maggyme13

[maggyme13]

The man who approached you didn’t even get a chance to hit on you before “my boyfriend is crazy, he kills people” came out of your mouth and you pointed over to Simon who was giving a death glare to the man. Simultaneously stepping out from behind him were Soap and Gaz (they definitely choreographed and practiced this) “and his boyfriends are also crazy and kill people”

[maggyme13]

*In writing terms, an architect is someone who plots out, plans, and outlines things before drafting. A gardener is someone who takes an initial idea and then just writes, seeing how the idea grows without specific plans.

Some people use the terms “plotter” and “pantser” (as in, going by the seat of their pants) for these writing styles, but I prefer architect and gardener.

[maggyme13]

I can imagine asking Ghost to take my daughter to the daddy-daughter ball, only not to be able to get rid of him once he brings her home.

"you what?"

you rest your forehead against your locker door, closing your eyes as you tune out the nonchalant voice on the other end of the phone.

he always cancels.

but this?

"y-you can't cancel," you say finally. "you have to go. you can't do this to her, are you fucking kidding me?" you put a hand to your forehead. "you're a fucking asshole. i-i bought her a dress. it's for fathers and daughters, i can't fucking take her. it's all she's been talking about, i can't believe you--!"

you kick your locker shut and take a seat, resting your elbows on your knees. he gives you another excuse, but you just blink away your angry tears.

"no. don't bother. in fact, i don't want to see you again. i don't want her to see you again."

you put the phone down, your hands trembling from how angry you are. you aren't even surprised that he's not calling you back.

he's never wanted her. never.

"sergeant."

the firm sound of your title immediately has you on your feet. you stand up straight, but you relax a little when you see it's just ghost. his head is tilted to the side, and he's watching you carefully from under his mask. you can't see his expression, but his eyes are intense. he's focused on you, very much so.

you wipe the few tears that are under your eyes, and then your phone pinging takes your attention away from him. you pick it up and curse under your breath, opening your locker again to grab your things.

"i'm sorry, lieutenant, i need to go. can i get back to you tomorrow?"

"it's pick-up time, isn't it?"

you freeze from putting your jacket on, eyeing him warily before zipping it up.

"yeah," you say finally. "and i have some bad news to deliver, so while i'd love to stay and chat, i really need to go."

"doesn't hafta be her father," simon shrugs, leaning up against the locker beside yours. "could be anyone."

you glare at him a little, "if you're trying to make some kind of crude joke about the lack of men in our lives, lieutenant, i'd be careful if i were you--"

you stop when he grips your chin tight between his gloved fingers. you blink, unsure of what to do, and he shakes your jaw a little.

"i could take 'er."

you frown up at him, too annoyed to notice how he bends a little more, his face nearly against yours.

"it's not funny, lieutenant."

"not laughin'."

"you..." you meet his eyes, deflating a little. "you...you'd...you'd do that for me?"

ghost merely clicks his tongue before letting you go. when you make your way to your car, he follows, and you try to hide your smile as you make your way home.

ghost exchanges his mask for something more discreet when you aren't looking. a black n95, but his eyes still kill the same. when you come back to the car with a little girl on your hip, she stares wide-eyed at the hunk of man sitting in the passenger seat. he raises a brow at her, saying nothing, and you swallow hard as you buckle her into her seat.

"uhm...this is ghost. can you say hi, honey?"

"ghost? like halloween?"

"like halloween, baby."

as you buckle yourself back in the drivers' seat, you side-eye ghost when you hear the crinkle of a plastic wrapper. when you peek into the rearview to reverse out of the parking lot, you see your daughter with a big smile on her face and a red lolly stuck in her mouth.

"always carrying around sweets, lieutenant?"

he shrugs. "maybe."

she makes him wait in the living room while you get her dress on (she wants a big reveal, coming down the stairs and all). you bought it off of etsy, a custom-made, princess-inspired dress. it has a big skirt of silk and tulle, with a big bow at her back, and when you look at her smile in the mirror, you feel that searing slice of something that makes you want to kill the man that almost ruined her evening.

she gets to do her big reveal. she spins at the top of the stairs to make her big skirt move, and then she's running down the stairs, giggling, laughing, and just as she makes it to ghost, he grabs her under her arms and tosses her into the air. she shrieks with delight when her big dress moves, and you bite your lip watching them. the sight of ghost hiking her up on his hip and commenting on her bow makes your mouth water.

fuck. have his arms always been that big?

they look funny. your daughter looks like the prettiest princess, and ghost looks exactly as he always does--like a SAS lieutenant. he might not have any of his gear on, but the cargo pants, thick boots, and windbreaker don't hide his physique.

"have fun, baby."

you come up next to her, kissing her face, and she clings to your superior, arms tangled around his neck as she waves goodbye. you give ghost the keys to your car, tell him to bring her back by seven, and then you pamper yourself while she's gone.

you drink a few glasses of wine. you take a hot bath. you pick a movie to watch and don't have to make sure the rating is at least PG.

when ghost finally comes back, you're laying on the couch with another glass of wine. pajamas on, blanket over your lap, and you smile when you see her passed out in ghost's arms as he closes the front door behind himself.

"asleep? already?" you giggle. ghost sets your keys down by the door before taking his boots off, and you watch intently as he carries your daughter up the stairs to put her to bed. you follow him, grabbing some of her pajamas from the drawer as he lays her down on the bed. you work together to get her little shoes off and shimmy her out of the dress, and as you get her into her clothes and back under the covers, she barely even moves. she's so tired, yawning and snuggling under her blankets, and you shut the door behind you, leaning against it as you blink up at your lieutenant.

he stares right back down at you. you reach a hand up and trace along the edge of his mask. it's quiet. inappropriate. he won't move away from you, and you won't move either.

you could get used to this. you could get used to watching more adult movies, drinking more wine, having time to fixed your chipped nail polish. you could get used to being bent over your unmade bed and fucked nasty.

you grab onto the crumpled sheets, arching your back more. your knees dig into the mattress as your ass hikes up, and ghost grunts as he uses your hips as an anchor and fucks into you harder. it's been ages since anyone's found your sweet spot, and ghost's cock is nudging it every single time his hips come back to meet yours. his thighs are nearly as fat as his cock, and you feel like your entire body is being rewired as he gives it to you so good, inside and out.

thumb against your clit, balls smacking your pussy, cock splitting you open--you used to think sex was made only for men, but maybe you just never found a real one to show you just how toe-curling it really could be.

if you thought it was good on your tummy, ghost shows you an entirely different feeling on your back.

it's so intimate. no one has ever looked at you this way before. his hands are intertwined with yours, and all you can do is cry and squeeze his hands as he sinks all the way inside of you and barely moves apart. in the dark, he takes his mask off, and you can feel the pant of his hot breaths as he grinds into you deep, slow, purposefully. the stimulation on your clit has your thighs shaking, and when you think the tears are too much, ghost flattens his tongue to lick them off before kissing you wet and languid.

ghost barely pulls out. he just circles his hips, punching back into you, and you see spots behind your eyes when he finally opens his mouth and groans into your ear. something about hearing his voice, hearing him falter, it makes you come. as soon as your cunt squeezes, ghost chokes, gripping your jaw tight and coming deep. you squirm underneath him, arching your back--he fills you up, so much so you can feel it spurting out around his cock and spilling out between your thighs.

you're too tired to protest when he sinks between your thighs after--you have to get clean somehow, right?

when you come into the kitchen in the morning, ghost is at the stove, your daughter on his hip and an egg frying in the pan.

he doesn't leave you when you take him back to work; and he doesn't leave you when you go back home. you should've known better, maybe. it's your own fault. ghosts like to haunt.

and this one is home.

[maggyme13]

Special Delivery

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, possessive Simon, arguments, annoyance (spouse and nonspouse annoyance)

Author’s Note: Simon forgot some stuff at home, you are a firecracker if anyone has ever seen one so here we are. Inspired by one of my favs @bi-writes and her younger!wife x John Price fic

Masterlist | Bi’s Fanfic

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It starts with a text.

My Ghostie: Forgot my wallet.

Then another.

My Ghostie: And my lunch.

And another.

My Ghostie: ...And the file on my desk.

