bi-writes

[bi-writes]

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY Call of Duty: Modern Warfare III (2023)

[bi-writes]

How their relationships with their mothers have ruined them

a/n: this is mostly headcanon stuff, as their families aren’t heavily touched upon for the most part, so take it with a grain of salt

Gaz has extremely loving and supportive mom. Always made nice family dinners, always on time to pick him up rain or shine, always knew just what he’d want for his birthday and gave it to him. But she also had high expectations. Grades, sports, extracurricular— she wanted him to be the best no matter what he did. And while for the most part he attributes his successes to that, it also makes him insanely hard on himself. He views all things as having to be earned, to be worked hard for— he doesn’t realize that there are things he deserves even if he does nothing, or that sometimes encountering adversity doesn’t mean you should keep pushing yourself through it.

Soap’s mom will forever and always see him as her perfect baby. As such? He does that thing favorite children do sometimes. Where he’ll do something genuinely fucking annoying and think it’s quite cute. Because when he was growing up, everything he did was so darling. Sometimes he doesn’t realize he’s not still a fat little bairn tucked up in a high chair and covered in spaghetti sauce. He’s an adult, and this was a white couch.

There were moments when Price looked to his mother for help, and she looked away. In his rational mind, he knows that there’s no way he could understand her pain. As much as his father had been a tyrant to him, he’d been a tyrant to her for longer. But inside, he can’t help feeling abandoned by someone he wanted to depend on. So he can’t let go, he can’t let anything of his fall entirely into someone else’s hands. He really does believe that when it comes down to brass tacks, people will always save themselves first.

Simon loved his mother. Wanted the best for her, the same way she did for him. And so how do you show a person that when you’re just a kid, and you barely have anything of your own to give? You show it by lessening their troubles. Their burdens. So he learned to hide every problem, every rotten mood, every disappointment, want, or need. He shuts it all away, hoping it can make the world an easier place to live in for people he loves.

[bi-writes]

will you continue still wakes the deep au??? im frothing at the mouth please

i think so, yes! i just can't give any updates on when, but it's definitely something i'd love to finish :D

[bi-writes]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au

Simon has experienced many things he’d consider love at first sight.

The first time he met his nephew. The first patient he saved in an undersupplied field hospital. His first patient born at twenty two weeks that thrived, his first of many “kids.”

All of these and many others, he would have thought counted, and maybe they still do.

But none of them compare to this.

You’re in the rocking chair next to the incubator with the baby against your chest. Gloves, mask, but no shirt, only a sports bra, and the baby’s cheek is delicately resting just above your breasts. He’s seen plenty of parents, family members, hold their babies, rock them, but there’s something about you, the way you’re humming, the careful way you’re holding her, rocking her, the love in your eyes… its blinding him, making his chest tighten, his pulse stumble.

You’re beautiful. It’s not just the baby either, somehow he knows if he passed you on the street or in the hallway or accidentally bumped into at the store, he’d feel the same way. Blinded.

He can’t stop himself from knocking on the door, and your head snaps up, startled. “Sorry, just checkin’ on her.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. Her dad is downstairs with her mom so I thought I’d spend some time with her. I didn’t want her to be alone.” Your voice cracks but it’s well worn, broken in like you’ve been crying for a long, long time.

“Skin to skin is good for them.” He encourages, turning the lights up from low so he’ll be able to get a better look. They haven’t named her yet. Her dad wants to wait for her mum to wake up, so Simon just calls her baby girl.

“Do you need her? Or should I put her back?”

“No,” he moves further into the room, “I just need her blood sugar and the nurses are pretty busy. I can do it while you’re holding her.”

“Okay,” you sniffle.

“I’m Doctor Riley.” He takes a knee at your side, framing her tiny foot with his thumb and forefinger, swabbing it clean with an alcohol wipe.

“Daisy. I’m Tess’s, her mom’s sister.” Daisy. Wild flowers with their faces turned up to the sun.

“It’s nice to meet you.” It’s not, he knows that, but the traditional, polite exchange is normal, even in these circumstances. The grim line of your mouth lifts, barely, and you give him a small nod.

“You too.”

You wore white.

It’s not lacy or frilly or sparkly, there isn’t a row of buttons at your back or fabric trailing at your feet, but it sits on your body just right and stops at your knees, giving him a rare glance of skin he’s been desperate to see. Like a starved man, he drinks up every single centimeter.

He wasn’t sure if you would, considering, but he’s grateful to see it. He’d hate for you to come to regret not wearing white on your wedding day.

Even if this isn’t how he ever envisioned it.

This insurance problem is both a gift and a curse, so convenient Kyle actually asked him if he had orchestrated it.

“So you had absolutely nothin’ to do with it.” Kyle skeptically raises an eyebrow, and Simon scowls.

“I’m not that much of a bastard.”

“No, but you’ve never let anything stand in your way either.”

He’s let so much stand in the way. Himself, mostly. John, a little bit, though he can’t be blamed. Only Simon carries the fault here, the shame of knowing how badly he let you down. The depth of his failure is so staggering he’s worried he may never climb out of it.

He knows good fortune when he sees it, and he won’t turn his back on opportunity. Not when it comes to you, after all this time, not when he’s already made so many mistakes. This wasn’t his plan, but he’s never been afraid to pivot, change course. It may be selfish, but so be it.

“Hi.” You run your hands down the front of the dress, and they tremble. He wanted to push you harder about Riley attending, should have. After the torture he saw in your eyes the other day in his office, he knows he should have insisted.

“You look beautiful.” It’s a lie. You’re more than beautiful, you’re everything he’s ever wanted since the first moment he saw you, and he aches to fix this nervous, haunted look in your eye, the first layer exposed under the mask he’s cracked.

“Oh, thanks.” Your voice wavers, and he instinctively reaches for you. When you don’t immediately stiffen and pull away, a tiny part of the riot in his heart that’s screaming for you is quieted. For now.

“It’s going to be okay, Daisy.”

“I know.” Your smile is forced. Fake. He hates it, wants more of the real ones, something like he saw in the bar that night. Worse, he wants them directed at him, happening because of him. “Do you have them?” Them. The rings. He couldn’t put it on you to find his, wasn’t sure you’d even do it so he took it upon himself. Two gold bands, both inscribed on the inside with the date. If you notice, you’ll frown. You’ll get that little wrinkle in your forehead, the one you get when you’re trying to piece something together, and you’ll ask him why.

You’re not ready for the answer.

The other ring, his grandmother’s emerald, is tucked away waiting for the day you’re ready to wear it.

He just has to get it on your finger first.

He pats his pocket, and you swallow just as the doors open.

“I guess we should get this show on the road.” His jaw clenches automatically, but he stays silent. It’s not your fault, none of this or ever was. It’s all on him, and he wears the guilt like a brand.

“Right then.”

His Daisy is a nurse.

It was a shock to see you in the ED, waltzing through the chaos of a code like you’ve danced it a million times.

Even more of a shock to hear you’re leaving.

“She’s not usually here for this long.” John explains as he swings the door open to the stairwell. “Picks up shifts between travel contracts, but with Tess and the baby, she stuck around for a while. Now that they’re home, she’s been pretty antsy. Think her contract is in Miami or somethin’, one of those beach spots.”

“Right.” He barely saw you over the last few months of Riley’s stay. You were there when she came out of surgery each time, but you never spoke to him, too focused and rightfully so, on the baby and supporting your sister, helping her and Liam. He didn’t see you in Riley’s room either, always too late or too early, haunted by the honeysuckle and leather left in your wake.

He had no idea you were working a mere few floors beneath him.

The missed opportunity makes his stomach sick.

Thinking about you has become thoroughly distracting, the desire to know you a disease. He’s lost his mind over one interaction, one single moment, minutes spent with you in a patient’s room, minutes he wishes he could stretch into a lifetime.

Maybe it’s a good thing you’re leaving.

