her too-tiny chair. He’s yet to finish his meagre meal – each bite seasoned with a satisfaction that bloats heavy in his stomach – hence the evidence of his crime still paints the corner red. A violent picture. Distressing, if he were to interpret the way her brows knit tight.

Crimson meat marbled ivory. Wings pried off a picked apart ribcage, shanks sucked clean of slightly tougher muscle. Still intact are the heart, tongue, liver – their membranes dissolving to soak into the table. The smell of death will be hard to rid of, he’s sure, much like the inedible parts of the bird that scatter carefully in front of him. Its glossy black talons. That tell-tale beak. Feathers on which her eyes linger, like she recognises the sheen but is too upset to connect it to the crow she fed daily. Her only friend.

She steps closer. Ghost devours every minute expression that flits upon her face. For the expressiveness of her pupils – contracted, small like organic pearls – she doesn’t portray much externally. Her fingers wring her skirt, twisting and twisting until it wrinkles in the impression of her thumb. Her lips purse into a thin line. But as far as his sharp observation goes; no tears. No ugly rage rippling her cheeks.

“What is this?” She asks in a small voice.

“Breakfast.” He says. It isn’t the response she’s looking for, and a frown tugs at her mouth. Not necessarily sad. Her hands release to clench at her sides. He smiles behind the mask. He can’t help himself.

“I didn’t tell you to do this.”

The smile breaks into a low chuckle. “No?”

“No.” Shaking her head, emotion surges up her throat. It bubbles thick and forces her to adopt a higher pitch to overpower it. “You brute. I-If you could’ve done whatever… whatever you wanted t-the whole time–”

“C’mere.” His hand snakes around her wrist, using it to wrench her closer. He consciously keeps his grip light – too much force and he could easily shatter bone – but the girl does not share his concern. She pulls and fights and stubbornly protests his direction.

“No! Get the fuck off! Get out!” She heaves. Seethes. Spittle launches from her tirade, her nails digging into his palm. She looks for blood but he won’t give it to her. She’s doing well, but not well enough. Eventually, he is able to pull her onto his lap, locking thick arms around her squirming form. “You bastard. You monster! I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll murder you in your sleep and feed your rotten insides to the maggots. Let me go!”

He’s blood-filled in his trousers. The hefty bulge knocks the small of her back and of all things, that’s what gets her to suddenly slacken. Though her chin tips to rest between her collarbones, lashes deliberately cast down. Refusing to meet his eye for all she’s worth. Good, he thinks, a warmth blossoming in his chest.

“You ough’ to know your friend didn’ put up a fight.” He starts, nosing the part in her hair. Despite his knitted mask serving as a direct barrier between them, he can smell the pine and juniper berry soap she uses to wash up. Sharp. Sweet. Particularly potent behind her ear, where he considers her lobes like low-hanging fruit.

“Shut up.”

“Need to hear this, pet.” She doesn’t listen, naturally, hips bucking wildly the instant he loosens his hold. His fingers bruise when he readjusts her on his thighs. “Need to know it was your fault as much as i’ was mine. Yeah? Y’let it grow too comfortable. Fed it daily and robbed i’ of its ingrained fear of strangers. In the end, it got much too friendly. Didn’ have the sense to fly away when I approached it.” Her breath pinches into a piercing whine. Ghost likens it to the kettle she keeps over her stove, waiting for steam to burst out of her ears.

It does not come. Instead, she cries. Beads of brine break her waterline, streaking miserable paths down her cheeks. He’ll grant her this: she does not sob unreasonably. Her hiccups are limited to if and when the air hardens in her lungs. He lets her have a moment before continuing.

“S’what happens, see. You get complacent, ‘n’ next thing you know, you’re meeting your God. Tell me, pet: do you think the afterlife would be pleasant to a witch?”

When she doesn’t respond, he bounces a knee to knock some sense back into her. Her weeping starts anew, only this time accompanied by a stuttered acknowledgement.

“Hm?”

“N-No.”

“No. ‘Course I could ‘ave told you that much, but it’s importan’ you come to the moral of the story yourself. Fight, or die.” Ghost strokes the goosepocked flesh of her upper arm, voice softening to deliver the final part of speech. It’s treacherously low, ultimatum like powdered ash cushioning the roughness in his throat. “And believe me when I say, dying ain’ the better option. There are far worse fates than me in Hell.”

He does not know whether it lands like he wants it to. If it accomplishes anything at all. But she doesn’t attempt to peel herself off him in the aftermath. Instead, she mourns herself dry for the next hour, snivelling wretchedly on his lap.

When her crying stops, the air is still laden with something. Hesitation rolls off her in waves, dense with the renewal of fear. He supposes it must be hypocritical of him, to both strike her with terror and expect her to overcome it, but he hums anyway, nudging her temple off his shoulder in an appeal to state what’s on her mind.

What comes instead is a deceptively simple question.

“What’s your name?” She asks. Doesn’t demand of him to tell her. Doesn’t set up grounds for him to ask for something in return. He can either answer, or not. She leaves the choice up to him. Clever girl.

He grapples with it a moment too long. A long dead man beats at his ribcage and demands to be heard. A meal he never managed to digest. Hissing. Snarling. S-Si-Si–

“Ghost.”

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isabella-kr · 1 year

Text

Underneath the Moonlight

Synopsis: Getting stuck in a far-away safehouse in the middle of a snow storm wasn't ideal. But it is during those moments that the most closed off people may reveal more of themselves, and she never expected that, of all people, her intimidating lieutenant would have such a soft side he kept hidden away.

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female!Reader

Requested: No

Genre: Smut / Fluff ! DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 YEARS OLD

Warnings: Smut, mature content, inappropriate relationship with a superior, description of male and female genitalia, descriptions of male and female body, fingering, penetrative sex, p in v, creampie, soft sex, Simon is touch starved, fear of attachments, scars, body worship, Ghost is a huge softy because I said so, it also gets sad at one point but briefly

Do not repost

Word Count: 6k

General Masterlist COD:MWII Masterlist

GIF not mine

The wind was howling and screeching as the old, rusty car struggled to drive through the mountain of snow. The freezing wind squeezed through the gaps between the door and infiltrated the space within the small truck. She shivered, her teeth chittering as she attempted to warm up by hugging herself and breathing into her hands.

The number of layers she currently had on her didn’t seem to matter, as the cold seemed to penetrate through every gap in her clothing and stick to her skin like cleavers. She could see a faint cloud form in front of her every time she breathed, reminding her of the many times she was stranded in the freezing cold during a mission. This was starting to become a common occurrence and she was not too happy about that revelation.

She glanced to the side, watching as her Lieutenant kept a strong hold on the steering wheel. The old thing was close to falling apart, and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t surprised when the engine revved for the first time. She was expecting his attempts to fail miserably, already preparing herself for the ten mile walk to the safe house. Luckily, her pessimism was proven otherwise. She guessed she would rather be freezing cold inside the car than have to face the storm brewing outside.

Ghost didn’t seem to be as cold as she was. Though she assumed he could have just been hiding his discomfort like he usually did. He was one giant mystery of a man, and although he had opened up to her before, she still felt as though she knew nothing about him. Which, to an extent, was true. She knew the basics, just enough for them to consider each other friends. But she knew nothing of his past, and a part of her believed she never would.

“We’re almost there,” his gruff voice suddenly rang out, pulling her out of her own thoughts.

She nodded, though she didn’t say anything in return. She was only hoping the safe house would have some sort of heating system within it, otherwise she was sure she was going to freeze to death. She almost jumped with excitement when, through the thick fog of snow, she could see the outline of a small, wooden house. A sigh of relief left her lips, and her eyes closed for just a moment.

The car soon came to a creaky stop, and she silently thanked whatever forces were out there for not letting it explode on the way there. The moment she opened the car door, she wished she didn’t. The freezing air instantly made her skin prickle, her face feeling numb as her feet dived into the sea of snow. It enveloped her calves, making it difficult to push through, but the promise of a warm safehouse gave her the motivation she needed.

In what felt like seconds, she was already inside. The place looked awful. She was sure it hasn’t been used in years, if not decades. All hope of a heating system immediately went out the window the moment she realised how truly old the place was. She felt as though she was transported back to the 90s, nay maybe even the 70s.

And even if it didn’t look as old as it did – click – the electricity wasn’t working. She didn’t know whether it was because of the storm outside or if it hadn’t worked for years, but she doubted it would come back on anytime soon.