You stare at your phone, lips pressing into a flat line. Unbelievable. You love your husband, truly, but some days? Some days he tests your patience.

With a sigh, you gather everything—his wallet, his carefully packed lunch, and the stupid file he swore he wouldn’t forget—before grabbing your keys. You could ignore it, let him suffer, but you both know you won’t.

Which is how you find yourself at the base entrance, staring down a soldier who looks entirely unimpressed with your existence. Arms crossed, legs planted apart, like he’s guarding the last bastion of civilization.

“I can’t just let you in, ma’am.” His voice is flat, bored, like this is the most mundane problem he’s dealt with all day.

You, on the other hand, are vibrating with irritation. “Look,” you huff, adjusting the duffel bag on your shoulder and waving the brown paper lunch bag in your other hand. “I’m not some crazy stalker trying to infiltrate your little clubhouse. My husband, Simon Riley, left his wallet, his lunch, and some other important stuff at home, and I’m just here to drop it off.”

The guard doesn’t budge. “Can’t confirm that without proper clearance.”

Your patience is wearing thin. You exhale sharply, then, with slow, deliberate movements, hold up a very distinct leather wallet between two fingers and shake it slightly. “Alright, genius, let’s use some logic. If I wasn’t supposed to be here, do you think I’d just so happen to have Ghost’s actual shit?”

The man hesitates, clearly uncertain. “That… that could belong to anyone—”

“Oh my God,” you groan, resisting the urge to fling the wallet at him. “If I was trying to sneak onto base, don’t you think I’d pick something a little less obvious?”

You go in for the kill. Flipping open the wallet, you shove it right into his face. “Does that look like just anyone to you?”

The poor bastard leans in, eyes locking onto the ID tucked inside. His face blanches.

It’s right there. Simon’s name. Simon’s face. Your husband’s face.

“…I mean, I still can’t—”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Alright, listen here, Private Dumbass.” You shift your stance, letting the overhead lights catch the big-ass rock sitting pretty on your ring finger. You tap it against the metal of the gate for good measure. *Clink, clink.* “See this? This means I can make your life very difficult.”

The man stiffens. You decide to twist the knife. “I may not have rank here, but I am married to a lieutenant. And if you don’t let me through in the next ten seconds, I will personally make it my mission to have you running laps around this base until your legs fall off.”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “You… you can’t do that.”

You smirk. “You sure about that? ’Cause my husband definitely can.”

That does it. With a sigh, he gestures for another soldier to let you through. “Fine, fine. Go.”

“Damn right,” you mutter, marching past him with your head held high.

Smart man.

——

After waiting at the gate for so long, you storm onto the base with a paper bag in one hand and a duffel slung over your shoulder, exuding confidence as your boots click against the concrete. The guards barely had time to stop you before a sharp-tongued remark had them stepping aside, unsure if they were more intimidated by your presence or impressed by your sheer audacity.

Simon’s dumbass forgot his lunch, his wallet, and a few other essentials, and you’ll be damned if he goes without just because he’s too stubborn to admit he needs you. He might be the terrifying "Ghost" to everyone else, but to you, he’s just your husband—the same man who forgets his keys and leaves his socks all over the damn house.

Walking into the common area is like stepping into a lion’s den—if lions had the audacity to gawk at you like a bunch of wide-eyed recruits seeing their drill sergeant off duty for the first time. A few soldiers are loitering, some cleaning their gear, others playing cards, but the moment they spot you, their focus shifts. You can practically hear their thoughts.

Who the hell is this?

Why does she look like she owns the place?

Did we miss a briefing?

The most unsubtle reaction comes from a particularly cheeky Scot lounging with his feet kicked up on a chair.

“Well, now,” Soap drawls, an impish grin spreading across his face. “And who might you be?”

You don’t bother stopping. “Not in the mood, Braveheart. Where’s Simon?”

Soap lets out a low whistle. “Oi, no need to be feisty, lass. Maybe if ye tell me who ye are, I can help.”

You sigh, shift the duffel on your shoulder, and lift your left hand just enough for the overhead light to catch on the massive wedding ring decorating your finger.

“His wife.”

The room goes silent.

Soap’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. His mouth opens, closes, then—“No shit.”

“No shit,” you confirm dryly. “And unless you lot want to deal with a grumpy, starving Ghost, you’ll tell me where he is. Now.”

Before anyone can answer, a deep, familiar voice rumbles through the space.

“Don’t need to.”

The effect is instant. The tension in the room shifts as every soldier in the vicinity straightens instinctively.

You turn just as Simon strides in, the mask covering his face doing nothing to hide the sheer command he carries with every step. He looks at you, and even though his expression is unreadable, you feel the weight of his gaze.

“The hell are you doin’ here?”

You plant a hand on your hip, tilting your chin up. “Bringing you your shit.” You shove the paper bag into his chest before shrugging the duffel off your shoulder and letting it drop at his feet. “Your lunch. Your wallet. And the file you swore up and down you wouldn’t forget.”

Simon catches everything with practiced ease, his gaze dropping briefly to the items before flicking back to you. “…I would’ve managed.”

You snort. “Yeah? And by ‘managed,’ you mean sulking around all day, hangry as hell, making everyone else suffer for it?”

A muffled snicker comes from Soap. Simon’s head *slowly* turns toward him. The room collectively holds its breath.

Soap lifts his hands innocently. “What? She’s got a point.”

You smirk, smug. “See? Even he agrees with me.”

Simon exhales sharply, a sound you know is the closest thing to a fond sigh. Then, before you can react, he hooks a hand around your waist and tugs you in, pressing your body flush against his. It’s firm, grounding, and entirely possessive. His fingers spread wide over the small of your back, holding you there like he’s making sure you’re real.

“You shouldn’t’ve come all this way,” he mutters, voice softer now.

“You love when I show up unannounced.”

His grip tightens slightly. You know you’ve won. His hand moves to your hip, pulling you even closer if that was possible. His touch was firm but gentle, grounding you in a sense. You tilt your head up at him, grinning. “Besides, I know you missed me.”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he rumbles, though there’s no real heat behind it.

“And you’re lucky I love your grumpy ass.” You grin up at him, reaching up to brush your fingers over the side of his mask. “Eat your lunch, alright? I made sure it’s still warm.”

A long beat passes before Simon finally responds.

“…Yeah. Alright.”

Soap mutters something under his breath, and Simon growls, “MacTavish, if you don’t shut it—”

But before he can finish, you press a quick kiss to his mask-covered cheek. His grip tightens slightly, and you catch the subtle shift in his stance. Oh yeah, he missed you.

“Well, my work here is done,” you say, stepping back with a playful salute. “Try not to forget anything else next time, yeah?”

Simon grunts, his version of a reluctant thank you. But as you turn to leave, you hear him mutter, “Get home safe, love.”

As you turn to leave, you call to your husband, “Oh, by the way—told the guy at the gate he’s gotta run laps for giving me a hard time. Make sure he actually does it, yeah?”

You shoot him a wink over your shoulder before strutting out, leaving a room full of stunned soldiers—and one very flustered Ghost—behind.

You don’t stay to hear the response, but you do catch the sound of Soap absolutely losing it as you step out the door.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[maggyme13]

Aweeeeeee!!!!

Emotional Support Omega getting scented by an unknown alpha?

Using this also as an oppertunity to just write the part three in too 🙂‍↕️

Part One | Part Two

The barracks were busy, a hum of conversation and the smell of warm, albeit unappealing, food filling the space. You had just returned from a supply run with Soap and Gaz, the three of you still dusted with the frost of the outside world, the winter season felt acutely in this weather.

Though missions continued as they were, you still weren’t a part of them. Not really.

But you were part of the base now.

The rookies adored you, the medical staff always had a cup of tea ready when you wandered into the infirmary, and even the grizzled veterans had started seeking you out when the weight of war grew too heavy on their shoulders.

You weren’t unwanted.

Just… unwanted by them- even if now, they lingered in your space, hanging to your pesence yet unwilling to bring you into theirs. It was a strange balance, and one you desperately wanted them to break.

But maybe… they didn’t want to?

At least, that’s what you had come to believe- until the moment a stranger dared to touch you.