Still, he can’t stop himself from being hungry.

Nothing dulls the pain except for more.

“So has she always been in the ED?” John nods, and jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Pint?” They lumber slowly down the street, and Simon balances the act of asking too little or too much, trying to avoid overplaying his hand. “Been a few years. She’s good, we miss her when she’s gone.”

“Why doesn’t she stick around?” John’s mouth twitches into a smirk and he shakes his head.

“Girl is wild, all I can tell you. You should ask her yourself since you’re so curious.” Two frost slicked pints are placed in front of them on the bar, and he drags his thumb through the condensation, chasing a drip.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Congratulations,” the judge smiles as he signs the marriage license. You’ve done a good job of hiding your anxiety, your conflict, walled it all up behind stone, but the tension in your shoulders betrays how close you are to crumbling. “All that’s left is…” the paper is stamped, signed, sealed, and the judge motions to him. “You may now kiss the bride.” Your hand shakes in his as you eye the judge nervously, but he tugs you into his body, shields you, tries to block everything else out so it’s just the two of you in this moment.

“What do you want to do?” He keeps his voice low, steady, one palm firm against the small of your back.

“I…” you lick your lips, breath hitching. He can see it building, the pressure, the panic, the weight, all of it. All of your worries and fears crashing down on you, trying to take you away from him, from this moment. He cups your face. You look so bloody terrified, and it breaks his heart.

This is an exercise in loss of control, and even though it’s necessary, it doesn’t make it hurt any less, for both him and you.

“Just breathe, Daisy. Nice and slow.” You manage a quick inhale, nodding as you let it out carefully. “What do you want to do?” He could kiss your cheek for all he cares, but he wants it to be your choice, considering the circumstances.

“I guess- I guess we should just kiss.” You whisper, and he strokes the slope of your cheekbone patiently. “Like real people do when they get married.”

“Okay sweetheart.” Your lashes flutter and he closes the gap before you lose the nerve, finally colliding his world with yours, bringing them together like they always should have been. Satisfaction rips through him when you lean into it, tiny whimper on your tongue slipping through your teeth to where he swallows it, steals it, buries it deep so no one will ever be able to take it from him.

Someone knocks on the door, announcing the next appointment, and the judge clears his throat. Your pupils are dilated when he pulls back, and he’s still holding your face, reluctant to let go, lose this moment. “We should talk.” He says softly and offers you his hand, ring to ring.

“Alright.”

He could kill John.

He shouldn’t have left you alone, shouldn’t have listened when you insisted you wanted to be by yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, broken and hoarse, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs across the top of your hand as he cradles it, holding you to his chest as tightly as he can. You’re shaking, crying so hard it’s trying to rip you open, your fists knotted in his shirt, just trying to hold on. “Shhh.” He knows this pain, has lived it. His mum, his brother, all his losses too similar to yours.

The door creaks open, and Riley’s nurse is sticking her head into the room, eyes sad. “She’s awake.”

“No,” you sputter, panicked, “no, no I- can’t yet, I can’t… I c-can’t. Please.”

“Okay. We’ll wait, it’s okay.” You’re hyperventilating, wheezing to the point he knows you’re not getting enough air. “Breathe Daisy, you have to breathe.” He tightens his grip, pinning you against him, speaking softly in your ear, but it doesn’t reach you. Nothing can in this moment, nothing will matter in the face of grief so fresh it’s like a physical wound. Like a hole in your heart, bleeding out all over the floor, in his arms. You lock up. Bones and muscles rigid as stone, ice creeping through your body until your lungs turn to ice. No matter how firmly he holds you, he can’t take any of it away, just like he can’t force air into his lungs.

Still, he can try.

“Daisy.” He orders, gripping the back of your neck while still keeping you close, trapped between a forearm and his chest.

Nothing works. You’re lost, in the grief, in the despair, in the face of a bleak, painful future.

And all he can do is hold you as your lungs lose the fight, and you slip away.

Whatever happened in the courthouse is gone.

The short walk to the park has given you too much time in your own head and now you’re pulling at the reins, trying to break free. Wild.

And always a test of patience.

“I can’t stay long, I have to get home. Riley is with a sitter.” You’re stiff at his side with your arms crossed, gaze fixed in the distance, not giving a single inch when he pushes the boundary, brushing your arm with his. “I guess tomorrow we should meet with HR and get the rest of paperwork done.” Paperwork. Because that’s what this is to you, paperwork.

For now.

“That’s right.” He placates and you manage a small, polite smile. You’re automated, objectives and demands rolling off your tongue like you’re going down a checklist, rapidly trying to bring this to a close so you can escape it. Escape him.

“Should be easy enough, and then once you get Riley over-”

“And you.” You freeze.

“Me?”

“Not sure HR will believe I’d keep my wife on the worst insurance plan.” Calling you his wife sounds so good on his tongue, like it’s belonged there all along, but you’re staring at him like he’s lost mind. He cocks his head, daring you to disagree. You can’t, he knows it. And he knows you know it too.

“Okay, well I guess we don’t need these until then.” You reach for the ring on your finger, but before you can even touch it, his hand is on yours, meeting your control, your fight, head on.

“I know you don’t have any expectations Daisy, but I do. Might be married for the insurance, but it still makes you my wife, and as my wife, you’ll wear my ring. That’s my expectation.” It’s firm. There are certain things he won’t let you control, even for now. Your expression turns panicked.

His ring. His wife.

His.

“You- I- I’m not actually your wife.” He treads delicately, careful not to overplay his hand. Too strong, you’ll spook, and too soft, you’ll seize the opportunity and try to throw him off.

“In order for this to be believable, it has to look real, which means wearing the rings.” You tense. Freeze. A rabbit ready to run. He slowly, gently, rubs his thumb over the backs of your knuckles while solidifying his grip. “Daisy.”

“I know. I get it.” You snap, jerking your hand free. You’re so frustrated, and he wants to hold you, soothe you, even though he knows it’s not what you need right now. “I really need to get home.” You insist wearily, and he reluctantly nods.

This will be a stalemate, two waves crashing against one another, expecting the other to move. It’s a battle of wills and always will be, but he’ll need to pick and choose which ones he fights, and which ones he waves the white flag on.

This one will be a surrender.

[bi-writes]

Intended

Part One - The Proposal

Call of Duty Medieval AU Knight!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Princess!Reader

With tired feet threatening to drag with every step he takes across the stone floors, feeling as heavy as the considerable armour he dons from head to toe, he pushes the immense doors open and steps into the room, dreading that he knows already what is to occur beyond these walls.

Though not a scholar by any means, and with one too many blows to the head throughout his years of combat, he remains far from a stupid man, wise enough to know what he is about to walk into, why the had King insisted that he cut his morning hunt short, a request the gluttonous man rarely makes, and present himself before the royal at once.

The young man had hoped to avoid this day if only for just a short while longer, to delay the inevitable conclusion he was walking towards at this very moment, but alas, the Gods had a different fate in mind for him it seemed.

To think, how different life has already become since the Queen’s passing no more than a fortnight ago, a sudden pain in her chest having worsened overnight until the bells in the steeple were announcing her demise for all the kingdom to hear.

With the customary period of grieving scarcely come and gone, her subjects were still mourning the loss of the singular person capable of keeping the King in line, all while the now widowed man was already itching for change.

“Took you long enough.” The King was to be found where he was always sure to be, at the head of the table decorated in a lavish feast, now only to enjoyed by one. He’d at least had the decency to wipe the remaining ale from his lips before addressing his most trusted knight, a few persistent droplets clinging to the scruff around his mouth.

Still clad in his bloodstained armour, for a short hunt did not necessarily equate an unsuccessful hunt, the Knight’s prizes were being dragged into the kitchens as they spoke, leaving blood stained trails in their wake. He stepped purposefully further into the grand room, his every step intentional until he was near enough to his King to detect the subtle sway in the way the older man held his cup.