The sound of footsteps coming up behind her made her release a sharp exhale, “This is a shithole.”

“It’ll do,” was Ghost’s reply. “Go look for blankets. I’ll start the fire.”

It was only once he mentioned the fire that she noticed the stone fireplace hiding behind a stack of boxes. She felt relieved for a moment, watching as his tall figure approached the corner of the room, moving the stacks of boxes to the side to inspect the fireplace.

She hesitantly moved from her spot and ventured into one of the only other rooms within the house. The moment she stepped foot inside it, she felt the protein bar she ate 6 hours ago try to come back out. The room smelt of death and mould, and she wouldn’t be surprised if she found a rotting corpse somewhere in the small space.

The bed was broken in the middle and the mattress was a sickly green colour. She could only gag at the sight, ruling out the option of either of them sleeping soundly on a bed.

“Why the fuck is this still marked as a safehouse,” she muttered to herself whilst crouching down, opening all the drawers she could find in search of a blanket. A pillow. Anything.

There was nothing in the room except the vomit-inducing smell. And so, before she had the chance to actually throw up in the middle of the floor, she sped away and entered the room next door.

The bathroom was much nicer. Not nice, but nicer than whatever was happening in the bedroom. She slowly approached the toilet and pressed the lever, grinning when she heard the loud noise of the water flushing. At least the toilet was useable, that was a relief.

There was a small cabinet in the corner of the bathroom, right beside the lime-scaled bathtub. She wasn’t quite sure what else she was expecting to find in there, but the sight of towels made a frown pull at the corners of her lips.

She felt defeated when she left the cold bathroom, more so when she saw Ghost struggling to light the fire with the wood that was laying around in the common space. “How’s it going?” she questioned despite clearly seeing him struggle.

“Shit,” was all he said in return, an annoyed grunt leaving his throat as he blew on the wood.

She let herself look around the, what looked like, a living-room. The sofa-bed was sunken in and the material was severely ripped. The arm chairs which stood at either side of it didn’t look much better, making her curse at the only option the two had.

Sleeping on the floor it is.

As she looked around, her eyes eventually settled on a closet which stood at the far end wall of the room. How she hadn’t seen it before, she wasn’t sure. But she was glad she eventually did, because the moment she did –

“Bingo!” A wide smile pulled at her lips.

Not only were there blankets in there, but also two, thick duvets that she was more than happy to see. Taking one of the duvets, she placed it on top of the carpet in the middle of the room, not too far away from the fireplace. She turned the blankets into make-shift pillows and then placed the other duvet on top. She guessed this was better than sleeping on the floor, or on the mould-ridden bed in the other room.

A bright light made her look up, and a smile formed on her face when she noticed the fire that now engulfed the logs of wood. Ghost looked down at the ‘bed’ and sent her a confused glance.

“Yeah, sorry, but unless you want to sleep on a mouldy bed, or on that piece of shit,” she pointed at the sofa behind her, “we’re gonna have to share.”

Ghost didn’t break their eye contact, as if contemplating what his next move was going to be. Eventually, he sighed and accepted his fate. “Kick me in your sleep and I’ll lock you out.”

She looked offended at his words, her brows furrowing and mouth falling open, “I don’t kick in my sleep, dickhead.”

He nodded, as if not believing her and walked away, making his way towards the bathroom.

By the time the two were situated in the bed, if you could even call it that, the moon had risen high in the sky, making her smile at the sight. The flames had warmed up the room, and hiding under the duvet, she could no longer feel any cold that lingered in the air.

The two soldiers were laying on their backs, her position closer to the fireplace than his. She guessed it was a chivalrous act, or maybe he just didn’t get cold as easily as her. Whatever it was, she was glad, her eyes admiring the orange flames as though they were a painting in an art gallery.

At this point, the two had stripped from some of their clothes, only leaving their socks, cargo pants and t-shirt on, and in Ghost’s case, also his mask. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it would have to do.

With a small inhale, she glanced over at the man laying down beside her. The black paint was still smudged around his closed eyes, and staring at his covered side profile made her wonder what was hiding under the balaclava. She guessed she would never know, but it was fun to speculate, especially when she had nothing better to do.

Her eyes drifted downwards a bit, past his nose, lips, chin and down to his neck, right above his clavicle. There was a faint line there, almost invisible unless you paid attention. Her hand moved without her realising and before she knew it, she was pressing her index finger against the bumpy patch of skin.

His eyes shot open, though he didn’t move. He didn’t say anything either, only letting his eyes move to gaze at her concentrated expression. Eventually, her eyes lifted, making contact with his brown ones. He was expecting her to move away, maybe even apologise, but she didn’t. Instead, she sent him a soft smile and spoke, “When did you get this one?”

He remained silent for a few moments, gathering his thoughts before he decided to answer, “Five years ago.”

She nodded with a hum and turned on her side to see him better, “Mission?”

“Yeah,” he swallowed thickly and glanced down at her cheek, where a small scar decorated her skin. “What about that one?”

She smiled at his words, and for a second he thought she was going to burst out laughing. “Training. Got knocked out and fell. The asshole had a ring on his finger and cut me up.”

Ghost hummed, looking back up at the ceiling. For a moment, she thought that was the end of their conversation, but he soon spoke up once again, “Did you return the favour?”

“Hell yeah, I did,” she grinned, “Broke his nose.”

If she didn’t know any better, she would have said he laughed at her answer. But she couldn’t be certain, not when she could only see his eyes.

“You got anyone out there?” she asked, only realising how invasive the question was after she said it. For a second, she was afraid he would blow up on her, tell her to go to sleep and mind her own business.

But he didn’t. Instead, he took in a deep breath and shook his head, “No.”

“Me neither,” she told him. “I guess it’s better this way, right? No one’s gonna be sad when we get killed off.”

Ghost hummed in agreement.

“Though sometimes,” she laid back down on her back, staring up at the wooden ceiling, “It’s gonna sound selfish, but sometimes I wish I did have someone out there. Someone I could visit when we’re not deployed.”

He didn’t say anything. In fact, he didn’t even move a muscle, but she could see that he agreed. He didn’t have to tell her out loud when his eyes said enough.

Biting on the inside of her cheek, she turned towards him with a smirk, “You ever had a girlfriend, or boyfriend?”

This time, he rolled his eyes and turned away from her, his back facing her.

“It was just a question,” she laughed, “Come on, don’t ignore me. I’ll pester you all night if you don’t turn back around.”

“Go to sleep,” he told her. It wasn’t a suggestion. She knew that tone of voice, it was an order.

An order she was going to disobey. “Come on, talk to me. We’re gonna be here for the next few days, so we might as well talk.”

“No,” he huffed, letting himself fall on his back again.

“No, what?” she asked.

“Your question,” he reminded her, “No.”

“Ah,” she hummed, “Me neither. Guess we’re both loners. Would you ever-”

“No,” he answered before she could even finish her sentence.

Her brows furrowed, “Why?”

He turned his head in her direction, their eyes locking together as he answered her truthfully, “Why would I? We’re gone most the time. I die, they’re left alone. Doesn’t sound fair.”

She hummed in thought, “I guess. But maybe they would just be happy to have spent that time with you, rather than none at all?”

He searched her eyes for something, refusing to look away even when he didn’t find what he was looking for, “You feel that way?”

“As in, would I rather spend time with someone and have them die, rather than never know them at all?” she asked, and he nodded, confirming her question. She pondered for a while. She would definitely be devastated and heartbroken, but at the end of the day, she knew her answer, “Yes.”

This time, he fully turned on his side to be able to look at her, “Why?”

“Everyone dies, Ghost,” she told him as though he wasn’t aware of the fact, “Even if we were civilians, we could die suddenly. Car crash, stabbing, or maybe even an undiagnosed illness. It doesn’t matter, we’d all die eventually anyway. If everyone avoided relationships just because of that fear, we would have died out centuries ago.”

Simon thought over her words. He understood what she meant, because despite it hurting when he lost people – soldiers, friends – he didn’t regret ever knowing them. They lived in his memories. Memories which sometimes haunted him in the middle of the night, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret ever meeting them.

He didn’t realise how long he seemed to have been staring at her, unblinking, until she spoke once again. “You’ve got pretty eyes, you know?”

She changed topics a lot, which he already knew from years of working with her. But it never failed to take him by surprise, especially when she said something like this. “They’re brown,” he pointed out.

“Yeah. They’re warm,” she told him seriously.

“Warm?”

“Mhm,” she nodded, “Bet you’re pretty, too.”