A hand, large and firm, settled suddenly on your wrist as you made your way to the mess hall. The scent that curled toward you was strong, pungent in a way that sent an immediate alarm through your mind- thick with musk, uninvited and cloying. New to the base, though you couldn’t be too sure.

An Alpha.

But not one of yours- not that you had Alphas.

But this wasn’t right.

“You smell too neutral, Omega,” he rumbled, his grip firm but not bruising- yet. He leaned in, voice dropping into something that was likely meant to be coaxing, but it came across as just sleazy. “Scenting you would help. You should-“

“No.”

It was firm, immediate. You tried to pull back, but he didn’t let go, and a flash of irritation sparked in his eyes.

You had spent months on this base without anyone pushing your boundaries like this. Sure, there had been some flirtations, a few playful, harmless offers from Betas and Omegas looking for warmth- but nothing like this. Nothing so entitled.

The Alpha frowned, his grip tightening just slightly. “Come on, now, there’s no need to be difficult. It’s unnatural, the way you smell-”

He didn’t get to finish, and you didn’t get the chance to knee him like you’d been intending.

Because the moment he pulled at your wrist again, another hand caught his and twisted it away from you.

A deep, warning growl filled the space, thick with rage- Ghost.

And he was furious.

The room stilled, the air heavy with the presence of three more Alphas who had materialized so quickly, so silently, that it felt like the whole world had stopped breathing.

John was at your side in an instant, broad frame half between you and the offending Alpha, while Soap and Gaz flanked you like silent shadows, eyes dark with something unrecognizably vicious.

“You don’t touch who’s ours.” Ghost’s voice was quiet- so quiet that it sent a chill down your spine. His grip on the Alpha’s wrist was vice-like, and from the way the man winced, you knew it was taking everything in Ghost not to break bone.

The Alpha scoffed, though he was clearly unnerved. “Didn’t realize she was yours. She doesn’t-“

“She is.” It was Price this time, voice low, commanding, absolute. He took a slow, measured step closer, shoulders squared and stance firm. “Let go and walk away.”

A tense beat.

Then the Alpha, wisely, did as he was told. He stepped back, rubbing his wrist, eyes darting between the four l who had suddenly made it very clear where they stood.

Where you stood.

“I didn’t mean any offense.” The Alpha muttered at last, but he didn’t wait for a response before retreating. You knew that come tomorrow, he would not remain in the military any longer.

Silence stretched in his wake.

Your wrist still tingled where he had grabbed you, but you weren’t focused on that. You were focused on them.

On what they’d said.

Ghost’s hand was still hovering near yours, gloved fingers twitching slightly as if resisting the urge to pull you close- and then he simply gave up and held your hand tenderly. Price’s jaw was tight, eyes scanning you as if checking for any sign of harm. Soap and Gaz weren’t touching you, but their presence was solid, grounding.

And then, the weight of their words settled in.

“She is.”

Not she might be.

Not she could be.

She is.

Your breath hitched slightly. “I…” You swallowed, unsure how to process what had just happened.

Soap was the first to break the silence. “Took us too damn long to figure it out,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual, but still thick with something unyielding. He ran a hand through his mohawl, exhaling sharply, and giving you a weak smile. “Should’ve done this ages ago. Sorry, lass. This is our fault.”

Gaz nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line before he sighed and nudged your shoulder lightly. “You alright?”

You blinked at him, at all of them, before nodding. “Yeah,” you murmured, voice a little breathless. “Just… confused.”

“We were idiots, ‘mega,” Price said, his gaze holding yours firmly- it reminded you of that snowy mission once more, when they gave in and accepted your offered warmth. “We kept you at arm’s length when we shouldn’t have. We didn’t want to admit what was obvious.”

Ghost finally moved then, his fingers tightening around your wrist in silent apology, silent claim, still so gentle. “You’re ours.” The words were raw, gruff, like they had been carved out of him. But he didn’t take them back.

Ours. Yours.

The warmth that bloomed in your chest was overwhelming.

It had taken months. It had taken nearly losing the chance entirely.

But finally- finally-

You were theirs.

cod omegaverse masterlist

[maggyme13]

welllll..... that explains a few things....

[maggyme13]

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

[maggyme13]

I soooo dig this concept!!!! Love the idea

Behind Enemy Lines Pt.1

CW: Torture, Canon-typical violence, talk of derealization, disassociation Summary: You were a friendly medic, captured years ago and held prisoner, forced to do do the bidding of your captors. Years later, a man by the name of Ghost is dragged in and changes the trajectory of your life. A/N: I had severe ADHD, and i am unmedicated rn, and it makes it really hard to work on things unless I get the hyperfocused drive for it, so I'm sorry I'm so bad at making the other parts to my fics. Know that I will never abandon them. it just might take me a while. idea part 2

You fought back, at first. Way back when you first got captured, taken from your base camp and dragged through miles and miles of harsh terrain, blindfolded and bound. A medic you were, yes. But your team had trained you with the best of them. You spent the whole time trying to escape, kicking and screaming until they bound your legs and gagged you. You spent the first month of captivity refusing to talk to them, hissing and spitting and pretending their punches didn’t hurt. But it didn't take you long to realize it was better to cooperate, or to at least be civil. Civility got you less broken bones, less pain, more rations, more sleep. Cooperation didn’t come till later, when you finally realized your team wasn't coming for youthey were dead but you didn't know that.

Surprisingly, the whole mouth-getting-sewn-shut didn't happen till a couple years in... they were torturing someone, a man who said he had kids and a wife at home, whose only wish was that they left something recognizable of him so they could get some closure. You begged them to stop. Begged them to stop when his wounds became too numerous to count, too much for you to handle. Begged because you started to care for him as he told you about his son and daughter, how they want him home for Christmas(You didn't have the heart to tell him Christmas was 6 days ago) Told them that he would die no matter what you did if they continued. Well, they didn't stop, and he did die... and you found yourself ringing in the new year by being strapped to a table.

“We warned you to stop talking with him.” They said as they clamped the metal shut over your forehead and chin, holding you in place. “We told you to not get attached, but since you can’t seem to do it on your own, we’ll help you.” The feeding tube came 2 weeks later, shoved up your nose when they realized you were starving...they couldn't lose their favorite medic of course.

You stopped paying attention to the passage of time after that, spent most of your days drifting in and out of reality, moving through the motions with a practiced ease. And it would have remained that way, if it wasn’t for a man in a skull mask with a team- a family- looking for him. 

Your first introduction to him ended up with you getting a broken nose. Per usual, you were shoved into the cell, medical kit in hand, ready to fix up whatever damage your captors had done the their poor prisoner.

The mask he had been wearing when you saw him dragged in was gone, and he had a gash that went all the way through his cheek that would need stitching up. You pull out your equipment, moving slowly towards his bleeding face. 

he headbutted you the moment you got close enough for him to reach, and the crunch of bone and the gush of warm blood followed, not that you noticed. You were still in that dreamlike state, not quite tether to reality in the way you should be. You barely noticed when they tranqued him, and the only reason you didn't finish his stitches is because you passed out too(it’s hard to breathe through a bloody, broken nose)

The next time you approach more carefully, but he’s no trouble. Mostly because they left him completely strapped to the table this time. Today was a rare day, a time when you  could actually feel your feet on the ground rather than just see them. You feel bad as you wipe him down, your eyes flicking over the myriad of scars on his body. What’s one more you think to yourself as you get to work stitching a stab wound to his thigh. Just barely missed the artery here…that could have been bad news. Okay tie it off and- there we go. I think the only other thing that need to- oh, is he…talking to me? I should probably pay attention to that.

“-here?” His voice is gravely, though you suppose yours would be too after being tortured. He stares at you expectantly, and you shrug. You don’t know what he said, and even if you did, you couldn’t answer. You just move to his wrist, snapping the bone back in place. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t make an actual sound, which surprises you. But you don’t dwell on it, wrapping a bandage around his arm and moving to exit the room. 

“Y’ no’ g’nna lemme off?” His voice sounds, “they said y’ would.” You spin around, staring at him. You're not stupid. And even if your…bosses had said that, you still wouldn’t do it. Being trapped in a room with a man who is at least a foot taller than you and looks like he could kill a man with his glare? No thank you. 