The man was drunk, as he had been for a very long time now, though not yet appearing belligerently so.

In spite of his heavy armour and chain mail underneath, Ghost moved as silently as his name might suggest as he moved to kneel before his highness, lowering his gaze to the expensively tiled floor beneath him, one he’d come to know with great familiarity after nearly two decades under the man’s service.

“Enough of tha’. Stand up, boy.” The King’s booming voice echoed through the room, commanding his knight to rise. “What’d you bring me back today, hm?”

“Snagged a pair o’ deer up by the creek. Dozen or so hares. Few birds.” Ghost’s low timbre reached the man’s ears at the same time as his cup reached his lips again. He need not know about the boar he and his men had nearly caught before they were summoned back to the castle, what the man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“Good, good. A more than adequate prize, considering. Very good. You never fail to succeed, do you Ghost?”

“Sir.” Was the only reply he would offer, along with a curt nod, never one to bask in the man’s praise.

“Haven’t called you here to discuss game, however.” The greying man clarified, glancing around to his handful of servants in waiting, stood silently in the shadows of the room, prepared to answer to their King’s beck and call. “Leave us.” He instructed, not needing to repeat himself before every soul was scattering this way and that, all too eager to be out of the man’s sight, though a few were certain to be found with ears pressed up against key holes in hopes of eavesdropping.

“I will keep this short, not interested in formalities these days.” the man began, grunting as he struggled to stand from his seat, swaying slightly in place until he was near enough to the knight to see his reflection in his armour. “Twenty-five years is entirely too long to have kept her sheltered the way her mother did. Ridiculous. As if keeping one hidden away would bring the others back. Senile woman. Should have done this ages ago. Long overdue. Owe every grey hair on me to that wench.”

Ghost allowed to man to ramble on, mumbling between sentences as though he could not decide whether he was speaking to himself or the only other soul in the room. Ghost remained steadfast in his place as he listened to the man go on, eyes silently taking him in. It was hard to believe sometimes, that this was the same man, the supposed King, who had over two decades ago slain each and every member of his family, sparing only the young boy he once was, bringing him back to the kingdom to be raised into the fearsome Knight they now called Ghost, only to repay the debt of having spared him his life. Never once had Ghost looked up to the fat man before him, not during his tainted childhood, and certainly not now as a man twice his size, serving him bravely throughout the years as he always has, though forever carrying a flame of hatred for his heighness.

“Her mother is gone now, gone, rest her soul. I need her gone, as well. Taken care of. No longer my burden, if you understand.” The King continued, finally slowing in his speech to glance up at the Knight for he stood easily over a foot taller than most men in the court.

“Are you askin’ me to kill her, sir?” Ghost inquired, without a hint of emotion in his tone. He was all too aware as to the her they were referring to.

“Worse.” The King clarified before taking another swig of his drink, his teeth coloured a deep red when he opened his mouth again to bear a snarky grin at the younger man. “I’m askin’ you to marry her.”

With a steadying breath, you dared to inch yourself closer yet, ignoring the tumultuous feeling in your stomach as the toes of your shoes dragged any loose hay along the floorboards with you. Your fingers clutched the at the fabric of your skirts, keeping them lifted enough as to not trip and fall too soon. Perhaps the impact would not be as painful as you were imagining, perhaps the fall would be the most frightening part of it all, a mere few seconds of wind rushing past your ears until it was all over, your woes solved for all eternity. Let them think what they might, say what they please, it would be of no matter to you in the end, nothing more than a stain on the cobblestones below when it was all said and done.

“What in the- what do ye think yer doin’ up there m’lady? ‘Ave ye gone mad?” A familiar accent called from the ground, the annoyance in his voice clear as day.

“Is it not evident, Mr MacTavish? That I am in the midst of ending my suffering once and for all.” You declared with your chin held high, refusing to meet his eyes as you attempted again to convince yourself to go through with this, to remember that this would be the lesser of two evils, the solution to a problem you could not otherwise solve.

“Come again?”

“I clearly intend to kill myself, MacTavish.”

“Not if yer intention involves jumping from there, m’lady.” The handsome stable hand clarified from the ground.

“I beg your pardon?” Only now glancing down at the man stood a mere few yards away, hearing his grunt of effort as he threw down the sack of grains he’d been carrying over one shoulder, his piercing azure eyes squinting to decipher your form through the low light of the torch flames.

“S’not high enough, ma’am. You’ll twist yer ankle at best, but yer certainly not going to kill yer self from that height. Sorry to disappoint ye.”

“Oh. Well- are you certain?”

“Positive. I myself jump down from there often, an’ I’m afraid I’m still standin’. Ye did not want to go any higher than that, did ye?” He questioned, stepping slowly closer with every word he spoke.

“Well, I am still a tad afraid of heights, you see.” You admitted, pinching the fabric of your sleeves in worry.

“Aye, I remember well. I’ve rescued enough of yer kites over the years, m’lady.” He agreed all too nonchalantly, not a trace of panic to be found in his voice, only mild irritation at the inconvenience you were creating for him.

“I see- uh- this doesn’t change my intentions! I will- I will find another way.”

“Of course, of course. Did ye want a rope perhaps? Seems like a fine night for a hanging, if ye prefer.”

“Gods no.” You rejected the idea outright, having witnessed one too many public hangings to know that the men’s limbs kicked and thrashed too much for your liking, fighting for life far longer than you’d prefer to experience yourself.

“Agreed. Perhaps we could fill a pail with water and ye could drown yerself. Nah, on second thought, ye deserve something quicker. A beheading might do the trick, though if yer aim was to remain subtle that one might be a touch too-

“Oh, forget it!” You exclaimed, stepping back from the edge of the barn’s second storey, all but huffing as you made your way down the rickety ladder, careful not to trip over your skirts in the process, though uncaring for how dirty or ripped they might become. None of it mattered anymore, carried the same importance as it might have only a moon ago, not when your mother was gone, the only person left in your family who loved you for who you were, the only one who stood up for you against your father.

“Now, don’t suppose ye’d want to tell me what this is all about then?” He asked soon as your two feet were safe on the ground again, reaching across to pull a strand of hay from your hair.

“Do not stand here and treat me as though I were a fool, pretending as though you haven’t heard.” You bit back at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “I would imagine the deaf are the only few who have not heard the news at this point.”

“Ye always have had a way with words, haven’t ye m’lady?”

“John…”

“Apologies. Only tryin’ to lighten the mood.” He answered somewhat sheepishly, at least pretending to appear remorseful for his teasing. “Though I suppose it is a rather improper time to jest.”

“An excellent deduction.” You snapped, though the soft look in his eyes already had your cold exterior melting, unable to keep the facade up around him. “John- what am I to do? This- this all feels like a terrible dream.”

“Nothing is set in stone yet, m’lady. There has been no official announcem-”

“There will be no announcement! No engagement! They will shove me into a wedding dress and stick me at the altar as though I were a child’s doll and that is how the world will find out! You know how my father is, he will see to that this happens as quickly as possible.” You couldn’t help but to whine, unable to grapple with the idea that your worst dreams were coming true, that the day you’d been dreading since you were a little girl was finally coming to fruition.

With nothing to be said, John opened his arms in invitation, not a word needed as you stepped into his embrace and allowed his embrace to be the first comfort you experienced in a long time.

“What shall we do, John? How do you imagine we stop this from happening?” You spoke into his chemise, the smell of wood and dirt and sweat emanating off of him a familiar and safe aroma during such a tumultuous time.

“Ach, I dinna ken, m’lady.” He replied, leaning his cheek against the top of your head as his hands soothed up and down your back.

“There must be something that can be done. We simply have to think. Perhaps we could-”

“M’lady.” John interrupted apologetically, the look on his face when he pulled back was a pained one, a regretful expression you did not often see from the bold, confident man you’d come to know over the years. “M’afraid there’s nothing to be done this time, other than grin and bear it.”