He almost snorted. “Trying to get me to take my mask off?”

She shrugged, a smile pulling at her lips, “You caught me.”

He shook his head, amused by her antics as he let his eyes fall closed. Just for a moment, because not even a minute later, he felt her fingers pushing back some of the dirty-blonde hair which managed to escape from under his mask.

His eyes shot open, but there was no hostility in them. In fact, they were soft. Softer than she ever saw them before. There was a slight glaze to them, and she didn’t know what possessed her to do it, but she moved forward, her face barely inches away from his.

He didn’t move back, and she took it as a good sign. She always did feel a certain attraction to him, his gruff voice and tall stature was sure to pull her in despite her protests. But he was her superior, she wasn’t supposed to be feeling this way. Not when it could get them both in trouble.

He said her name lowly, the sound of his voice making her look down at his balaclava-covered lips. She wanted to move the wretched material away, but she knew better. She didn’t move, her eyes moving back up to his, only to find them staring at her own lips.

“Gho-”

“Simon,” he whispered, the name sounding foreign on his lips.

Was this permission? She could only assume it was, and so she whispered, “Simon.”

His eyes closed at that, only opening back up when his hand was gently holding her jaw. His touch was feather-light as if he feared she would disintegrate the moment his skin made contact with hers.

She placed her hand on his, a small smile playing at her lips when she angled her face enough to place a soft kiss on the inside of his palm. He watched her moves carefully, only moving closer towards her after watching the gesture he had never received from anyone before.

He whispered her name again, this time placing his forehead against hers as he did so.

“Simon,” she spoke softly, her eyes staring deeply into his. “Can I kiss you?”

He clenched his eyes shut. And to her, it looked as though he was fighting with himself. Trying to fight against what he wanted, and what he knew was right. Yet despite all this, his thumb hooked around the bottom of his mask and lifted it just above his half-full lips.

He didn’t open his eyes after he did so, not even after his hand returned to her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek with so much affection, she felt as though she was going to melt.

“Can I?” she asked again.

He nodded, moving towards her and pressing his lips against hers himself. The kiss was slow and soft, his lips working against hers with a gentleness she wasn’t aware he was capable of. She moved herself up ever so slightly, balancing herself on her elbow without breaking the kiss. They were in sync, and all she could think about how perfect the moment was. How his lips fit perfectly against hers. How his touch was soft and gentle as he used both his hands to cup her face, his palms feeling hot on her warm skin.

She pulled away, catching her breath as Simon chased after her lips, desperate to feel more of her touch. He stared up at her, his fingers tangling into her hair as he placed his forehead against hers.

“This is wrong,” he voiced.

She knew it was. He didn’t have to tell her. Internal affairs would have a field day, had they found out about this. But she wasn’t going to tell, and neither was he. They were stuck in an isolated safe-house with no electricity and they wouldn’t be able to go back for the next few days. There would be no way of this ever getting out, but the fear was still there.

She let out a sharp breath, “Do you want to stop?”

He shook his head, “Fuck no,” and pressed his nose against hers, “Do you?”

She breathed out a laugh, “Fuck no.”

There was a moment of pause, neither of them making a move to enjoy the closeness between them. The echoing of the crackling fire created a feeling of cosiness in the otherwise uncomfortable safehouse, making them wish for the moment to never end.

With a shaky breath, she pressed her lips against his again, the material of his balaclava rubbing against her nose as he angled his face to deepen the otherwise soft kiss. He pushed himself up on his arm and guided her to her back as his tongue slipped inside her mouth.

She didn’t feel intimidated by his larger frame hovering above her. It was quite the opposite in fact, as she felt safer than ever. She felt at peace when he moved on top of her, placing one knee between her thighs to hold himself up, careful not to collapse on top of her body.

“Simon,” she whined, her abdomen feeling warm with excitement.

He groaned and his head fell against her shoulder, hand moving away from her cheek to rest beside her head. He pressed his lips against her neck and her eyes had fallen closed, enjoying the feeling of soft, gentle kisses being peppered from her clavicle and up to her jaw. She had never imagined him to be as soft as he was. A part of her believed he would be a rough lover, with harsh kisses and hard touches, but the reality caught her by surprise, and she could only smile at the almost loving kisses he placed upon her skin.

She turned her head to the side, pressing her lips against his as her hands ventured downward, pulling his tucked-in shirt from underneath his pants. Her fingers made contact with the skin on his abdomen, and the man above her let out a groan. She wondered when the last time he got touched in any way was. When was the last time he kissed someone, or had someone press their palms against his? She could only assume it was years ago, if ever.

“Can I?” She asked, tugging at his shirt.

He nodded, sitting up on his knees to pull his shirt over his head and throw it behind him. Her eyes immediately went down to his chest that was littered with scars from missions in the past. Some were deep and long and others short and faint. There was a burn mark on his shoulder and with a frown, she pushed herself up to press a soft kiss against it.

Simon sighed, his hand reaching for the back of her head to run his fingers through her hair. She smiled at him and reached for her own shirt, pulling it off her body and leaving her in her sports bra. He watched her attentively, half-lidded eyes taking in her half-naked form. Surprising him further, she reached for the clasp on her back and got rid of the restraining bra, a soft sigh leaving her lips.

His eyes lifted to hers again and, with a soft look on his face, he placed one of his hands on her waist to push her back on the make-shift bed. He trailed another set of kisses down from her neck and down to the valley of her breasts, yet his hand remained on her hip.

It was only when she placed her hand on hers and moved it up her body that his warm palm cupped one of her breasts, receiving a series of moans from her in return. She could feel him smile against her soft skin before his lips enveloped her nipple, wetting it with his tongue.

“Simon,” she moaned, reaching for his head, only to be met with the material of his mask. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to rip the dreaded thing off his head.

He groaned in return, stopping his ministrations against her breasts when he felt her thighs wrap around his waist. He moved his hand down to her cargo-covered leg, pulling it slightly higher up his waist.

They shared a long look, and a small frown pulled on his lips

“What’s wrong?” she asked with concern.

Simon moved back, and for a second she panicked. Had she done something wrong? She was about to ask him when his hand reached for his mask. She was expecting him to pull it back down, but instead his finger pulled it up, reaching only his nose before she stopped in.

She had a worried in look in her eyes, “You don’t have to,” she told him, afraid she somehow pressured him into removing the covering.

He smiled at her. A genuine smile that has her knees feeling weak, “I want to,” he told her as he removed the mask and exposed his face for her to see.

She watched him with widened eyes, admiring him like he was a piece of art. And perhaps, to her he was. Every scar that decorated his skin, those half-full lips, lightly crooked nose and those warm brown eyes she found herself drowning in. Every part of him was art.

She cupped his face and moved towards him, straddling his waist and pressing her chest against his. “I knew you were pretty,” she grinned.

He let out a laugh, his eyes crinkling in the corners at her words. With a smile, she connected their lips again, wrapping her arms around his neck as his snaked around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. Her lips left his, leaving him to chase after her with a small groan.

She connected her lips to the skin on his shoulders, busying herself with kissing every scar she came across as her hands went down to his abdomen, pulling on his belt to undo it. It didn’t take her long, and soon the leather was hanging loosely around his hips, the metals clinking against each other. His zipper was next to be undone, getting pulled down by her slender fingers as he let out a quiet moan.

She almost squealed when his arms wrapped tighter around her waist and pulled her up to her feet, his form towering over hers. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the metal of her own belt and unbuckled it with expert fingers, letting the leather loose. She watched as he then hooked his fingers around the top of his cargo pants and pushed them down, letting them fall all the way off before kicking them away.

Her eyes darkened with lust as she shamelessly looked upon the tent in his boxers. He let out a chuckle and approached her, his lips pressing into hers as his arms landed on her waist, sliding downward until his hands reached her own cargos. Deepening the kiss, he pushed them down enough for him to cup her ass, letting the material fall to the floor and join his own when she kicked them away.

They were soon back on the soft duvets, her legs wrapped around his waist as his boxer-covered cock pressed against her core. She whined at the contact, breaking the deep kiss as her fingers dug into his shoulder blades.

Ghost sent her a soft smile, placing a kiss to her cheek before diving his head and kissing his way down her body. He stopped at her abdomen, above the line of her underwear. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and expecting, “Can I?” he asked.

With a heavy exhale, she nodded.

“I need to hear you say it,” he spoke in almost a whisper.

She let out a shaky breath, “Yes.”