You take a step back, heading towards the door. The man lets out a sound you would barely qualify as a laugh. “Sm’rt then.” He says to himself, “No’ gonna be that easy.” 

The next time you go in, you can't help but wonder what they want from this man. By now they usually would have killed him off. Oh well, not your job to wonder. You clean him up, splinting the fingers they had broke when he talks to you again.

"why don't y' let me die?" He says, voice just as gravely as before, "Put me outa m' misery?" You don't respond, just keep taping his hand. IT's something you ad asked yourself, right at the beginning. It would be kinder for you to just let your patients die. But you couldn't do it. Partially because you were punished anytime someone died before your captors wanted them to, but also because you were a medic. YOu were there to heal. You couldn't stomach letting someone die by your hand.

"Answer me!" The man snarls, bringing you back to the present, "For god's sake y' never talk, fuckin' mute." You don't respond, of course. Just finish your task and leave him to his thoughts.

He’s angrier after that time, you’ve noticed. The few times you're actually present, he’s fighting you. Usually not with words, but he bucks and doesn’t hold still. He’s tried to grab your medical supplies countless times, and one time you actually had to be pulled out because he jerked his arm while you were stitching him and somehow managed to drive the needle into your own hand. The few times he does actually yell at you, you’re usually not paying attention. You can catch words like “Dishonorable”  and “Disgraceful”. You aren’t entirely sure of the context of the words, but you can guess. You’ve treated enough prisoners who think that you are the world's worst human being, a blight to the medical field, to guess what he's trying to tell you. 

It's funny though, this man so full of hate. Because, for the first time in goodness knows how long, your feet are on the ground, and your head is level. Something about this man, his angry, uncrushed demeanor, even after weeks of torture, stirs emotion in you that you can’t quite identify. And maybe you should be grateful, thankful your head is on right, but you're not. You so desperately want to go back to that place of apathy and detachment, where your emotions weren’t so strong, were the pains of mishealed bones and poorly healed scars didn’t plague your waking moments. 

Or maybe it wasn’t the man- The Ghost, as you found out he was called. Maybe it was the fact that something in the air had changed. The air was electric, charged with tension so thick you could feel it even alone in your cot. They were watching you, you could tell. Could feel their eyes tracking your movements in a way they hadn’t since first giving you freedom to move around. 

You're not sure why. It’s not like you have anyone to go home to. You were an only child, and your parents had died long before you reached 18. All you had was your team, a team that had seemingly abandoned you. So why would you leave? There was nowhere to go. And yet they watched you. Was it because you were becoming more aware, more grounded then you had been in a long while? Was it the man, Ghost, who had them on edge? 

The answer came two days later. You were in Ghost's cell again, desperately packing gauze into a gaping hole on his side. You don’t know what had happened, but for the first time in years you were dragged from your cell, your captors muttering under their breath in a language you still didn’t understand as they thrust you into his cell. Blood was everywhere. Your best guess was that Ghost had been struggling and an instrument had slipped and gouged out a hole in his side. So here you are, packing gauze into the wound as you try to figure out what to do to keep him alive with your rudimentary supplies. 

You pack another piece of gauze in just as the door goes flying open. Men, dressed in black, wearing the same mask Ghost was, come bursting in. 

“Get back!” The one in the front yells at you, gun pointed in your face. You shake your head, hands pressed against Ghost’s wound. 

“Now!” You make a protesting noise, trying to gesture with your chin. The man looks down, eyes widening. 

“Aw shit- are you the medic?” You nod almost desperately. The man looks at you again, staring at your hands. They are shaking, pressed against the wound as you try to keep Ghost from bleeding out. 

“Fix him.” The man snaps. You shake your head and look up at the man, trying to communicate that you need more supplies. 

“Use your words.” The man gabs the gun at you, indicating he wants you to get on with it. You stomp your foot, shaking your head again. 

“What, what's that supposed..…you can’t speak, can you?” You nod, glad he finally got it. The man groans, lowering his gun.

“You’re coming with us, but you make one wrong move, and I mean one, I will put a bullet through your brain before you can even speak. Got it?” He gestures to the other two men with him, and together you lift Ghost up, carrying him out to safety.

A/N- anyways, here's part one. Sorry if it disappoints anyone

tags, sorry if i missed any:

@redzluvvesage @just-a-harmless-potato-05  @vesna-the-spring @princess312 @norsehorseofcourse-blog @bonniperinktrance @soggywafflezz  @littlebunie @sirbonesly @havoc973 @mommymilkers0526 @thegreyjoyed @pinkiliciousgunp0int @poopoobuttsy @darcellethedreamer @kamote-kuneho

[maggyme13]

Rival. (Ghost x Reader.)

!CW! NSFW, Smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, threats, mention of violence, (sorry if I missed any.)

It was clear to everyone on base that you and Ghost didn’t get along. It was no secret. You avoided each other like the plague and when you had to be around each other, you were always short with one another. You fought like crazy and always had something snarky to say to one another. It sounded a little something like "Get off my back, fucking slag." To which you would respond with something like, "Shut the fuck up, ghost face wannabe." Which would piss him off even further, spinning around. Right about then is when Johnny would intervene. Usually along with a "Steamin' jesus you guys are so annoying, go away." He'd mumble. Before separating the both of you.

It was amusing to some on base, even to Captain Price sometimes which is why occasionally he'd put the both of you on watch together so he could hear the both of you complain about what you had argued about while on watch. Usually about something childish and dumb. Nobody knew where it had started. At which point you decided you hated each other but they thought it was amusing to hear the slurs you called each other. On missions, it was always professional. You usually didn't interact aside from keeping the other informed about what you seen.

You kept your petty arguments out of the field and that's why Captain Price never intervened.

After a rough mission that you'd been sent on with a few new recruits, you were limping your way around base. You had an arm sling on, wrap around your foot. You were in bad shape.

Ghost and Soap were sitting at a table in the mess hall when their Captain sat across from them. "What happened to Y/N? She's in pretty bad shape." Johnny asks, Ghost narrowing his eyes. He hadn't seen you since you got back, he really had no idea what Johnny was even talking about. "Ah.. New recruit." He shakes his head. "She was up on a building and they got ambushed, he took off running for the Humvee, she stayed up to cover him, got hit in the chest by a bullet and it knocked her off of the building and the dumbass ran her foot over. Dirt had enough giveaway so it didn't break it. Thank god." He shakes his head. “He's getting taken off my base. He's just not skilled enough."

"I didn't run my own fucking foot over. Get out of my face." Ghost turns his head, barely hearing the conversation. You're standing out in the hallway with who he assumes is the recruit.

"Not my fault your dumbass fell off of the building." He growls. Taking a step toward you. "I was laying there for about a full minute before you hit me. Not sure what you were doing but it definitely wasn't paying attention that's for sure." You roll you eyes, going to walk away. The recruit grabs your arm, pulling you back. This is when Ghost stands up. "Fuck you. You're a stupid bitch. It's no wonder why no one here likes you. I should've run your stupid head over."

"Let go." Ghosts deep voice startles him a little bit. To his surprise he does. "I bet Ghost would agree with me."

A deep chuckle leaves Ghost's mouth. "No. I wouldn't." He breathes. Taking a step toward him. Grasping hold of his lapels. "Y/N and I may not get along. But we don't ever turn our backs on our own. And if you touch her again, I will break your hands. Do I make myself clear?" His voice is deep and threatening. A voice from Ghost that you hadn't yet heard. You watched with wide eyes. The muscles in Ghosts hands and arms flexing as he pushes him further up on the wall. "Y-Yes sir."

"Now apologize." He growls.

"Sorry Y/N." He breathes. Ghost lets go of him, nodding for him to go away. You watched the smaller man rush away down the hallway, seeing Ghost wipe his face through his mask. The man you're looking at is completely different from the man you don't get along with. Your heart races in your chest and heat pools between your legs. This entirely new side of him has taken you completely off guard. "Thank you." You mumble. "You alright?" He asks. You nod your head. Rubbing your arm with your worn hand. "I came over here to save him at first. Thought you were going to hit him." He jokes. Seeing you smile. It's the first time you've ever smiled while talking to Ghost. "Ah. I probably would've but he caught me off guard." You laugh nervously. He laughs as he walks away. Sitting back down at his table. Soap and Captain Price are staring at him wide eyed. "What?" He asks. "Did she.. smile? At you?" Captain Price laughs, bewildered. "Yeah, that fucking recruit put his hands on her." He rolls his eyes. Seeing his Captain nod. "I'll have a talk with him."