“You’re speaking as though this is certain to happen!” You gasped, pulling back from his embrace, upset by the way he was unwilling to fight for you and your freedom as you were.

“And yer speaking as though ye have a say in any of it.” He countered. “What exactly do ye predict will happen to ye if you refuse your father, hm? What do ye think he’ll do to ye? Send ye away something far away if we’re lucky. Say he did so and jus’ throw ye down in the dungeons instead?”

You stared down at the ground as you toed a clump of dirt, the truth in his words not anything new to you, though hearing it from him didn’t lessen the sting or soften the impact.

“Now I pray every mornin’ and every night that yer mam’s soul rests in peace, Gods bless her. But she isn’t here anymore, m’lady. She can’t protect ye from this any longer. M’afraid I can’t protect ye from this, either. Oh, please no- do not cry, m’lady. Cannot bear to see ye cry.”

John quickly stepped forward and closed the gap between you both again, pulling you back into him as your tears threatened to spill over, the frustration and anger and sadness and helplessness and fear catching up to you all at once as you struggled to come to terms with the fact that this would be your new reality, whether you liked it or not.

For better or worse, as they say.

The stars had shifted outside, the darkness growing deeper as he hours changed and sand fell through the glass. John had calmed you down some, as he always seemed to be able to do, and had you both now sitting semi-comfortably together in the corner of the barn, seated on bales of hay and safe from any prying eyes. This had always been your little corner, a spot solely for the two of you, ever since John had begun working in the stables and caught your eye.

“John,” you whispered to him, though there was no one near, the words you were about to speak feeling too sacred to be said too loud. “I am frightened.”

“Aye, I dinna blame ye.” He replied, tightening his hold around your shoulders as you leaned further into his touch. “Cannot imagine being in your shoes.”

“He will kill me.”

“Nah, yer father will not lay a finger on ye m’lady. Not if you do as he wishes.”

“No, not him.” You clarified, shaking your head as you pictured a pair of dark eyes peering through the small slits of a Knights helm. “The Ghost.”

“Oh. Him.” Was the only reply John could manage, staring off into the distance with you as you both appeared to imagine the man in question. “I dinna believe he’ll hurt you, m’lady.”

“You know as well as I do the things he has done. He is cold, ruthless. Not a single one of his enemies has survived him.”

“Well, you will have to ensure you do not become his enemy in that case.” He tried to tease, though the smile never quite reached his eyes as he said it.

“John.” You spoke again, turning to meet his gaze as you took a steadying breath, not failing to notice the way his eyes dropped to your bosom for a fleeting second as your chest rose and fell. “I want you to take me.”

“M’lady, they would kill us both if we tried to run anyw-”

“No, no.” You interrupted him, correcting his misunderstanding. “Not take me as in flee. I- I want you to take me, John. To bed.”

“Oh. Oh.” John replied, his cheeks reddening to a deep crimson as he scratched the back of his neck, eyes scanning your face. “M’lady, you know I could not.”

“I will not have that monster be the first person to touch me, John. I want it to be you, after all.”

“Bonnie,” the pet name he used for you on rare occasions slipping out as you cupped his cheek with a warm hand, trying to convey the severity of your words to him. “Ye do not know how I long for ye. How much I wish I could be the one to feel ye, to show ye what pleasure can be found in another’s touch.”

Whether by gravity or coincidence, you knew you were both inching closer to one another, hot breaths beginning to fan across the other’s cheeks with every word said between you.

“Then please John, take me. Have me. I am yours.”

He plucked your hand from his cheek with both of his, bringing your palm up to his chapped lips for a kiss as he shut his eyes, as though he were in pain doing so.

“M’lady, ye know well as I do that we could never. The risks far outweigh anything else, I fear. Ye cannot imagine how it pains me to say so, for I do want ye. I need ye.” He registered, tightening his hold on your hand as he pressed it against his chemise where you could feel his heart beating beneath. “But I’ve always known that I can never have ye.”

Though his answer was expected, the disappointment was still poignant, an ache settling deep in the cavities of your heart as you nodded, avoiding his gaze.

“I can-” he added, reaching a single finger up under your chin to tilt your eyes back up to his. “Give ye this, however.”

That was the night John MacTavish gave you what you’d always dreamt he would, your very first kiss, tucked safely together in the back of that barn without a soul around to judge you, to sell you out, to report back to your father and ruin you.

If only life could have ended there, with his lips on yours, his arms around you and yours around him, hearts pressed together as they beat as one.

But alas, fate had other plans in store. And though you had never feared goblins or ghouls as a young girl, had never worried about the shadows under your bed or shapes in your wardrobe, you found yourself now with a growing fear of ghosts. Or at least, the Ghost.

Taglist: @lunamoonbby @connnn @backgroundgirl887 @iminlovewithjasontodd

[bi-writes]

The sexiest thing a woman can do is move on. Whether it’s from their partner, career, family, etc. Society has programmed women into believing there’s a moral reward for enduring and staying. Fuck that. Get a new partner, new career, move to another state/country, please just MOVE ON.

[bi-writes]

Ghost, commissioned by @bi-writes and inspired by @basementcoffee "underdog" fic ❤️

[bi-writes]

[bi-writes]

don't mess with Uncle Simon!!!

[bi-writes]

Orca!ghost, whos a big guy, okay?

Hes got thick muscles, layered under even thicker fat. Large and plush, and *big*. Then there's you, a small sea otter hybrid whos been courting him for weeks. Giving him shells and food that you cook.

Youre persistent, but for reasons you dont understand ghost refuses to reciprocate despite obviously liking you. So you ask him about it one day and he finally relents "look, I just dont think were...compatable. physically."

He motions between the two of you, emphasizing the sheer difference. You just shrug, smile up at him "id partner you either way, but...im pretty sure I could take you."

Ghost snorts, grins at you "uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that."

"No im serious! Cmon, at least let me try, big guy!"

Which leads to now, ghost leaning back on the shitty sofa in the corner of his office while you straddle his thighs. He gives a nervous chuckle, looks between his cock and you "don' think its gonna fit, doll. Things as big as yer forearm..."

You are quiet for a long moment, looking down at ghosts cock with narrowed eyes, sizing him up. Finally, you nod "I can totally do that. Meet me in my room, an hour after dinner."

Ghost does, unable to really focus through dinner while he mind runs wild with ideas of what you plan to do. He opens the door to find what will possible haunt his dreams for years to come. You, sprawled languidly over your bed and working a massive dildo in and out.

Its not the first one you chose, four others lay beside you, glistening. Ghost groans when he realizes that you literally opened yourself up for him with fucking dildos. Thats how big he is compared to you. "Fuckin' hell baby..."

His mind nearly goes blank when he kneels between your legs, pushing in oh so slow. There's still a stretch that had you gasping open-mouthed, and ghost bows over you at the snug fit. Still, you smile up at him the same way you do when you beat soap in training.

"told you i could take it."

[bi-writes]

em dashes are a hallmark of fanfiction the same way the infamous "Oh. Oh." line is and don't let any loser tell you otherwise

[bi-writes]

Captain John Price in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 19/??

[bi-writes]

Thinking abt ghost sharing food with you...

Hes a creature of survival before hes anything else. Childhood days spent hungry in the summer heat has made ghost protective of his food. He doesnt share, not even with his teammates. Ghost always eats alone, and he keeps his food on him at all times.

No one takes it personally, they just accept it was one of the many things ghost does. They know better than to expect him to share.

That is, until you join the team and somehow rewire ghosts brain after a few conversations. All his instincts telling him he has to keep you safe, and food means safety.

So now when ghost eats MREs on the field he's dragging you along with him. He never speaks more than a few jokes, and you never press. His hands are steady when he rolls up his mask enough to take a bite of food, slightly difficult with a good chunk of lip missing. The next bite goes to you, the same spoon that was just in his mouth now bringing food to yours.