With a smile and a gentle kiss against her abdomen, he pulled her underwear down her legs. He couldn’t stop his eyes from settling between her legs once the thin material was off her body. Suddenly feeling shy under his gaze, she closed her thighs.

He looked up at her, his eyes understanding as he placed a hand on her knee, “It’s okay,” he told her softly.

She hesitantly opened her legs up slightly and Simon placed them on either side of his hips again, not even once breaking eye contact as he did so – it was intense, the way he was looking at her. Despite his eyes remaining as soft as when their evening began, she could see a certain intensity within them. Perhaps it was due to the moonlight highlighting his face, making his gaze seem more passionate than it actually was.

His muscles also seemed to benefit from the bright moon, the light highlighting every vein on his bicep and every muscle on his abdomen as he crawled on top of her once again. Taking her lips in his, he let his hand travel from her legs and stop between her thighs to collect the pooling arousal with his index finger.

She moaned at the action, her legs tightening around him as her fingers grabbed onto his dirty-blonde hair. Their tongues met, exploring one another with fervour as his moved up towards her clit, rubbing it in slow circles.

She moaned into his mouth, head falling back and eyes clenching shut as the ecstatic feeling made her move her hips upwards. Simon kissed her pulse, humming against her skin as he gently placed one digit at her entrance, the finger moving inside her with ease.

A harsh tug at his hair made him release a low groan, though a smile played at his lips at the sound of her breathy moans. Adding another thick finger, he massaged her walls by curling them inside her. She moved her hips in sync with his movements and clenched her eyes shut, entirely losing herself in the feeling of him pleasuring her.

“Simon,” she moaned, and the way she said his name - in such an erotic way - had him moving his own hips downward. His cock was now uncomfortably pushing against the fabric of his boxers, and she could not stop herself from using her feet to push it down his hips. His dick sprang free, and he hissed upon feeling the raw air against his skin.

Her name fell from his lips when he felt her walls clench around his him, speeding up the movement of his fingers to chase her incoming orgasm. She looked up at him, her lust-filled eyes glassy as they rolled to the back of her head.

She moaned his name once again as she felt herself approaching the finish line. Her legs tightened around him and arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him flush against her. His cock made contact with her abdomen and a small hiss left his lips as he rocked his hips upwards.

Finally, with a loud moan, she felt the knot that formed in her stomach let go, and her orgasm washed over her. Her legs trembled and walls clenched tightly around his to digits, which he continued pumping in and out to milk her orgasm. Her breathing was erratic, and with his head pressed against her body, he could hear her heart jump in her ribcage.

He eventually pulled his fingers out and untangled her arms from around his neck, pushing himself up enough to be able to look at her. The hand that previously toyed with her was now on her thigh, keeping her leg in place as he gazed into her eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his gruff voice ever so soft.

She could only nod, not trusting her own voice as she could feel his hard cock resting against her, leaking precum that slowly pooled on her skin.

“D’you want to continue?” he questioned.

This time, she answered with a smile, “Yeah.”

Nodding, he kissed her once more, groaning when he felt her fingers wrap around the base of his cock and moved her hand up and down as their tongues met once more. She pressed his dick against her vulva, gathering the remains of her arousal with the tip. He pulled away from the kiss, his eyes meeting hers as she angled him at her entrance, sending him a small nod to let him know it was okay.

Moving her leg further up his hips, he pushed into her, his cock entering the walls which invited him with a warm hug. They both moaned in unison as he stretched her, gently pushing more of himself in until he was fully seated inside of her.

His hips stilled for just a moment, enough for him to look at her once more and see her nod. Giving him permission to move.

His thrusts were slow, matching the softness he had shown her the entire evening. He pulled out almost completely, making her feel empty until he dived back inside and filled her up entirely once again. His head fell to her shoulder, groans and moans leaving his mouth with every thrust.

Despite wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and lose herself in the feeling – of his chest rubbing against her perky nipples, of his cock hitting the back of her uterus with every thrust and in the way his pelvis deliciously brushed against her clit – she didn’t. She looked down to where his hand held her thigh, keeping it up on his hip, perhaps to give himself a better angle, or maybe just because he wanted to touch her. His tattoos were almost shining in the moonlight, and so was he. His skin looked ethereal under the bright light, and she hoped the sight would never escape her memory.

The moonlight was washed over the both of them, and the warmth from the fireplace made the moment feel more romantic than it otherwise would have been. They didn’t pay attention to the dust-filled floors, the smell of mildew in the air or even the harsh storm outside the window. All they could feel was each other’s skin, and all they could hear was the gentle moans getting past their lips. Everything else was forgotten; it was ignored.

“Simon, please,” she whined, pressing a kiss to his shoulder to urge his movements. He sped up his thrusts, yet only slightly. Not too fast or rough, but just enough to chase their orgasms. He could feel her clench around him once again, and the wet sounds coming from between her legs gave him further motivation to get them there faster.

His thrusts got lightly rougher, his pelvis hitting her clit more harshly than before, but that only made her moans increase in volume and her fingers dig into his shoulder blades. She let out a choked sob and with a stronger clench than before, she finally came around his hardened cock.

Simon moaned at the feeling, hips beginning to stutter as he approached his own orgasm. “W-here?” he asked, pulling himself up to look into her eyes.

She smiled up at him, unable to find the strength to answer him, and so she just nodded. She was still clenching around him when he thrusted deeper into her, getting entirely swallowed inside of her as he let go. He painted her insides white with a loud grunt, and his forehead fell against hers.

They were both panting, trying to catch their breaths as they embraced one another. They stayed like that for a short while, bodies pressed against each other and his cock was still deep inside her. Despite the sensitivity they both felt in their groins, they were comfortable. They felt safe within each other’s arms, and for a moment they even managed to forget where they were. That they were soldiers and this moment of bliss would not last long.

With a soft kiss against her cheek, he pulled out of her. She was ready to wrap her arms around him again when he stood up, moving away from her and heading to the bathroom. She was confused for a short while until he returned with a damp towel and kneeled beside her.

“It’s not mouldy, is it?” she asked seriously when he placed the cold cloth against her hot skin, collecting the sticky fluids which stuck to her.

Shaking his head, “No,” he assured her, momentarily watching as his own cum spilled out of her before collecting it with the towel. Once he deemed them both clean from their activities, he left the towel in the sink and laid down beside her. They wrapped their arms around one another, the duvet covering their naked forms as their legs got tangled together.

She let out a soft sigh, “This is going to complicate things, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, though he didn’t sound like he regretted anything that had happened. He kissed the crown of her head and closed his eyes, enjoying how their bodies were pressed together – how he could feel the heat radiating off her, and how he could feel her heartbeat against the skin on his chest.

“I won’t tell,” she told him, as though that was his concern.

He breathed out a laugh, “I know,” he told her, “Sleep. We’ll talk it out tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, closing her eyes as the crackling of the fire lulled them both to sleep.

The two stayed like that all night; their limbs tangled together as the moon bathed them with its light, giving them its blessing.

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deunmiu-dessie · 27 days

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pillow princess!reader who decides that they want to try being on top for once and anchors their small hands on ghost's chest, bouncing sloppily on his cock and whimpering at his praise. “that’s it. good girl, just like that.” pillow princess!reader who pants in small, short puffs, cheeks flushing red and legs cramping. pillow princess!reader whose movements start to get slower just when they're on the brink of cumming. “ i c-can't, m’tired, si.” bf!simon who rumbles deep in his chest at your whiney complaint, "ah, fuckin' hell." bf!simon who grabs the fat of your hips and fucks up into you, hard and fast, gravelly voice mocking. "look at you, can't even fuckin' ride me properly." bf!simon who simpers at your scrunched up face and bleary eyes, mouth open to let out pitiful sobs. "m' sorry, d-daddy--mmn!" he chuckles softly, "'s alright, pet. " ˙ᵕ˙

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ - 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒! ⁽ nsfw ⁾

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chaosandmarigolds · 18 days

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Simon Riley! who isn't traditional in the gross way but in the he wants to protect you and make sure you don't feel like you have to provide for yourself, he wants to be a safety net, something to rely on

Simon Riley! Who made it a point to buy your dream house as soon as you were married,

Simon Riley! Who didn't expect houses to require so...much...work

"Baby! The water won't turn off?"

"The fuck you mean it won't turn off just-" Simon grumbled as he dropped the moving box and walked into the kitchen, grabbing the handle of the faucet and trying to pull it, only for it to come flying off. Leaving him dumbfounded and you a giggling disaster.