Soap laughs. "I can't believe the both of you had a civil interaction. Usually you try to tear out each others throats." He laughs. Seeing Ghosts eyes wrinkle, he's smiling. "It's different when someone is hurting her. You're not supposed to actually hurt those you work with. If that were the case we'd both be dead by now." He laughs.

You made your way back into your room, closing the door behind you. What the fuck was that? You sigh, sitting down on the edge of your bed. You hurt really bad. All you could take since you were on base was mild medicine. You were really restricted. Your shoulder hurt from your fall and your lower leg and ankle hurt from the idiot that ran you over. You needed to get ready for your turn on watch. You nervously slipped some shoes on. You were meant to be on watch with Ghost. You didn't know how it was going to go after what had happened.

You watched the time go by quickly, nerves setting in more and more as the seconds ticked by. Why were you even this nervous? Ghost never made you nervous. Sure, he could be a killing machine. He could murder hundreds of men and never even bat an eye. Hell, he usually harassed you and made fun of you constantly. So why did he stand up for you? And why did he look so damn fine while doing it?

You shook your head, those intrusive thoughts would be the death of you. You didn't like Ghost. He was a prick to you. You hated him and he hated you so what the hell was this that you were feeling?

You stood up from your bed, making your way for the door. "Hey. Ghost said he's got watch if you wanted to rest." Your Captain nods his head. He notices the way you jump slightly. "Sorry darling, didn't mean to scare ya." He laughs. "I was just coming to find you."

You nod your head. "I'll be alright to watch a computer screen, I might take up that offer for training in the morning though." You laugh. He smiles. "With a hurt shoulder and ankle? I think you'll be off a few days. Just relax." He smiles. You thank him, before continuing down the hallway. You could avoid this or face it head on.

Ghost is sitting up in the watch tower, he’s doing a crossword puzzle in an old newspaper. Right, old man stuff. He’s bored. He doesn’t expect to hear footsteps coming up the stairs and he doesn’t expect you to emerge through the door. “What’re you doing?” He asks. “Uh.. coming up for watch?” You mumble. “Did Price not get to you in time?” He stands up. “No, he did. But it’s not like watch is physically exhausting.” You snort. “You’re a crazy girl.” He shakes his head. “Yeah, you need me up here with your blind ass.” You joke. He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Let’s see you hobble over to the alert button.” He crosses his arms.

You smile, looking up at him. “Touché.” You smirk. Your smile cuts right through Ghost. Sending chills right down his spine. He’s never seen you smile like that. “Are you doing a crossword puzzle?” You laugh. “Yeah. Got bored.” He groans. You laugh. “Maybe I can help you.” You mumble. “Really?” He laughs. “Why’re you being so nice Hm?” He asks.

“I don’t know. I was just offering.” You mumble. He stands up, stretching slightly. His jacket raises and you can see his toned stomach, his pants sitting low on his waist. You swallow hard, turning away from him. “You okay?” He asks. “What? Yeah. Yeah I’m fine.” You laugh awkwardly. “You sure? You’re acting weird today.” He laughs. “Yeah. I just didn’t expect you to stand up for me is all.” You blush, looking down.

Right then, he catches that glint in your eyes. He knows.

He takes a few slow steps toward you. Seeing you back up slightly. Until you’re leaning up against the small countertop. “Where’s the famous little bratty attitude hm?” He chuckles. His voice is deep. His close proximity is intoxicating. “I.. I um..” you take a deep breath.

He steps toward you, lowering his head so that he can look you in the eyes. He reaches down, grasping hold of your thighs and lifting you up onto the countertop. A gasp leaving your lips as he moves himself between your thighs. You’re breathing hard, panting almost. “Ghost-“

His name is perfect coming out of your mouth breathless like that. He can feel himself hardening in his pants already. “Tell me I’m not mistaken. You keep looking at me like that.” He glides his hand up your thigh. You keep quiet. Eyes boring into his hand as it creeps up higher. You push your hips to the edge of the countertop, pushing into his hand. Hearing him let out a snort. “Fuck.. you actually want this.” He breathes. “Say you feel it too, you have to.” You sigh, looking up at him through your eyelashes, seeing him turn his eyes away from your with a groan. “You can’t keep looking at me like that.” He breathes. “Is this because of that stupid recruit?” He asks. You nod your head. “Why?” He asks.

“I’ve just never seen you like that before.. and you were doing it for me.” You whine, pushing your hips lower, eyes getting heavy when his fingertips ghost over the seam of your pants. You take in a shaky breath. Feeling him apply more pressure, you can’t help but tilt your head back slightly. “What, you don’t hate me anymore because I stood up for you? No offense but.. you shouldn’t be so willing for someone doing the bare minimum.” He let’s out a deep chuckle. “Pathetic little thing.” He mumbles. He’s testing you, to see what he can get away with. You roll your eyes. He pulls away from you for a second, moving to make sure the door is latched and locked. He returns to between your legs.

He works with you to remove your cargo pants, hearing your breath hitch in your throat when he reveals you to him. He moves himself closer to you. Tugging his jacket off. He’s got on a black v-neck t-shirt. It’s tight on his arms and upper body. He’s fit. You close your eyes tightly. Overwhelmed by him. It’s funny, how much you hated each other just the day before and now you’re just a few seconds off from having sex.

He reaches up, grasping the hem of his mask. He pulls it over his head. Hearing you take in a deep breath. “You tell anyone about this, you’re dead.” He mumbles referring to the mask. You close your eyes tightly, smile playing at your lips. He smiles, gliding his tongue over his teeth. He likes seeing you like this. “God, you really are pathetic. That why you’ve been so mean to me huh?” He grasps your thighs, pulling you into him. He lowers his hands, unbuttoning his cargo pants and unzipping them. Revealing the thatch of pubic hair he has, sliding his cock from its confines. “You got a crush?” He smirks, seeing you roll your eyes. “Thought I was a slag hm?”

He chuckles. “Just f’me right?” He smirks. Tip lining up with your opening. You take in a deep breath, body shaking slightly. “You’re so full of yourself.” You mumble.

“Yeah?” He laughs. Thrusting into you, seeing the way your mouth parts into an ‘o’, eyes shutting tightly. “Looks like you’re full of me too.” He snorts. Breath right on your ear as he slides back, thrusting back into you. Feeling your thighs shiver in his grasp. “Open your eyes, Cmon. Look at me.” He grits his teeth. You obey him, looking up at him. “You’re so cute when you look at me like that.” He breathes. “Makes me want to ruin you.” You cry out, chills rising on your skin as he thrusts right into that spongy spot inside of you, pushing your thighs up so that he can reach deeper inside of you. It’s clear to Ghost you haven’t had much experience. Your eyes are full of tears as you look up at him. “You’re so wet.” He groans, holding you as he starts a rhythm. Steady pace as he rocks his hips into yours, watching himself disappear into you. Your arousal coating him and building at the base of his cock. He can’t help but smile. Closing his eyes. You feel amazing on him, tight. You’re warm and wet and he’s already addicted. He tilts his head back, a sigh leaving his lips. He grasps the hem of his shirt tugging it up onto his stomach. Trying to avoid making a mess of it with you.