His eyes crinkle in happiness when you take a bite. He doesnt know why his brain latched onto you. Maybe hes got a crush. Maybe you remind him of Tommy. Maybe ghost just feels guilty and hes looking for absolution in your mortal form.

Whatever the reason, it causes ghost to learn how to cook beyond frozen foods. Slowly improving just so he can feed you better on base. The increase in energy and his improved mood surely have nothing to do with it. Even if hes gives you a big toothy grin when you slip into his office for lunch.

Its nice. Sharing food. It makes him feel a bit less like hes caught in a room with a tiger at all times.

[bi-writes]

febrile (or; input vs output)

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

-

or: Simon is a member of the Night City Police Department and you're a ripper doc. It is his job to catch criminals, but even he can admit, he's taken a different approach for you. CYBERPUNK!AU

TAGS: Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Size Kink, Unhealthy Relationships

read here on ao3

Simon’s got a bug in his system that is turning his vision white at the edges when he finally visits you.

Not that he has much of a morality regarding visiting ripperdocs. Sure, they’re criminals and as a member of the NCPD, it is his job to arrest and charge criminal activity, but that was a rigid rule set decades ago. These days, the split between the NCPD and a common gang is that the rules the gang lives by aren’t written into the law. But, allowances are allowed on both sides.

Simon has never cared much to think about it. He sees some other officers have that blank look in their eye after they finish a shift, others who seem to revel in being able to do whatever it is that they want. Simon just does as he’s told. If he’s told to save the woman who survived a cyberpsycho attack then she is tossed over a shoulder and brought to the ambulance. If otherwise, a nod is all he needs to know that there are no witnesses. Finger, gun, trigger. The explosion in the palm of his hand, kicked back and caught. Delivered.

Maybe it has left a screw loose in his head. Not his job to analyse that.

Flouting the law as and when it suits the law is a part of the job. Not one that Simon has much indulged in, he must admit. Any murder, extortion, crime that is involved in the ‘etcetera’ part of his work, has been asked of him. His fellow officers flout the law as and when it suits them. Illegal weapons, killing a perp who gets too mouthy, maybe getting a bit too handsy with a victim. Simon hasn’t been much interested in the ‘benefits’ he can reap with his badge.

However, after a job where the NCPD took down a group of scavengers, Simon’s vision starts getting spotty. He’d had to jack into one of the victims to see if they were still alive. Horrible static, bad channel. They hadn’t been. And seemingly willing to haunt him from the afterlife, leaving a pesky virus in his system.

There are NCPD designated docs that he could go and visit, but the idea of letting one of their starched, freshly pressed hands go worming around in his cyberware makes his skin crawl. Years before his official service, he’d had all his kit installed by a ripperdoc, and he hadn’t had an issue he couldn’t fix himself since.

He spends a few days just trying to deal with it, still able to hit his shots using the noise that all criminals insist on making. He can still mostly see, even a few days in. Maybe not make out features, but people are blurry and morphed shapes that approach him and he puts them down with the same accuracy as before.

It’s not long before his captain pulls him up, though. Forces him to admit the bug, and issues a new command. Sort it out.

Standing in the doorway of your clinic, hidden in his civvies, here he is. Sorting it out.

You’re in the middle of muddling around with some of your equipment, humming to yourself before you must catch sight of him. The blur of your figure jumps, as your face comes into profile. You must be intimidated by the sight of him, something that he registers with a cool type of pleasure. Even not in his uniform and clearly strapped with all of his weapons, he blocks the light coming in from your doorway. You must see the metal of his left arm, nothing human left there. The gas mask that covers half of his face, black and stark against the pale of his skin.

“Hello. How can I help?” you ask, shifting something up your forehead. It distorts ths shape of your head and he realises that they must be massive goggles. Ridiculous, he imagines you must look like the image of the crazy scientist from old stories; you probably have a lab coat on. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your reputation, known as one of the best ripperdocs in Watson, even if you are as cheap as they say.

Ripperdocs are the gray area in Night City. Criminals, yes, but the hassle of actually taking down ripperdocs is more than it’s worth. Not that Simon tends to give a fuck about the politics, or the give and take of crime vs law. He is a bullet, pointed in a direction and shot out.

“I got a bug in my system,” he says, taking another step into your clinic.

You nod, gesture for him to take a seat on your bench. Something out of a dentist’s nightmare, he imagines, but he takes a seat nonetheless. Despite lying down, everything in him is as tense as a straight line. Gaze landed and caught on you, lazy as he watches you drift around your clinic. His vision is filtering your clinic as starkly white, the outline of your light grey. You both may as well be in void, he can only see the outline of objects as they get close to him.

You swing your chair around and pick up a wire. “You cool if I take a look?” you offer, gesturing with the wire. His forearm is already tense with the instinct to catch your hand before you can plug that into the side of his neck. His metal gasmask covers the slot anyway.

A beat, in which you look back at him. He considers making it awkward, telling you no or something. Settles on nodding and watches the way you flounder for a moment when you realise you can’t reach the slot. You’re paused, flatering in the space between the two of you.

“Can you take off your mask?” you ask. Your voice is deliberately light, but he can hear the catch of annoyance underlying your tone. It makes him want to grin, wonders how you look right now, if you’re frowning at him or trying to hide it with a smile.

“No,” he tells you. A beat. You don’t move or attempt to say anything else. Stalemate, when he can’t see how you look. “There’s a catch on the side, you unlatch that to reach the slot.”

You don’t say anything else, and he’s irritated by that. Relying on noise when the other individual doesn’t want to make any noise just leaves him listeless. You reach up, click open a section of his mask and plug in. You turn away, pull what must be a tray towards yourself. You must have plugged him into your laptop, your figure hunched towards it.

You cluck your tongue, goggles shifting across your brow as you gaze at your screen. “This is a nasty one, how’d you catch this?” He decides that’s not relevant and watches you instead. You give him a quick glance, head tilting his way, but decide to shrug off his strange silence. “I’ll just be a moment while I clear it. Seems to have caught onto a lot of your neural sensors, I’m surprised you can still walk.”

His chest doesn’t puff out with pride, but it’s a close thing. You tinker away at it, finally clearing it from his system. The whites that had clouded his vision clears, and he can see you in high definition finally. Can see the pores next to your nose, the frizz around the strap of your goggles as it disappears into your hair. You’re giving him an evaluating look, your eyes intent even as the rest of your body is deliberately loose. You don’t seem to have much chrome on you, thin lines of metal around your eyes, and a scanner on your right palm. He doubts you have much more.

“There we are, good as new,” you tell him, leaning back in your chair with a pleased huff. You give him another long look, but this time he can see the widen and pinprick of your retina. He wonders how he comes up in the scan that you must’ve pulled up the second he was in your doorway. Cop, ex-army, de-commissioned, KIA but here, in the (mostly) flesh. You don’t give any of it away, just shut your laptop and unplug him.

You hadn’t asked for payment upfront, and he imagines just walking out. Wonders if you would scowl at him, if you would expect it, maybe scowl for once. Drop that calm look on your face in exchange for something a bit uglier.

There is a long beat that he draws out to see what you will do, but you only sit patiently. You turn back to your laptop, tapping away on something else now. It’s not fun if you’re not biting, he sends you what he decides must be your standard fee, watches you tilt your head to the side at the chime of money exchanged.

He doesn’t thank you, just gets up and leaves. You didn’t close the latch on the side of his mask, and he considers marching back and making you do it, but decides to save it for another day. He closes it himself for now, and fancies that he can feel the finger print that you left behind on it, evidence.

-

The first warrant he comes back with is legitimate. Cyberpyschos are going mental over the bridge, and they have a faint enough lead that shows some of the cyberware tracing back to yourself. He knocks on your door and watches your face when he presents it to you.