Simon Riley! Who likes handy man tasks as much as the next guy but the people at the store are beginning to know his name

Simon Riley! Who didn't have a dad to teach him some stuff like plumbing and whatnot so he calls Price

"Oi, Cap-"

"She came to her senses and ran away, yeah?"

"No...I need you to tell me ho' to turn off th' water."

Simon Riley! Who does know how much you love watching him do yard work but doesn't dwell because these godddamn weeds-

Simon Riley! Who loves nothing more than watching you paint the walls of the house, finds it like to be a scene of a movie and it would be a lie if the reality was much better than the cinema

Simon Riley! Who hates facebook because you would randomly send him across the city because you found an old China cabinet you thought would be perfect

Simon Riley! Who doesn't care how his buddies tease him about becoming a domestic civilian so soon, because he would happily fix a thousand houses if it meant a thousand more years with you

(Comments and feedback make my day! annnd yeah that's it <3 )

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bitten-fruit · 3 months

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Simon forgets how strong he is

18+ MDNI - cw: bruising - ~700 words

just some Simon Riley NSFW brainrot ♥︎ - part 2-ish, and part 3-ish here!!

Simon forgets how to be gentle.

When he's at war, fighting and shooting and killing day and night, all he knows is hardness. Brutality. Ruthlessness. His hands and heart grow calloused and rough in his months away from you. Using his unfathomable strength to survive is what he grows used to, it becomes second nature.

But it's your softness he remembers, to keep himself sane. It's all he thinks about. Dreams of.

The way the flesh of your hips, your ass, your breasts, your belly, pillows so deliciously between his fingers when he squeezes his handful - so warm, so supple. The way your vanilla-balmed lips graze his scarred skin so tenderly, however undeserved your sweetness is.

And when he finally returns home, after months of missing, craving you - when you stand in the door, honey thighs bare by virtue of the black panties you wore just to torture him, soft tummy peeking out from under your crop-top - he just can't restrain himself.

You greet him with your sugary smile, stretching up on your toes to curl your loving arms around his neck - your gentle voice, music; "Si, ah! I'm so glad you're okay…"

The moment your velvet skin touches his, his shackles crumble. Like a beast starved, he clutches you. Mammoth arms curl around you, constricting, gripping you eagerly like you might be a dream; liable to turn to a memory, to smoke.

His avaricious embrace lifts your feet from the ground, though he doesn't mean to - he burrows his nose and mouth into the crook of your neck, lets the curls of your hair smother him and fill his chest with the faint scent of your fruity shampoo. Fights every urge to take a bite, like you're a ripe nectarine.

Growls into your skin, through his jaw; "I fuckin' missed you, love. Christ, you have no idea how much I missed you."

"I missed you too, baby…" you coo into his ear, even your breathing is tender - he can't take it.

So he ferries you immediately to the sitting room, scoops you up like you weigh nothing, lets you coil your buttery thighs around his waist as he sits you on his lap on the sofa.

His wide hands take their greedy handfuls of your body - of your waist, of your hips, of your thighs, of your ass. Finally indulging the impulses he had dreamed about for so long - the very image he had fucked his fist to more times than he could count while parted from you.

With his teeth on your shoulder, tongue laving your warm skin; "So fuckin' soft," he grumbles deeply, and urges, "pretty thing. So soft. Fuck, I missed you."

His cock is hasty to grow boulder-solid under his trousers, and he chastises himself - but you answer with a cloying giggle, grinding your mound against its rigidity as if to torment him.

"Mm, you did miss me," you tease, little brat.

Then in an instant, all he can think about is the softness of your syrupy pussy, the gumminess of the inside of your cunt as its walls caress and milk his cock like it was built just to fit him.

You make him fucking ravenous, so voraciously eager to have you that he doesn't even notice his hands turn to vices around your flesh - fingers burrowing so deeply into the cheek of your ass that he might break through the skin.

"Ah!" You yelp, "Ow - Simon - you're hurting me-"

Your squeak of pain is enough to immediately shatter him - so he rapidly lifts you off of him, protecting you from his impulse. Stands you on your feet so that you're no longer victim to his inability to control himself.

"Shit, I'm sorry-" he grunts under his breath, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it's-" Your brows curl in worry, turning to look at where he had clawed you - and he sees the purple bruises where his hand had wrenched the flesh of your ass, the red lines where his fingernails had nearly punctured you. "Oh," you breathe at the sight, "…wow."

Drowning in visceral shame, he can barely bring himself to touch you again. But your soft hand caresses his hair, running through the sandy tresses - you, somehow, the one to comfort him.

"It's okay, baby, I know you didn't mean to," you purr fondly, and he leans forward to shamefully press as soft a kiss as he can into the bruise he gave you. Fucking monster.

"I'm sorry," he croaks into your skin, hoping his guilt will reverse his barbarity. "I just missed you."

"I know," you croon, turning to plant a loving kiss into his hair. "It's okay."

You guide him to lean back, mounting his lap again, letting your pelvis grind against the erection you were quick to reawaken.

His hands barely ghosting over your skin, he restrains himself, touches you carefully.

You whisper, into his stubbled cheek; "I'll show you how to be gentle again."

#bet simon knows how to apologise to you #spoilers it involves his tongue #cod fic #cod smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x female reader #ghost x reader #call of duty smut

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konigsblog · 3 months

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headlocks 'nd simon riley

; getting fucked in a headlock

tw: headlock, power difference (?) female reader.

it's simon riley's thing to fuck you in a headlock. that turns him on and his tip leaking and drooling all over his brute abdomen.

when you're spoon fucking, he wraps a strong, muscular arm around your neck, muscles flexing as he holds, making sure you're restrained and bound while you take his girthy cock, feeling him slide deep inside your gummy walls. your pussy throbs and clenches around his shaft, eyes rolled back and your jaw hanging open, pleasure dripping from your little cunt.

“look at ya’... whiney’ slag.”

he spits, muttering his harsh and hurtful words into your ear while tightening the already firm grip he has on your neck. you cry softly, body shaking with euphoria and stress as you attempt to breathe. you drag your nails along his upper arm, moaning out to catch your breath while he slams and pounds into you, knocking the wind from your lungs with his aggressive pace.

“keep takin’ it all, lovie. tha’s my girl-- thereee we go... attagirrrllll...”

he chokes you tightly, holding you firmly while you sob out due to your air restriction. simon absolutely adores the power dynamics between you two, how easily he's able to shut you up with a nice, firm fucking.

only when you're gasping desperately will he free you, before grasping your neck firmly, a large hand choking you, fucking you deeper while you whine and choke.

#orla speaks #mfmfmfmfmmf :(#give. it. to. me #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #ghost x female reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #mw2 ghost #cod ghost

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starstruckmiraclekitty · 4 months

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Simon Riley was a man who was quiet in bed. Occasionally, you’d hear a soft groan, or a curse escape his lips as he buried himself further inside of you. But other than that he was relatively mute in the bedroom.

Tonight, you decided, would be different. You would do anything in your power to hear those sweet noises you just knew your husband could make.

He was above you, languidly and silently thrusting into you, save for a small grunt here or there. He was very much a man that liked to be in charge, liked to control the pace.

So to say he was surprised when you flipped both of you over, was an understatement. You hovered yourself over him, your soaked core practically dripping onto his cock.

Simon looked up at you with a hint of a smile dancing on his lips. “Well, this is a treat. You wanting to take charge, baby?”

You bit your lip softly as you got yourself comfortable, your fingers finding purchase on Simon’s chest. “Wanna make you feel good, Si.”

When you rammed yourself back down onto his thick length, Simon let out euphoric moan causing your walls to clench down around him. He sounded fucking heavenly, and you needed more of it.

“Need to hear you, Si, please.” You begged, your eyes fluttering shut as you continued your steady pace. You always loved this position, you loved when Simon let you be in control. You loved to be the one fucking him.

Simon gave you a wicked smile, his hands giving your hips a firm squeeze as he helped guide your hips. “That right, sweet girl? Does me making some noise make that pretty little pussy clench around me?”

You bit back a moan at his filthy words as your walls clenched around him once more, your nails digging crescents into Simon’s muscular chest. “P-please.”

“Go on then, love. Be a good girl and make me.” Simon was an absolute tease in the bedroom, but you fucking loved it.

Your hands found Simon’s, moving them up slowly so that they now rested on your breasts, his large hands completely encompassing each of them. The way he squeezed at the supple flesh had your wet walls closing down around his length, practically holding it in a vice grip.