He plunges into you deeper, leaning over you and pushing you back. “Look at me.” He breathes. You look up at him. He can see tears bordering your waterline. Making him smile. “Not too much is it?” He mumbles. “No- no.” You whine. Hearing him chuckle at your fucked out state. He leans into you, lips finally pressing into yours. He wraps a hand around your throat to hold you steady as he kisses you. Throwing another curveball at you. Not only is he really good at this but he’s a really good kisser too. You keep your eyes shut, even when he pulls away. He can see that he’s overwhelmed you. He pushes your shirt up, leaning down to attach his lips to one of your nipples, lowering his hand to rub circles into your clit with his thumb. You cry out, hips bucking into him. “Fuck- oh fuck.” You cry. “Simon- I’m gonna cum.” Your voice is stuttering, almost like you’re crying. “S’alright. Give yourself to me.” He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s right on the edge. Trying to get you to that line before he finishes. He doesn’t want to look pathetic. You say his name again, feeling him tense into you. The mewl you let out as you say it, the way it rolls of of your lips. It’s everything. His thrusts are getting sloppy, he’s right there. Your thighs tighten against him, a sob leaving your lips. His eyes widen as he feels you tighten down around him. “Oh fuck-“ he gasps. Eyes rolling back as he finishes inside of you, riding out both of your highs. His hips jerk slightly, overstimulated by your pussy. You milk his cock perfectly.

“Shit.” He mutters, relaxing into you. You’re breathing hard, you still have a couple dried tears on your cheeks. Hearing him chuckle as he wipes them off with his thumb. He kisses you again before he helps you down from the countertop, hearing you gasp as you feel his filth spilling back out of you, running down your thighs. His eyes darken when he sees it, cornering you back into the counter. “Look good like that, Sergeant.” He breathes. Seeing your cheeks warm up. You flinch at the stickiness. He runs his finger along your inner thigh, collecting his spunk on one of his fingers. He raises it. “Open your mouth.” He breathes. You obey him immediately, something he’s always loved about you. You’ve always taken orders well. He pushes his finger into your mouth, feeling your tongue on it as you suck it clean. He grits his teeth. “Fuck, you’re a fuckin minx.” He rolls his eyes. Finger moving from your lips with a pop.

“Go get cleaned up, I’ll be waiting for you.” He breathes. You nod your head.

He can’t help but laugh at the discomfort you feel. Flinching as you walk.

You disappear through the door, and he adjusts himself. Cleaning up everything to make it look like he hadn’t just railed you on the countertop. He lets himself cool off for a minute before sliding his jacket and mask back on. Returning to his seat he’d been in previously. A few minutes later, you return. You’ve still got a limp but that’s not from him unfortunately. “Cmere.” He nods his head. You close the door. He moves a chair right in front of him. “Let me take a look.” He mumbles. You sit down and he raises your foot up, untying your boot and carefully pulling it off. He removes the wrapping the medic had put on it. Shaking his head. “Someone needs to show those medics how to actually wrap a foot.” He rolls his eyes. He tilts it carefully to the side, trying his best not to hurt you. He starts pressing on it, feeling you jerk away from him, a hiss leaving your lips. “I know it hurts but you’ve got to let me.” You nod your head, gritting your teeth as he applies pressure to it. Massaging the inflamed muscle.

Once he’s finished abusing it further, he wraps it up tighter than the medic had wrapped it, trying to relieve the discomfort you feel.

“Feel better?” He asks. You tilt it side to side. “Yeah, still hurts but.. better.” You laugh. He helps you put your boot back on, even tying it for you. “Why’re you being so nice to me?” You ask him.

“Because, it’s my responsibility as a soldier to look after you. And I guess you’re kind’ve cute so.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not kind’ve cute. I’m really cute, thank you very much.” You giggle. “God you’re pretty when you smile like that, suppose I should’ve spent more time being nice to you.” He laughs. “Yeah, you should’ve,” you shove him slightly. Gasping when he forces you closer by your chair.

“I’m still your LT. Behave.”

[maggyme13]

Maybe One Day. (Ghost x Petite!Reader.)

!CW! NSFW, Smut, Size kink, Ghost being a little talkative, petite!reader, unprotected sex, some sad parts, mentions of death, blood, violence, (sorry if I missed any)

(Summary): Reader is in love with Ghost but is okay with the fact that it’ll never lead anywhere.

I got a petite!reader ask, you can find that here.

If she wasn’t on her phone, working, or buried in a book, she was thinking about him. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.

Y/N has worked alongside Ghost for quite some time now. A few years. From the very moment she’d laid eyes on him, she fell in love. As time went on, her feelings only seemed to grow for him. Up to this point, the fifth year working alongside him, she’d had very limited conversations with him. Anytime she made an attempt to deepen any kind of conversation, he shrugged her off. At first, she thought maybe if she talked to him enough. Close enough to him, maybe. Just maybe something would happen. But he ignored her, walked away from her, and always kept it short. So she gave up after about a year. From then on, the last four years after that, she kept it professional. Only talked to Ghost on missions when she absolutely had to. Didn’t interact with him on base aside from small waves, and kept to herself for the most part.

She made an attempt to hide the feelings she had for Ghost, but it didn’t always work. Most people caught on. The waves, the way she smiled and acted all giddy when he was around. Everything. She was nice to everyone but it was different when it came to Ghost. Nearly anybody could tell. Soap looked at her from the hallway. Ghost stood next to him. “Are you sure about this Ghost?” Soap asks. Ghost nods his head. You were currently folding up a table cloth. Soap sighs, spinning on his heels and entering the mess hall.

"Hey." He smiles. "Uh.. hi." You smile. "You scared me."

"Oh, my bad." He smiles. "I just heard you come out and thought I'd come talk to you."

“About what?”

"Simon."

"What about him?"

"I.. think you know."

You pause for a moment. Looking down at your feet.

"That obvious ah?" You smile. "Uhh.. maybe just a little bit." Soap laughs. "I just… I wouldn't want you getting hurt Y/N. He's kinda.. guarded. Yknow?"

"Oh I know Soap. There's no chance in hell we'd ever work out. Hell, it'd be a shot in the dark if he was even into me." Soap knows you're keeping it together but he can see the hurt in your eyes.

"What?"

"I'm.. not that interesting." You laugh. Simon waited right on the other side of the wall, listening in.

"I think he's just well guarded Y/N. There's nothing wrong with you."

You let out a small laugh, looking down at the ground. "Yeah. I know that nothing will ever come of it. It's just a dumb crush, nothing more."

Soap was only talking to you because Simon asked him to. He told Soap that there was no chance anything would ever work between the two of you and he needed you to know exactly what to expect. After finishing up the conversation with Soap, it had been made clear. Ghost had put Soap up to it. Which meant Ghost was getting tired of it or you’d been making him uncomfortable. You just wished Ghost had come to you about it personally rather than making it everyone else’s business and embarrassing you like that. After that day, you started ignoring Ghost. No more small waves when passing by. No more making conversation with him up on the roof when you took over watch, no more offering to take over his shifts or helping him with his chores. You drew back completely and passed by him with a cold shoulder. You were short when he needed to talk to you, just like he’d been with you. He noticed it immediately.

After a week or so, everyone noticed you hadn’t been active. Nobody had seen you in passing, nobody had talked to you or seen you during meals, and they noticed your captain was picking up your part of the chores. It was unusual. Eventually after they all pestered their Captain enough, he finally caved. “Alright fine. Meet in my office after Lunch and we’ll talk. But this stays between all of us.” He glares. They all nod their heads. After lunch, everyone met up. Ghost waited until a few minutes after, hiding in the hallway. “Alright. Y/N has been on rest in her room until we can get her home. She got a phone call about a week ago that her younger brother was killed in a car accident. She’s very upset, and you guys need to leave her be unless she comes to you for help. Am I clear?” He says. Everyone nods their heads. As everyone finishes up the conversation, Ghost notices a flash of black pass by the doorway to Captain Price’s office. He follows whatever it is, noticing you in the mess hall picking up the lukewarm pot of coffee. Once their conversation was done, Captain Price came in. When he sees you, he’s curious. “Hey, what’re you doing out of your room?” He asks. You raise the cup of coffee. John nods. You say nothing, making your way back to your room. It was odd for the both of them to see you in night clothes. Just shorts and a t-shirt. John looks at Ghost, getting a shrug back.

The following day, Ghost is eating breakfast with Soap in the mess hall. It’s only them and Captain Price inside so far. To their surprise, you walk inside. Broom in hand. You start sweeping up the mess hall. Something you did on a daily basis. It was a very small part of your chores. Not just that, you have your full uniform on. “Uh.. Y/N.” John looks up from his coffee. You pause, looking at him. Your eyes are bloodshot. You look like you haven’t slept in days. “You don’t have to do that, I got you covered. We’re trying to get you home.” You don’t stop sweeping. “They had his funeral already, I have no reason to go home. I’ll be just fine here, thanks anyways Captain.” You sweep everything into the dustpan, walking off. John sighs.