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

He imagines reaching over and holding his hand over the soft column of your throat. You’ve left it bare, you’d likely barely have any time to start flailing before he’d squeeze with intent and you’d drop, caught in the palm of his hand. If you can sense his thoughts, you don’t give it away, just watch him in return, blinking like a stray cat. Curious but wary.

“You know, Officer Riley, if you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to bring the official signed document,” you say, gesturing with the hologram that was on the chip he presented to you. It’s slightly flirty, but cautious, like you’re padding around an interrogation room, but you don’t know what he’s done yet.

He doesn’t say anything. You smile back, as if he had responded, and let it lie. Your eyes are sharp, he imagined he could hear the whir as you scanned each of his men as they came in, but your smile and limbs are loose, like you are unaware of everything. Your teeth are blunt, but he imagines the cut of one against the metal of his forearm.

They don’t find anything, and one of his men huffs, giving you a dirty look. You’re asked what you work as and your smile doesn’t slip. “I help those with addiction, this is a place for them to speak, to be treated,” you answer.

“Treated?” one of his men pushes, giving Simon a look. It’s a terrible lie, so bad that Simon reckons they’ll have a hard time proving it’s not true. This is a shitty area, there’s likely 3 gonks in the alleyway outside lying in the gutter, high. You’re also liked enough that they could grab a random off the street and they’d lie for you easily enough.

“Simple brain dances, meditations,” you explain, rolling your head back to give Simon another look. The smile is gone, eyes gone guileless. He squints at it, suspicious and the corner of your mouth gives the faintest twitch. “Honestly, officers, whatever it is that you’re looking for, I’m sure I would not be of any help.”

One of his men steps forward as if to grab you by the arm but Simon barks at him to step back. You haven’t looked away, but you look analysing again, like you had looked at the virus in his system. “We’re done here,” Simon announces and steps back before you can say anything else. Leaves you with your trashed clinic and his warrant on the chip he gave you.

Simon falls asleep later and dreams of you with a scalpel in your hands, and when you cut into him, there is no blood.

-

Simon sees you again, but this time you’re outside. It bristles him, seeing you standing on an open street. Your sides are bare and before he can think about it too much, he’s cut his eyes around every alleyway around you. Making sure that there is no one on the rooftops. Traffic roars past and he grits his teeth. There's been a spike in drive-by shootings, gangs nipping at each other’s heels in a show of territory.

He’s over to you before he can stop himself, a hulking mass at your back, shielding you from the view of the road. He would tell himself that he is doing his duty as an officer, but he has always been a self-interested man, and never cared much to lie to himself. 

You startle as his shadow swallows you up, turning around to blink up at him. You squint at the sight of him. “Officer,” you greet. He grunts in response, which makes you almost roll your eyes.

You turn back to the stall you were standing at, humming over some mods for sale.

The man at the stall is terrified at the introduction of Simon, pale and nodding mindlessly as you start to barter. Simon imagines if he flashes his holster then you would even get the mod for free, a thought which amuses him. You'd likely get even more annoyed, which he does want to see.

As if you can sense his thoughts, you wrap up the exchange quickly and step away, Simon following at your back. “There something you want from me, officer?” You ask, giving him a look over your shoulder. He stares back at you, unyielding.

He’s unsettled suddenly, imagining how often you must be outside of your clinic. He hadn’t thought of it, had only imagined you were constrained in those four walls. The door had shut behind him and he had left you there, a still picture until he would return eventually. Waiting, like a good girl, sat by the door.

“You going home?” he asks you. Tells you.

You give him another look. He wants the crack of your skull in his palms, like the clean split of a watermelon. Wants to parse through your thoughts, wants to have them before they even fully form on your own.

“Yeah, I got what I needed,” you reply. He grunts, follows you until you tilt towards the side streets that lead back to your clinic. Barely any safer, but at least it’s not the open street, and he has his orders to patrol here. He watches you as you disappear around a corner. His gums itch, his tongue flexes in his mouth. He is a wild dog held back with a tattered leash, but he respects it all the same, heads back to his post, but keeps his ear tilted in the direction you went in.

-

He comes back again, and the warrant isn’t even real. He stares you down, wants you to open it, wants the reaction to his baldfaced lie. You take the chip and step aside to let him in. There’s a cut across your brow, purple bruising around it and he can’t look away from it. White in his vision again, he’s starting to suspect you’ve put another virus in his system, infecting him. He blinks and it clears, but the distrust stays like a rotting in his core.

He wants to dig his teeth into the edge of the metal in your palms and peel it up, wants the imprint of his teeth somewhere on you that you couldn’t replace with technology. He thought about you while he fucked his fist in the shower, and you had been beneath him, teary-eyed as he broke you in on his cock. He wants to fuck you until you drop that questioning look in your eye and bare your throat for him again.

“Look at the warrant,” he tells you. You smile up at him, like he is someone charming. He’s not, and he wants the reaction that he has sought out of you.

“Won’t it just say what all of them say?” you point out, leaning back against your desk. “Something that may have something to do with me, and here you are.” He stays silent, stares you down. “Do you want me to be a criminal?”

“You are one,” Simon rebuttals. That’s why he’s here. You need to be, he needs to catch you. He dreamt of chasing you down a network, jumping between wires and static until he caught your hips in his hands and crushed them. His desire for you is entwined with the dichotomy of your identities. He isn’t much interested in forcing you to become a legal law-abiding citizen, as he is pushing the two of you further into the roles that you are in.

“You know what I mean,” you add, pushing off of your desk and stepping towards him. A step away and he reaches his metal hand out, clamps your jaw in his palm. You let him, like you always seem to do, and it’s like pure heroin, lights something up in him.

“Who did this?” he asks, your chin in his palm, his thumb on your eyebrow. Right on the cut. He thinks if it was him that put it there, he might dig in a little, but he wasn’t. It’s hidden from view like this, with the edge of your eyebrow, disappeared behind his ugly, metal thumb.

“Got jumped by some asshole who thought he was hot shit,” you say, easily. The way you say everything, no pit-stop between your brain and your mouth. He wants to dig his tongue into the back of your throat and catch the words there, drink them down.

“Who?” he asks. You shrug and he shakes your jaw like a bad dog. “Who?” he repeats, tone biting. There’s a twitch in your eye at being roughhoused but you don’t step back.

You give a name, raising an eyebrow at him. He vaguely recognises it, some asshole who’s been causing trouble in Watson. Some wannabe gangbanger. He butts his head against yours, too hard to be truly affectionate before he leaves. His gas mask bumps against your cheek, leaves a red mark on your jaw from where his metal fingers dug in.

He shoots the fucker who jumped you, and dumps his body in the river. He watches it float, knowing it’ll be found. When they see the NCPD bullet extracted from his brain, he’ll be dumped back out again. Simon thinks about allowances, thinks about ropes of wire and how they snap. Rubber ripped, coil exposed.

-

He comes to see you again, this time in the middle of the night, wanting to see what you look like when you’ve just woken up. He imagines you’ll be pliant, let him shift you around as he wishes, sleep in your eye and a dream still dragging on your limbs.

You open the door and rub your eyes. Your hair is a little ruffled from your bed, blinking up at him with thick-cottoned eyes. He smiles with teeth beneath his gas mask at how awareness flickers into your eyes before you force a yawn. You’re so quick, which is why it’s always so satisfying to catch you.

“Something I can help with, officer?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Let me in,” he tells you. Demands it of you. It would be so easy to force his way in, but he likes it when you do as he tells you to.

“You got a warrant for that?” you ask, scrubbing a hand over your jaw. Eye him like he’s your patient again, like you’re finding that virus in his system and cutting it out.

“No,” he replies. Watches your expression, the subtle tick of your brow at his bold-faced honesty.

He wonders if you’ll shut the door on him. Make him peel the metal back to get in anyway. He would, he’s saved up his allowances and he plans on cashing them out on you.