Simon truly wanted to tease you further, he loved riling you up to the point where you’d get that cute pout he’d loved so damn much- but the way you looked fucking yourself stupid on his cock, mixed with the way your pussy felt just so fucking good clenched around him, he lost all his willpower.

“Fuck, that’s my girl. Taking my cock so fucking well.” Simon groaned, his pretty scarred lips falling open, his brow furrowing slightly. A string of moans left his mouth as you dug your nails further into his chest, the movement of your hips growing frenzied as you chased your high. “So good for me.”

Simon no longer bit back his moans, no longer held in his soft cries of pleasure, he became a grunting, groaning mess beneath you. The pleasure for him was overwhelming, between the way you took charge, the way you clenched around him and the way you yourself sounded? He was fucking ruined.

And you fucking loved it.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #cod imagine #mw2 imagine #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #female reader

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yawnderu · 7 months

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Sex Pollen — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

girl dinner since my König sex pollen has over 900 notes♡

"That's it, love..." Ghost growls out as he pushes your hips up and down slowly, your warm, wet cunt engulfing his thick dick as his hips thrust up to meet you halfway. Your womb is already full of his cum, yet Ghost is unable to stop, each orgasm seemed to just be making his cock harder and his balls tighter. Being all the way inside you felt too damn good.

"So pretty like this, sweet girl... like you were made to take my fuckin' cock all the way inside that tight little cunt." He muttered between clenched teeth, trying his best not to cum inside you yet. For the first time in his life, Ghost was willingly having sex, and oh God, he can't believe he has been missing out on this. His thrusts were slow and deep, making sure to put your pleasure before his, hitting all the right spots with his fat cock.

"Ghost...—" His name being moaned out by you felt like music to his ears, his eyes narrowing slightly as his grip on your hips got tighter, pushing you faster up and down his dick as your tight walls gripped him, a mix of your cream and his cum coating his length, making a ring on the base of it. Though his face was concealed by the balaclava, you can see his expressive eyes focused completely on your face, basking in the pretty faces you make when you're cock-drunk. You already forgot how many orgasms he's pulled out of you, yet it all feels too damn good to ask him to stop, even when your cunt is abused and fucked-out.

"Fuck— angel, let me cum in you." He pleads for your consent, just as he did the last four times he came inside. "Want to fill you up so good, baby, please." Ghost's eyes roll to the back of his head as you give him your approval, groaning and grunting as he begins to thrust harder and deeper into you, his gloved hands pulling your hips all the way down so his cock is completely inside you as his thick, warm cum fills your womb up.

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moondirti · 1 year

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give peace a chance

I missed you, you want to say, but you know it’ll do nothing to change this routine. You settle on a question he’ll have a response to, for all it can do to uncover thoughts he’d want to bury deep.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 3.4k summary: you’re always there, waiting on him warnings: size kink, blowjobs, facefucking, thigh riding, masturbation, squirting, angst, brief mentions of death, canon typical violence, mild mild gore, fluff notes: had 'Yes to Heaven' by lana del rey on loop while writing this one. out of body experience fr. anyway, i finally gave in and wrote for the boogey man. he's been occupying too much headspace for me to not.

You don’t hear him come in.

Crisp, white sheets gather in a knot at your midsection – previously pristine, wrinkles pull at its surface now. You can’t sleep, but that’s most nights.

Your curtains dance with an incoming drift, lazy gauze, sheer in the cresting moonlight. If you weren’t so absorbed in the white noise of your whirring fan, you could catch the quiet click of your backdoor. You always leave it open, just in case; people know not to dare take advantage of the liberties you exhibit. There’s the invisible threat, protection, of a shadowed mercenary over your toytown home.

His missions are incalculable. That’s the one thing he cannot promise you. Come back soon, you beg, but he leaves you with a silent kiss and nothing else.

There were once days where you’d tag along. Your chest twinges at the uncomfortable reminder. Cracked bone, spilt ichor; the bullet had barely missed your heart, lodged between the throbbing organ and a major vessel. He’d raged to get you decommissioned, incensed demands – they’d never seen him as angry.

Carpet flattens under your bare feet as you crawl out of bed, soft, like all things here. You hadn’t the luxury of comfort before, when Simon was Ghost and you were a rookie under him, but he’d granted you a life you sought only in your dreams. The first few days in paradise, you were torn over appreciation and resentment at the act, bandages wrapped around your chest – but you’d healed and found the irreversible damage etched into the hard plate of your clavicle – a rounded, discoloured scar.

You’re glad you’d left that life behind.

Padding out to the kitchen, you pour yourself a drink. The cupboard underneath your sink contains only bourbon – blended, straight, kentucky – so you fish out juice from your fridge. It’s sickly sweet, all natural sugars, your ass.

“Shouldn’t drink that stuff.” A voice cuts the tranquillity, rugged and choppy on harsh consonants – a cockney accent. You soothe the alarmed surprise racing in your gut, a gentle smile turning your cheeks.

His eyes pierce back at you, a smudge of white against an otherwise charcoal canvas. He’s sitting at the dining table, just across your kitchen island, his massive form illuminated by the warm light you’d turned on. You don’t know how you missed him, but then again, the man lives up to his name. Ghost; creeping up like the dead.

“We’re all out of milk.” You respond, your tease lilting to an affectionate whisper when it hits your tongue. Simon scoffs. “Not like whiskey’s any better.”

You pour him a glass regardless.

He’s still equipped in his tactical gear, his gun set on the chair next to him. It adds unnecessary bulk, layers on layers of insulation, conservation – impossibly, he looks bigger like this. Larger than life. Your hands run along the coarse material of his bullet proof vest; you think you can feel his muscles tense, despite the surfaces separating you. But he takes the bourbon with little fuss, wrapping a strong arm around your legs so your knees knock the side of his thigh.

“Hi,” You giggle, beaming down at him.

“Hey.” He mocks, setting the drink down.

His hard-shell mask conceals any tells you may glean. In just the balaclava, you can catch the shape of his lips, the curve of his nose, when he smiles – the painted fabric pulls taut over his features. But a skull stares back at you, and all you have are his eyes, framed with ashen lashes. They’re only enough to tell you one thing; he’s happy to be home.

You love the way they catch the light, a subtle glimmer in them.

For a while, the two of you just stand there, revelling in the weighted company of one another. His gloved hand presses circles into your flesh, just under the hem of your sleeping shorts, while yours find every bit of exposed skin you can. There’s not much – just the small stretch of neck you can reach, tucked behind his collar before the rest of him disappears. But you find it with reverence, smoothing over it, his heated body slowly easing by the minute under your ministrations. Some part of you realises the desperation you observe him with, the hurried glances at his back, his stomach, his legs. You look for darkened, sticky fabric. You look for blood.

You don’t have the courage to speak your fears into fruition.

Simon slowly begins to pull the heavier parts of his armour off. The night vision goggles on his head, the packets of ammo stuffed into available pockets. You move to help him, humming, shifting as you unbuckle the back of his plate carrier. His groans are wicked, deep waves of relief stemming from somewhere in his chest, and you hide the blush that arises at the sound, throwing the layer into an unknown corner. You remember the soreness, the knotted shoulders from days in the same kit, your spine in aching need of a good long stretch. You make a mental note to rub his back later.

You take off his gloves. There’s little give – they’re crusted in dried gore and gunpowder, the bones on their front almost entirely camouflaged. A sharp tug is what it takes to peel them off his hands. But then his skin is bared to you. You survey the grit that dusts the contours of his veins. Dirt has sunk through the fibres.

When he’s left in just his mask and underclothes, he finally slumps, posture altering from that of a soldier’s to one of a tired man. His legs spread, thick thighs filling his pants, and he reaches for his drink again, lifting the bottom of his mask and balaclava to take a large gulp. His newly revealed Adam's apple bobs with the motion.

“How many men?” You speak into the space. He pauses, his pink lips pursing at the brim of his glass. You have half a mind to regret asking, but you do this for your own solace.

“Jus’ three.” Just. To anyone else, he may sound indifferent, his tone etched in that low timbre, unwavering with the grief over lost comrades. To you, you know that his pain is cavernous, a bottomless chasm he’ll undoubtedly return to. Indicatively, he pulls his mask back down over his face. It isn’t just three men. It’s three too many – but it’s on the lower end of the casualties the 141 usually faces.

You wait for him to say the words you’re looking for.