This goes on for a couple days. You’re on edge. Nobody sees you eat, you don’t sleep very well. You’re struggling and there’s nothing anybody can do. Everyone tells Ghost to check up on you. You like Ghost, maybe you’d open up to him. And he did try. Went out of his comfort zone to ask you how you’re doing. You gave him a short “I’m fine.” And shrugged him off after that.

To you, he didn’t care. Nobody cared. They were coworkers, nothing more. They didn’t care what you were going through, they only cared about what you were useful for.

You sat quietly on the chopper. Everyone else made small talk but you, you just stared ahead. You had a blank expression on your face. Like you were staring right through everything. Expressionless, emotionless. Like you weren’t there. Soap is the first to notice, but knows not to get involved. You’re struggling. The last thing you need is someone pestering you. “Alright. Don’t forget the plan. Y/N and Ghost are frontlines. Entering through vents on the rooftops. Gaz and I will be posting guard with rifles, Soap will be entering through the mines. It’s where the least amount of threats are.” Your Captain explains more details before the chopper lands, and when it lands it’s a go. You and Ghost quickly make your way inside, dropping tear gas through the vents and waiting for it to dissolve completely before jumping in.

Ghost notices immediately you’re more ruthless than before. Wearing no emotion on your face as you ambush people, stabbing them. Blood spatters over your face and you don’t even flinch as it does. It’s shocking to see someone so small being so violent. Successfully at that. When the buildings are clear, you’re leaning up against a pool table in the back room. Ghost is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. “You told Captain they had his Funeral already. They didn’t wait for you?” Ghost asks. “No.” You rolls your eyes. “Why?” He asks. Drawing a chuckle from your lips. You cross your arms, not turning your head to even look at him. “Deadbeat parents, they don’t give a fuck about me or how I feel.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He sighs. “Luck of the draw, how d’ya think I ended up in this shit show?”

The body in front of Ghost has one of your knives in his chest, you walk over to it. Pressing your foot down onto his shoulder and pulling the knife out of him. You wipe it off on your pants before returning back to where you were leaning at the pool table. Everyone else walks into the room, lowering their weapons when they see you and Ghost waiting patiently. They look like they had a hell of a fight. “We gave you guys the hardest task and you look untouched.” Captain Price laughs. “Just too good.” You shrug, walking passed them. Soap smiles, stepping in. “Successful mission.” He holds up a flash drive. The one you’d been looking for. “Fuck yeah.” You smile. You still had that same pain in your eyes. No matter how happy you seemed, it stayed there. You twirl the knife in your hand the entire way back to the chopper, and just like before. You’re staring off into space. Brain in an entire different dimension as you spin it around in your hand.

Overtime, Ghost notices you more and more. How much different you’ve become, how cold you’ve been acting. You’re still giving him the cold shoulder. Still not making much conversation with him.

He makes his way onto the watch post, seeing you sitting back in a chair with your feet kicked up, looking at the room full of cameras. He makes his way up to you, he’s a few minutes early. You stand up, picking up your items and going to walk away. “Leaving so soon?” He asks. You pause, body going rigid. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?” You still have your back turned to him. “Just thought you’d want to make some small talk. Talk about what’s going on.” He shrugs. You turn around, a smile on your face. “Yeah, let’s be friends, we’ll exchange stories about our shitty lives. It’ll be a sleepover.” You smile. “So that’s a no.” He chuckles. You bite your lip for just a second, taking a step toward him. “What? You want to be friends now? The few times I tried making small talk with you, you had Soap tell me to leave you alone. So no, I don’t really feel like talking.” You roll your eyes, spinning to walk around. “I had him tell you to back off because I could tell you liked me. I knew you wanted to be more than friends.” You laugh, “See that’s where you’re mistaken Ghost, we’re not friends. Hell, we’re not even acquaintances. You and I? We’re just coworkers. Nothing more.” With that, you walk down the stairs. It stings Ghost a little bit that you’re so cold to him, but really he asked for this. “Hey!” He calls to you. “I’m your superior, when Captain Price isn’t around, you answer to me, Sergeant.” You turn around, smirk at your lips. You cross you arms, taking a couple steps up the stairs. “Yeah? What can I do for you, Lieutenant.” The venom in your voice is potent. “Go back inside the watch tower.” You roll your eyes. “Yes sir.” You throw your bag back down once you step inside. Ghost closes the door. “Sit down.” You hate that you have to listen to him. But you do anyways. Crossing your arms and leaning back. “Good. Now talk.” He looks at you. “About what?”

“What’s bothering you?” He asks. You narrow your eyes. “You already know what’s bothering me.”

He shakes his head. “Can we just be done here? Or am I going to have to fight my way out?” Ghost let’s out a deep chuckle. “Sweetheart, you can’t fight me. You won’t win.” A scoff leaves your lips. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He laughs. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re tiny. I could pick you up with one hand.” He sits back in his chair, the tight shirt he has on tightens perfectly over his arms and shoulders. You swallow hard, but Ghost doesn’t miss it. “You’re hiding something else, something else was bothering you.” You raise your eyebrows, giving him a ‘are you fucking serious.’ Look. “You’re joking right?” You laugh. He looks confused. “You assumed that I like you, and instead of coming to me to tell me to back off, you told someone else to come to me and say it. Not only is that a concern that should have stayed between the both of us, but it’s pretty embarrassing that everyone knows now.” You roll your eyes. “Okay. That was a bad call on my part. I’m sorry.” He places his hands on his thighs. Your eyes glancing at them for a split second. “Are we done now?” You swallow hard. “I suppose.” He mumbles.

—

A few weeks later, Captain Price put you on leave for a week.

When you come back, you seem in worse shape than before. Ghost is the first to notice. You look like you haven’t been eating or sleeping. It’s late and he can hear weights crashing in the gym, pulling himself out his bed to go check on whoever it is, not surprised to see that it’s you. “Bad idea to do that without a spotter.” He mumbles. He rubs his eyes tiredly. His mask isn’t on straight, he just threw it on really quick. You say nothing in return. “Y/N, what’s going on?” You’re breathing hard from lifting the weight up. “Parents lied about my little brother dying, wanted me to send money for his funeral so that they could just have the money.” You breathe. Teeth gritted as you lift the weight. “They’ve brainwashed him, made him hate me. I got nobody left.” You’re panting hard, groaning as you lift the weight. Ghost takes it from your hands, lifting it up with one hand and laying it in the rack. “Talk to me.” He breathes. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by you. What you were just struggling to lift, he lifted with one hand.

You shake yourself out of your thoughts. “I don’t have anybody either. That’s why I joined the military in the first place, but it’s not exactly worked out too well in my favor because 141 is like my family. Something I’ve never had.” He breathes. You laugh. “How sweet.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. We look out for each other. Make sure everyone is okay all the time, why you think I’m here hm? Everyone worries about you.” You laugh. “That’s complete bullshit and you know it. I used to try to talk to you all of the time and you just shrugged me off like nothing. Nothing was different between then and now. You’re free to leave whenever you want, Ghost.” You roll your eyes. He takes a deep breath. He’s clearly getting frustrated with you. “Why do you care about em? Hm? They don’t give a fuck about you, never have. Why lose sleep over it? I don’t.” He shrugs. “Rough concept. Maybe you’re just mentally stronger than me. But that’s not exactly my point.” You roll your eyes. You stand up, walking away to another area to work out. “Look. It’s almost midnight and we have to be up at 6. I’m not too keen on losing this much sleep. Let’s go to bed, we’ll talk more tomorrow.” He mumbles. “Go ahead, I’m not making you stay here.”

“Goddamnit.” He mumbles. He makes his way near you as you reach for a bar, he lifts you up with ease, throwing you over his shoulder. “Simon! Put me down!”

“No. You’re going to bed.”

“I’ll just lay awake.”

“Than you’ll lay awake in my bed.”