You give him another long look before you step to the side and let him in. The door slides shut with a wheeze and a soft thunk.

“Is there something that you would like to say, Officer Riley,” you say, as if it’s a question but your voice doesn’t lilt at the end. He wants to catalogue every one of your reactions and keep them to himself, squirrelled away, out of the sight of anyone else. That is something beyond liking you, beyond attraction. Simon feels possessive of everything about you, like he might cave someone’s skull in if they saw too much of you.

Simon’s never been too much of a talker, he steps forward and crowds you into the desk that has all of your equipment on it. You blink up at him, perfectly still in the way that prey animals are, when they know they’re caught. The rabbit-like flutter of your heart, caught in the palm of his hand as he cups your neck. Thumb against the soft give just beneath your chin. “Simon,” he tells you, although he knows you already must know. He never told you he was Officer Riley, knows that you must have pried your way into whatever confidential information that you could find on your scan of him.

“Well, that doesn’t feel appropriate, Officer Riley,” you point out. Your calm tone is undermined by the kick of your pulse. His fingers flex, held back with a trained restraint. He likes knowing you’re afraid of him, like that you talk back to him anyway. Like watching a kitten yowl at a beast. Cute.

“Simon,” he repeats, bending his head closer to you, A hunch in his shoulders, and his face still isn’t that close to yours.

A quiet beat. “Simon,” you repeat. Your voice is flat, as if you’re trying to take the enjoyment out of it for him. He huffs with something like amusement. He gets his rocks off here, having his way in your clinic, the feel of your skin against the scar tissue of his human hand. You could be scowling or smiling, and he’d like either once he’s got his fingers in your mouth.

He reaches his other hand up and undoes his gas mask, lets it drop off and sets it on the desk next to your hip. Hoists you up, catches the kick of your leg, steps into the cradle of your thighs. “There we go,” he tells you. Your eyes have taken in the exposed section of his face. Ripped skin, some replaced by chrome, most of it left to heal as is. He knows that he is an ugly sight, a hulking, horrible man, hunched over you. He doesn’t care much what you have to say about it.

He ducks his head and looks you in the eye, even playing ground. You glare back at him and he grins with teeth. He hopes that you bite him, seals his mouth over yours. Your tongue is wet and he tilts your head back, wanting to get into your throat. You bite his tongue and he groans, his other hand pushing your hips into his. He grinds into you, huffing into your mouth. He memorises each point of your teeth, sucks your tongue into his mouth and blinks at you with half-closed eyes.

He pulls back with a wet smack, which leaves your cheeks flushed. “Show me your tits,” he tells you, hands flat on your desk, framing your hips. You don’t move, glaring up at him again. He gives you a lazy look, like you’re boring him now. If anything, the hateful look in your eye has made him even harder, if it were possible. “Now.”

“Such a dick,” you mutter to yourself, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama shirt and slipping it off. There’s a fine tremble in your hands before you still them with a calming breath. He was right on his first impression of you - that you barely have any chrome on you. Your skin is soft looking, no harsh metal on your torso. Restricted to the framing of metal around your eyes, your right palm. 

He smooths his metal hand up your side, watches gooseflesh and vellus hair raise in its wake. Cups one of your breasts in his cold metal palm. Almost coos at the sight of your nipple pebbling as his thumb swipes over it. Restrains himself at the last second, but gives into the urge to give you a mean pinch as retribution for your filthy mouth. You jump, a hitch in your breath. He smirks at you, hopes you can see the chip in his canine. “Behave,” he tells you, reaching for the waistband of your bottoms. Maybe once he’s drunk his fill, he can indulge the bite of your mouth, but his skin feels stretched thin over chrome and bone, and he wants what’s his and he wants it readily.

There’s a jump in your abdomen as his hand dwarves your hip, tugging your pyjama bottoms off and tosses them behind him. He spreads your thighs, peaks at the curls the cover your sex. All of the dolls in Night City are clean shaven. He likes this better, likes that you hadn’t been expecting him, and here he is anyway. He makes a mental reminder to bin all of your razors if he gets a chance.

He parts your sex with two fingers, huffing at the sight. So sweet, even with your strange looks and your filthy mouth. Sweet as sugar down here, your hole fluttering, your clit hidden under its hood like it’s shy. His hands are a cage around the span of your waist, squeezes in warning before he thuds to his knees and flattens his tongue against you. You whimper at the contact, manage to strangle the noise just barely. When he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, you yowl, thighs kicking out. He squeezes them in place over his shoulders, barely jostled.

He brings one hand down from your waist, lifts his head, a string of saliva connecting him to your clit. It’s out now, throbbing and awake. He spits on it, watches you flinch with it. Spittle drips down, sits on the slick that has gathered at your hole. He feeds you one finger, groans as he watches your flesh part for him, and feels how hot you are inside. You're tight, he can feel muscle clamp down around his index, clinging to him. “Need to relax, sweetheart, or my cock’s gonna break you,” he tells you. It almost feels like a struggle to even feed you one finger, something that leaves a strangled feeling in his chest.

“Do one,” you reply, eloquently. But you don’t kick him off you or anything, so he just gives you another look. He’s being too indulgent with you, he knows. But, it’s better to let a puppy misbehave so they know what’s not tolerated. Training for another day, he lowers his head and licks at the stretch of your pussy around his finger.

He slides his finger in and out of you, gives you another when your panting starts to hitch up, rubbing his thumb over your clit when you whine at the stretch. You start whining out swears, hips jolting forward and then back again as if you want to come, but don’t want him to give it to you.

His third finger is pushing it, he knows because you start clawing at his scalp, sharp little nails. He groans hot onto your clit, which has you shaking. You’re wet with sweat, he can see the shine of it on the curve of your belly, on the strip of skin between your tits.

He slows the pump of his fingers, idly toying your clit with his tongue. He debates if you should be allowed to come. He doesn’t want you knowing that he finds your pissy words amusing, doesn’t want to overly encourage it. However, you haven’t tried to run, or punch him or anything of that ilk. He knows that you can’t help the kick of your hind legs. He pinned you down with teeth at your throat, and he knows that you’re trying so hard to behave. Besides, sinking his cock into you is already going to be a struggle, nevermind if you aren’t loose and pliant for him.

He curls his fingers, sucks your clit, chasing your orgasm like it’s his last meal. A test in his restraint. He thinks that he wants this more than you do. Your lungs stutter, shaking as your hands cradle his head. You’re muttering to yourself, ‘please’ spilling out of you, again and again. Another mean suck and your shriek, back bowing and he feels the clench of your cunt around his fingers.

He fingers you through it, until you are almost sobbing, trying to crawl away from him, but held in place with his metal hand that has slipped to the small of your back. He gives your clit a kiss, mean and hard just to watch it throb before he gets up off his knees with a groan. He;s getting too old to be kneeling on tile like that. He’ll fuck you in a bed next time, if you’re good.

He slides his fingers out of you, unbuttons his trousers. You stare at him, vaguely out of it as you try to catch your breath. Awareness seems to slam back into you as he fishes his cock out. He’s big, he knows this, but the way your eyes widen like he’s pulled a gun on you has him chuckling to himself. “That’s not going to fit,” you tell him, tone dead.

“Enough flirting,” he tells you, catching your legs over his forearms and dragging you to the edge of your counter.

“You’re deranged,” you snark. He’s amused, watching the anger tugging at your scowl, naked beneath him, and your slick caught in the curls between your legs.

He gives the side of your thigh a firm smack, catching the jump of your body. “Watch that mouth, or I’ll put it to use,” he warns you. You glare up at him, but don’t say anything else. A shame, but he does have to have a firm hand with you.