“They’re alright.”

You nod. Al Bravo team was not amongst the fatalities. Gaz. Price. Soap. You cling onto the reassurance of your friends’ continued survival, a buoy until the next raging storm.

Simon’s hand returns to its place on your leg, tracing long lines along the back of it. You shiver, suppressing the heat that spreads up your tummy like wildfire. His steel gaze is indecipherable as he looks up at you; your emotions flit across your face erratically. You wish he’d take the mask off, get on even footing with you, but it takes a while for him to come down from his missions. For as long as he’s racked with enduring adrenaline, he’ll keep his guard up.

He’s surrounded by the safe walls of your – his – home, but he’s in over his head.

You bow down, placing a gentle kiss on the curve of his jaw. The arm wrapped around you draws you closer.

He smells like saltpetre, guncotton, hints of kerosene floating in the air between you. You push your face nearer to his, and you’re able to catch a faint whiff of his aftershave, traces of the cleanliness and cologne he leaves behind here, with you. You open your mouth to comment on it; he beats you to your cause:

“Lovely girl.” He squeezes the flesh on your upper thigh – not quite your ass, but almost.

“Mmm, Simon.” You start, capturing his eyes. They bear down on you with an intensity that makes your core ache. “Y’Can’t keep doing this to me.”

You imagine he’s smirking when he retaliates. “Can say the same for you, expectin’ me to focus out there when you look this good.” Like a giddy schoolgirl, you bite your lip at his compliment.

Stirring to kiss his jaw again, you slowly start to unzip his windbreaker. Your fingers span the front of the black hoodie underneath, tracing the hard plane of his chest, feeling it rumble with a noiseless groan. His legs spread wider. You catch a telling bulge in your peripheral.

“Need help?” You murmur, purring when he slips underneath your shorts to give your rear a feel. His callouses dig into you.

“Need you.” He says.

The hand that was on his chest inches downward now, your nails raking along. You give a half-suppressed laugh as his abdomen tightens, bracing against your ticklish assault. You want to feel it bare – to extricate the exhaustion from an uncovered torso and watch as his muscles roll, solid brawn unravelling with the slightest touch. But you’ll settle on this, you know he needs it. His mask does unspeakable things to you, anyway.

“Relax.” You encourage with a breath. Simon doesn’t listen; he still kneads your flesh with an unforgiving grip. His thumb brushes close to the soaked patch on your panties – with the appreciative grunt he gives, you know he senses the arousal emanating from you.

His cock strains his pants, taking up all the space it can. You coo, poor thing, as you cup the underside of it. He gives you a reproaching spank, and your hips buck in tandem to his. As you do, you realise now how uncomfortable of a position you’re in – your neck cramps in this angle. Really, it’s a silly thing to be hung up about, but Simon must read the subtle cringe you give, for he urges you to kneel, guiding you by your head to crawl in between his open legs.

You’re halfway under the table when you look up at him again, cheek pressed adoringly against his knee. He’s seemingly content like this, petting round your forehead to the ridge of your chin. His palm is large, dry, warm. You quickly lose trajectory as he caresses you, all droopy eyes and small smiles.

He catches when you rub your legs together, chasing a friction that will never amount to him. You can never escape his scrutiny; Simon captures everything.

He pats your cheek and pinches it before his touch leaves you. Newly awake, you perk up, perching on your haunches to lean further into him. You’re always eager, but his chuckle at your barely concealed anticipation beckons a stone to lodge itself in your throat. It’s a ball of desire, denser than most things, snowballing with every passing moment in his presence. You’re tuned in on him, rapt to every subtle thing – the deep exhales, the anchoring of his boots to hardwood floors. It’s take, take, take, an absorption of anything he’s willing to give. It tends to be like this after he comes back – was like this back on the base, when you’d known nothing but his moniker and callsign.

You recall rubbing one out to the staticky crackle of his voice over the channel, your headset pressed tight to your ears. You’d never told him that; you figure now’s a good time as any.

“Used to fantasise about you, y’know.” You sigh, ironing over his calves. You move your brushes to his hulking thighs when he begins to undo his pants, wetting your lips.

His next exhale is torn, steadiness ripped to shreds by your less-than seductive words. “Oh yeah?” He remarks, scooping into his boxers to pull his heavy cock out. “What about?”

It springs free just then, angry head flushed a deep red, blood supplied by pulsing veins that branch to the top. You keen at the precum that beads at the top, rushing to catch it with your index to slip it onto your tongue. He says nothing, merely contemplating as you wriggle with the heady taste of him.

“This,” You add after a long moment, before licking a long, wet stripe up the base of his dick. His whole body jerks unexpectedly, and he grabs onto your head to steady your impatient efforts.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

“Gone soft on me? I see.” Chortling, you play with his tip, batting it back and forth to tap your lips. He is anything but soft – regrettably, though, the rise you get from teasing him is too great to pass up.

“Shut it, pet, before I turn your insides over.” He urges you forward once he’s settled. You don’t tell him how much you’d really like him to. In due time.

Your lips wrap around the bulbous head, sides stretching to accommodate his girth. You’re familiar with the drill by now; hollow your cheeks, keep your jaw nice and loose. Use some teeth, he chokes at the pain.

His skin moves with you as you sink down , rolling your tongue over the ridges that cross your path. Your breath is hot, your mouth even hotter – sweltering, you suck him in and coat his rock-hard with a film of saliva, which aids you when you bob back up. You can’t reach the root of him, not yet – he’s way too big – so your hand wraps around the length not in your mouth.

“That’s it.” Simon rasps, now pushing you down in support. Your hum is lost in the lewd slurps, but he twitches with the vibrations it produces. A glob of drool leaks from you, seeping down to gather in his scruffy curls – you use it as slick to twist your wrist around his base.

He’s ripe with the salty taste of sweat and precum, a dizzying combination – you hope you’re subtle as you slip your free hand down your pants, pressing up into the plush of your cunt. You find where you’re most sensitive, a tight bundle of nerves, and touch yourself, all the while savouring the masculinity that engulfs you – his muscled thighs by your ears, his giant hands pressing down on your head.

A particularly loud groan sounds from above. You triple your efforts, delighted at your part in helping him unwind. At one point, his added pressure pushes you down all the way. You gag, blubbering with choked gasps, but your lips stay sealed around him, an unforgiving vacuum. His happy trail scratches your nose,

“Gonna cum, you lovely thing. Righ’ down your throat. Take it all, understand?” He asks. You’re able to discern the wobble in his abrasive voice – his balls spasm at your lips, ready to erupt at any moment. You nod, gaping at him earnestly, with wide, watery eyes. His own soften, downturning at the corners. “‘Atta girl.”

With the hazy memory of his face before he’d left, you can draw an abstraction of what he might look like right now. You trick yourself into thinking he’s smiling down at you. Gentle, caring.

You don’t have to try as hard to believe it.

Your fingers work fervently over your sopping cunt, slipping between velvet folds. Your exertion, combined with his pure fucking magnetism, is almost enough to tip you over the edge. A cluster in your gut stiffens, grows, upends. You stroke yourself impossibly faster.

Simon curls inward, his mask now directly above you. A bit of his cock drags from your mouth – your bottom teeth scrape a vein in consequence. He jolts. Then, rich, long ropes of cum shoot into your awaiting mouth, painting you with musky white. You keep jerking him as he does, urging more, more, more, milking him to spill his all into you.

A tap of your shoulder is all the evidence you need to pull off him with a pop. You didn’t cum, it doesn’t matter, you hardly feel the mounting desperation amidst the grand scheme of things. Simon’s back hits the chair, his head tilting as he takes you in.

“C’mere,” He grunts, pushing backwards to allow you space to stand. You oblige, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand – it only serves to smear the mess across your cheek. Your back brushes the table – he beckons you closer – until your bruised knees hit the edge of the chair.

When he’s satisfied, his hands run up your sides, starting at your arms, then downward, so they can hook into the waistband of your shorts. You lock onto his all-consuming stare, dark with an unspoken question, his pupils blown wide with lingering lust.

“Go ahead.” You coax.

He nods and pulls your shorts off with one, swift movement.

Cold air meets soaked cotton – you tremble, whether with goosebumps or the weight of his study, you don’t know. You’re the farthest thing from a blushing virgin, but Simon manages to propel you back into that bashful headspace. Every time with him is ruthless – stifling broken sobs while adjusting to his width, utter pleasure and the smallest bit of pain.