He takes his cock and grinds it against you, parting your curls to get to the hot, wet flesh beneath. He catches the head of his cock against your clit, slicks himself up, knowing that he’ll need it if the greedy suck of your cunt around his fingers is any indication. He pulls back and lines himself up. He understands what you’re saying, the mushroom shaped head dwarves the small hole that flutters as he presses against it lightly. It’s hard to imagine fitting in there, even given that he has tried to prepare you.

You don’t seem to understand how bullheaded Simon is, though. He hasn’t chased anything that he hasn’t caught yet. A tense of his wide bicep and he starts to push into you, metal hand on the base of his cock, the other lightly rubbing your clit in circles to get you to give way.

There’s a moment where he thinks it might not happen, you’re starting to flush, face shining with sweat. Then there’s a shudder and your cunt parts, splits, sweet fruit halving and the head slips inside. You both groan, his head dropping onto your collar as he pushes further into you. You’re slick, he can feel your cunt sucking at him.

You start to whimper as he pushes further into you. His thumb rubs up and down on your clit, insistent even as if you try to cringe away from him. Shallowly thrusts, keeps pushing until you start to give way. You thump your fist against his chest, the impact bouncing off of chrome. He barely acknowledges it, and continues grinding into you.

He bottoms out, groans into your collarbone. “There we go, there we are, sweet girl,” he tells you. The muscles in your back loosen at the praise, feels tense flesh give out into his metal hand.

He pulls fully out and slams into you, and you whine, hands on his shoulders and clinging. “Simon -” you start, but he shifts both his hands onto the back of your knees and pushes them up to your shoulders. He can see the stretch of your cunt around him like this, the spread of your legs for the monstrous size of him. He feels dizzy with it, can’t stop himself from pulling almost all of the way out of you before slamming inside. His eyes almost roll back into his head, and you sob, nails digging into the flesh that he has on his back.

Your knees over his forearms, he braces his hands on your hips and he starts thrusting into you, pleasure zipping up his spine. Breathy sounds are punched out of you each time his thighs slap into yours. There’s a heat rising in him, catching and flaming.

He lifts his torso up, looks down on you. It’s like he thought, the prick of tears in the corner of your eyes, the swollen spread of your pussy around him. He drops one of your legs in favour of flattening his palm against your throat. Your pulse is fat in his palm. He catches it there, feels the ricochet into the meat of his hand.

You clench down on him and he groans, bares his teeth at you. “You like that, huh?” he asks you, flexing his fingers over the tendons of your neck. Your mouth is open, he can see the pink flash of it in your mouth. You try to shake your head but another hard thrust just sends it rocking back instead, another moan gritting through your teeth again.

He digs into you, flexes the metal in his legs to thrust into you hard and fast. Exertion is an old friend, and he takes it into his stride. He is only starting to pant a little, but you’re running hot and have been for a while.

Pleasure is molten hot at his pelvis, and each time his hips meet yours, cock kissing your cervix, his vision whites out at the sides. The virus that you must have planted in him is deteriorating in his system, leaving him almost mindless. He’s chasing you, still, even with you caught between his body and your desk. Breath like steam pouring out of his mouth, saliva pooling under his tongue as he realises that you’re within reach.

You stare up at him, eyes wide. The vision of your head held up by his hand is enough to finish him off. He slams into you a few more times, groaning deep in his chest while you squeak, spills hotly in you, grinds to draw out the spark that glares in his vision until he stills.

A moment of quiet, air thick with sex and sweat. He drops his head against yours with a thunk as your skulls collide. Feels the buzz of your grunt in your throat with his hand still nestled there.

“You got a bed back there?” he asks, temple against yours.

“Not telling you,” you mutter, sounding wrung-out and gutted. He snorts, scoops you up in his arms, stepping back from your desk, holding you up. Still have a smart mouth. But, he has the patience to get that out of you. Not all of it though, but he won’t tell you that.

-

A week later, a missing report for a ripperdoc in Watson hits Simon’s desk. He shreds it, and it sounds like the chime of an allowance, cashed in.

[bi-writes]

cw: DARK THEMES, mental health, medical inaccuracies, supernatural/occult activities, reader has a no good time, mdni

i guess this could be labeled “comes back wrong” but anyway vet john mactavish is living alone in the highlands much to the displeasure of his family. medically discharged, hearing fucked, knee fucked, a few screws loose and a hole in his heart. his family doesn't understand his loss, don’t understand that ghost and him were fucking soulmates. that they were supposed to die together, ghost wasn't supposed to leave him alone, not like this, not half a man. haunted

you are the home care specialist that the mactavishs employee to take care of their wee bairn. john isn't your first difficult case, he isn't your first reluctant recipient of care. the family tells you all the reasons they're worried. he's disabled, he's still recovering, he was cleared by the military psych team but they have suspicions.

the suspicions are warranted as you very quickly find out after arranging for your stay at the cottage that john has been living in alone. it's remote, it's intimate, it's the kind of place that would have never been approved if you still worked for the state but private home care pays far better and charges far more for bespoke services. so you over look all of that, but what you cannot overlook is john's insistence that he is being haunted by his dead lover.

of course, you do try to handle that professionally at first, you have the right training, the right credentials for handling patients that need additional mental health care. you start drafting recommendations for the family, additional care that you cannot provide. you're even ready to send out the email when you see it for yourself.

a dark shadow, a ghoul, a figure that defies logic, a ghost.

you don't have long to worry about that though because john has been scheming since the moment you walked into his cottage. a sweet bonnie thing, a lamb sent to the slaughter. his family truly didn't know the gift they had given him.

you should have been more pushy, more persistent when john told you that the attic was inaccessible, that there was nothing to see there anyway. you should have pushed more when you thought you heard him talking to himself and he told you it was the wind, he was on the phone with is mam, he was talking himself through the steps of a project out loud.

of course, he wasn't talking to himself, he was talking to the menacing shadow that lingered in the corners of rooms, that watched you as you went about your day, talking care of his johnny. washing his hair when the Scot complained his knee was acting up, feeding him when he forgot, picking up after him when he left his books scattered about the den.

you should have been more concerned that a man who had lost the love of his life was reading books about the occult, about witchcraft, about necromancy. instead you were more worried when he was over doing it in the yard, chopping too much wood, clearing away too much debris for his healing knee, the brace could only do too much.

you should have worried when he offered to make you tea before bed, the scot complained loudly about tea being piss water every time you made yourself a cuppa. but this evening he was being sweet, didn't complain about eating his veggies, helped clean and then offered you some of the tea his mam had sent him. and while she had certainly sent him tea, a strong herbal blend the mactavishs blended themselves that wasn't all that was in your chipped mug.

it wasn't long before you were unconscious, head back on the couch, mouth slightly open as you breathed heavily.

you had been ignoring the shape in the corned all evening, but now that your eyes were closed and john was moving towards you like a predator, the shadow moved. john considered it, his head tilting as he listened.

you didn't wake until it was too late. arms and legs bound to the floor of the attic, the ground rough against your skin, stripped down. you tried to talk but your tongue was thick, your mouth dry and it felt like there was a weight on your chest that made it hard to breath. you didn't feel the pain, the pills John had mixed into your tea took care of that.

there were two men looming over you. john, and not john, john had never had visitors before, never talked about anyone but the ghost. but the man next to him was very much not a ghost.

ahm sorry, bonnie, ye were supposed tae sleep through this part.

his words don't make sense, he's kneeling next to you as not john stands over the two of you, his face pale, scarred, ethereal in the glimmering light of the moon that streams though the attic window. the window you had pointed out to john, the one he had told you there was no access to.

you try again to speak, but you can barely string together the thoughts. john is holding something in his hand, its wet and dripping and it beats as the two men watch you.

means a lot tae us that ye could help us out like this, bonnie, ah couldnae done it without ye.

the other man smiles

got me my johnny back, goin' to 'ave to think of a way to repay ya

[bi-writes]

cozy date night 💘

[bi-writes]

people do not like it when you have principles and they don't