Perhaps you’ll forgo that this time around. He’s quickly softening against his pelvis. You understand – stamina tends to dissipate after holding out for so long. Though he’s anything but a selfish lover.

He guides you to straddle his thigh.

You squirm, hip flexors burning with the strain of splitting over the breadth of him. He keeps you steady with his hands on your waist – you clutch onto his wrists. His sleeves have rucked up to reveal his tattooed forearm. You trace the ink, reverent, requiring as much skin-to-skin as possible. It flees the fastest, that sensation, running up behind him when he exits the door. The bruises, the bites, the cramp from hitting your cervix one too many times, on the other hand – they all endure, keeping you sated long enough so that you aren’t compelled to rejoin him. He might do that on purpose, in fact.

Your clit folds as it meets his leg – a new surge of slick spills from you.

“A-Ah! Simon, y–”

“I know, pet. Jus’ ride me, yeah, like that.”

Your bottom half ruts into him, finding purchase on the solid surface of his thigh. Your panties slide, preventing the potential for divine friction, so you push them to the side, wedging it in the crevice of a lip and your pubic bone. You stutter apologies to Simon for the mess – your natural lubricant smears onto his cargo pants, sullying the fabric. He assures that he’ll wear it proudly. You’re a prouder medal than blood.

You’re whimpering now, wailing about everything and nothing all at once with your face tucked into his neck. He embraces you – sturdiness forcing you to stunt your movements to short, hurried grinds – and says nothing.

Something terrifying begins to burn in you; promising a cataclysm. It’s him. His scent, his strength, his size, his presence. I missed you. I missed you. Your impending orgasm crawls up the tendons in your pelvis, seeping into bone and flooding like a high tide. Your pants grow shallower. Your lungs feel cramped. Something about this, here, with him, lights every synapse in you, flashing bright with colours and promises and safety. I miss you.

“I miss you,” You finally gasp, broken as you peer up at him. He stills – you keep your pace. Sweat beads at your temple.

He slowly removes the mask.

The balaclava follows soon after.

Simon then bows down, pressing his lips to your furrowed brow.

And then, everything in you compresses, fierce and tight. You wind your fingers into his hair, pulling his head back to bite the column of his neck. You do it to muffle the sob that bubbles when you erupt in searing agony atop him, back arching, toes curling. Your body goes completely rigid.

He groans with the cut of your teeth, and your cunt pulsates again, spilling down on him, your fluids draining to double your mark on the man.

“Missed you too.” Simon rustles in response. You seize his mouth with yours, uncaring for how messy it is. It’s what you need; to feel your teeth knock, to bind yourself to him.

You kiss in him the intent to never let you go. You know it won’t last, but for now, it’s enough.

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rileyslibrary · 3 months

Text

After suffering a gunshot wound, you wake up in a hospital bed with Ghost sitting by your side. Unfortunately, the effects of anaesthesia leave you unable to recognise him and, worse, confuse him with someone else.

A/N: Fluff. Based on a request I received a while ago. Hope you like it, anon!

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A machine on your left beeps rhythmically. The taste of something metallic lingers in your mouth, and the iodine smell stinks your nostrils. Your eyes open slowly, but the bright ceiling light forces them shut again. You lick your lips and attempt to swallow a couple of times. Dry. Your mouth is dry. You need water. Your hand moves towards your face, but a low, raspy voice advises you against it.

“Careful now,” it says, and a hand gently grabs your wrist. “Don’t pull the IV off.”

You turn your head towards the figure beside you and squint. It’s a man, but your blurry vision doesn’t help you identify him. Your eyes travel to your wrist and focus on the closest part of him: a skeleton’s hand.

You try to shake your hand off his grip, but it turns out futile. Frustrated, you give up and raise your middle finger at him.

“Not my time yet,” you declare. “Fuck off.”

“Pardon?” he asks.

“Not ready to go yet,” you reply, tucking your middle finger in your palm and lifting it back up again. “And also, fuck off.”

The man releases your wrist, placing your hand gently beside you. He clears his throat and leans forward. Though your vision remains blurry, you spot what looks like a human skull with a hood over it.

“How are you feeling, love?” he asks, his tone softer.

“How am I feeling, love?” you repeat. “Did Hell improve their customer service?”

“I’m not-” The man begins but pauses. He sighs, shakes his head and rests his elbows on his thighs. “Never mind.”

“Where am I?” You ask.

“Hospital.” He replies. “You took a bullet.”

Directing your attention to your body, you feel a dull throb in your chest. You wince as your fingers brush against the bandages.

“You are joking.” You reply and slap your hand on the bed. “Why? How?”

“Well,” He says and tilts his head to the side. “You exchanged a few shots with the enemy, your gun ran out of bullets, his didn’t, and here we are.”

“My gun?” You ask, shocked. “I have a gun?”

“Several.” He nods.

“SEVERAL?” You shout. “Why would I possibly need several guns?”

“It’s your job, love.” He replies.

“My job is to have several guns?” you ask. “And shooting at people?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he explains, “but it’s mainly for defence.”

“Well,” you shrug and wince at the pain. “Doesn’t look like I’m that good at defence—especially for having several guns.”

“I was really worr—”

“Water,” you interrupt and gesture at your mouth. “I need water.”

“Doctor said it’s not the time for water yet,” he replies.

“Why?” you ask, pretending to check a non-existent wristwatch. “What time is it?”

“No, love,” he replies and muffles a chuckle. “Doctor said you need to wait until you have some water.”

“You throw the ‘love’ thing a little too freely,” you mumble, licking your lips and lifting your index finger. “I’d be really careful if I were you.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning back into the chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Why?”

“I,” you say and point at yourself, “got a boyfriend, thank you very much.”

“Oh,” he exclaims and tilts his head. “Is that so.”

“Yup,” you nod. “And he can kill you.”

“Can he?”

“Can?” You say, and a smug smile forms on your dry lips. “He will absolutely, one hundred and a thousand per cent kill you.”

“Is he that good?” He asks.

“I mean,” you shrug, motioning at the bandages on your chest. “He’s much better than I am.”

“Oh wow,” he exclaims and leans forward. “Is he as good of a boyfriend as he is a shooter?”

“Far from it,” you reply, letting your hand fall to your side.

The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t seem that comfortable all of a sudden. He shuffles in his chair, trying to find a better position, and when he does, he clasps his hands together.

“Go on,” he finally says. “Spill it.”

“Ok, so,” you begin, “first things first, he doesn’t listen to me when I want to vent, and whenever he does, all he says is nonsense.”

“The lad gives you solutions,” he snaps, “and you call them nonsense?”

“I don’t want solutions, man,” you reply, shaking your head. “I want him to just listen to me.”

“Even if the solutions he provides are literally the answers to your suffering?”

“Even then.” You confirm.

“Gotcha,” he nods. “What else?”

“Oof,” you sigh, “how much time do you have?”

“I’m immortal,” he reminds you, “plus the next reaping is in five hours.”

“Oh boy,” you reply. “Business not going that well lately, huh?”

“Not many deaths to take care of,” he spits. “I guess some people could use some serious training when it comes to their aim.”

“Speaking of training,” you say, “he’s always at work and never spends much time with me.”

“The guy’s trying to spend as much time with you as he can, for fucks sake!” he shouts, throwing his hands up. “He even lied to get you on his team!”

“How do you know he put me on his team?” You ask.

“I keep a close eye on him.” He replies.

“What did he lie about?”

“Your precision in aiming,” he jokes and motions for you to continue. “Next one.”

“I can’t think of anything else,” you reply. “Other than he doesn’t say how much he loves me.”

“You’re having a laugh now, aren’t you?” He says, and his tone feels almost threatening. “He’s showing it to you daily; offering advice, keeping you close to him, even risking the possibility of being accused of nepotism for crying out loud! He doesn’t need to say it as well for you to know it!”

“It’s just nice to hear it sometimes,” you sigh and twist a thread from the bed sheet. You turn your head slightly toward him, and he lowers his head to the ground.

“How about you?” You ask. “You have a girlfriend?”

“I do,” he confirms.

“Shut up!” You shout, widening your eyes and immediately closing them back again. “Where did you guys meet?”

“Hell,” he replies. “Right in the pits of it.”

“How is she?” You ask.

“Perfect.” He states.

“Bullshit,” you murmur. “No one’s perfect.”

“She is to me.” He says, shrugging.

“Do you love her?” You ask.

“Absolutely,” he replies, nodding slowly. “One hundred and a thousand per cent I do.”

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