Your body goes rigid and Ghost chuckles. He opens his door up and spins around to close and lock it behind him. He throws you down onto his bed and you bounce up, scrambling to prop yourself up onto your elbows. He grasps the hem of his shirt, pulling it off. “Um.. what the fuck is going on?” You ask. He straddles your hips, leaning down into you. You let yourself fall all of the way back, backing away from his face. He laughs. “This is what you wanted, right?” You shake your head. “No-no. I don’t want your weird pity s-“ he covers your throat with his hand, the small size of you has him smiling. He likes the control he has over you. “Mnot trying to fuck you out of pity. I know you like me, I know you want to fuck me. I wanna fuck you too.” He mumbles. This side of Simon is weird. You’re used to the guarded, quiet Simon. This was new. “I like you, have forever. S’just a bad idea to start something with someone when you could die any day. But you don’t mind right?” He smirks. He pulls his mask off, and you swallow hard, seeing him.

All of him.

Everyone on base but you had seen his face.

“You’re so tiny..” he mumbles. “So easy to..” he pins your hips down into his bed. Earning a gasp from your lips. “You want me to fuck you or not?” He bites his lip. You swallow hard, cheeks burning. You nod slowly. He smirks, tugging his sweatpants down his legs. You’re only wearing a tank top and shorts, since you were working out. He tugs them off of you quickly. He is massive, you swallow hard when you see the size of his cock. He can’t help but chuckle at your reaction. “Don’t worry, M’gonna make you feel real good. Just try to be quiet for me.” He lines himself up with your entrance and you breathe out. All of the pining you’d done. The sleep you lost over him, everything. And now? A deep breath leaves your lips when he prods at your opening. The tip of his fat cock disappearing between your folds. He’s stretching you already and he’s barely started. He groans out, holding onto your hips tightly. Holding you exactly where he wants you. He clamps a hand over your mouth when he thrusts all of the way inside of you, enjoying the way your eyes roll back as he bottoms out. He’s huge. When he starts fucking into you, it’s intense. You’re watching him disappear inside of you. He says something but you aren’t listening. “Don’t tell me you’re cock drunk already?” He chuckles. He pushes you back by your chest, shoving his thumb into your mouth. “Such a good girl.” Your mouth makes his cock twitch slightly. You’re tight around Simon and he moans out. “So. Fucking. Good.” He groans between thrusts. You’re surprised how vocal he is.

You feel a high approaching already and he notices how wet you’re getting on him. He bites his lip. Lowering his gaze so that he can watch his big cock disappear into your little hole. He’s gritting his teeth, keeping a steady pace and you tilt your head back. “Ah! S-Simon-“ you whimper. “S’alright. You can cum baby.” He mumbles, leaning down slightly and attaching his lips to yours for the first time. It sends you right into a su space, the softness of his lips has you disappearing. Your moans get muffled by him as he fucks you through your first high. It won’t be your last of the night. Your thighs shake as he overstimulates you. Not giving you anytime to adjust to him. “Fuck you get so tight on me when you cum.” He groans. He starts to rock his hips into yours a little faster than before. He’s eager, wanting his own high. “Why don’t you ride me, hm?” You nod your head. He slides out of you, moving so that you can sit up. When he lays down you straddle him, lowering yourself onto him. Hissing at the new angle, he’s going too deep. He chuckles. “It’s okay.” You rock your hips up, turning around to see how far you’re taking him down. “Try to take all of me.” He mumbles. “I-I can’t.” He chuckles. “You can. Just relax for me.” You nod your head, if you wanted to stop now, he’d let you obviously. He runs his hands up your thighs, resting on your hips. He licks his lips when he forces your hips down onto him, a gasp leaving your lips as he bottoms out again. Your legs weaken and you rest yourself onto him.

You give yourself a second to adjust and he doesn’t try to make you. Letting you rock your hips into him, getting used to it. Pretty soon, you’re bouncing on his cock, moaning out. He’s smiling a lazy smile at you, loving how dirty it is. You’re addicted to him, chasing your high on his cock. He’s getting close and he can tell you’re close too by the way you’re tightening around him and the intensity of your moans. He’s panting hard, thighs clenching and lower stomach knotting up. That sweet knot was going to unravel and against his better judgement, if you don’t stop. He’s going to fill your little pussy full of his cum. You’re rocking back and fourth in him, feeling so good. He loves seeing it, loves seeing you pleasure yourself on him. It’s just a bonus that he gets to watch it, and cum too. This is so much better than jerking off. It’s all he’s done to cum in the last few years. He wanted to make a move on you sooner but knew it was a bad idea. He grips your thighs, helping guide you onto him. “Got me fucking close baby.” He groans. “M-me too.” You pant. Your eyes are watering from being overwhelmed. He lifts his hips into yours, getting frustrated and holding you up so he can thrust up into you. “Oh fuck-“ his voice cracks and a whimper leaves his lips. “I’m gonna cum.” He pants. “Fuck I’m gonna cum baby-“ he cries. “Me too Simon-“ a gasp leaves your lips when you hit your second high, feeling his warmth spill into your depths. Filling you up. Your lips are parted and you’re resting your hands on his chest. Feeling him leak down out of you.

You climb off him, going to stand up but he stops you, pulling you back into him. “Relax.” He breathes. “Sleep here.” He mumbles. Pulling you into his front. “Simon-“ he stops you. “We can talk more about this tomorrow alright? But you need sleep, and I got you. I always got you. Just sleep for now.” He breathes. Feeling his warmth and the way his arms are wrapping around you is too much. You feel your eyes getting heavy.

@clove-shitposts

[maggyme13]

If I tell you this is a horror dance number it still won't prepare you. That last move was so terrifying even the judge was like "Let go! Let go!" If you told me they're actually possessed I'd believe you.

The music is a remix of the song Mere Dholna from the Bollywood movie Bhool Bhulaiyya, a remake of the classic Malayalam horror-comedy Manichitrathazhu. It's about a young bride that seemingly becomes possessed of Manjulika, a dancer of the ancient royal court whose tragic death has turned her into a vengeful spirit, one who evokes the wrath of the goddess Durga Kali. In the iconic scene that is repeated across remakes, the groom and his family discover his bride dancing in the dead of night in a manic, disassociative fugue, wearing a moth-eaten dancer's costume and a face smeared in kohl, ash and vermilion. She's hallucinating that she's Manjulika dancing carefree for the court with her lover. The upbeat music is deliberately incongruous with the pathos and creepiness of the scene in reality, especially as it crescendos in the bride's head to the moment when the king decapitates Manjulika's beloved in a fit of jealous rage.

This specific number is by the all-male troupe B Unique, performed for the Indian reality talent contest Hunabaarz. It's a modern fusion based on Bharatnatyam that turns up the creep factor by 200% and is basically a showcase of contortionism and synchronicity. One of the most perfectly choreographed and executed dances I have ever seen. Truly incredible!

The group is still taking their work across the world's talent shows. And yes, that guy is hypermobile enough to do that with his neck. XD

[maggyme13]

Noch 18 Tage bis zur Bundestagswahl.

Hab ich hier neulich glaub schonmal gesehen, jetzt ausprobiert und kann's empfehlen (auch im Hinblick auf die Begründungen):

[maggyme13]

roommate au

poly 141 x roommate reader

Original post 1. part two 2. part three 3. house decorations 4. intruder break-in 5. holiday season 6. bringing a date home 7. appendix 8. appliance 9. baby fever

[maggyme13]

Aweee! That was soooooooooooooo good! Had me squealing!

❤❤❤❤❤

I dunno if I've harassed you yet buuuut,

I just read the newest take on the text and they'll be there guard dogish 141, and just. What if an anxious little bird just walks up to one it the group and just squeezes into the crowd and just.

"ignore me I'm about to lose my shit" or just stands there and gives a small hi cause they're overstimmed or need a break or someone's been creepy and they see that people keep a wide berth from said person or group.

Hi I'm excited I hope anything here made a bit of sense. Also possible reverse 'guard dog' distribution system, the small bird doesn't find a dog. The dog finds a bird.

You aren’t harassing me at all! Please don’t ever feel like that 😭💕 i love, love both scenarios, so I’ll do the second one later as well. Thank you for this wonderful ask!

The dim hum of the pub was comforting- warm light glowing against worn wood, the steady murmur of conversations buzzing around you. It had been your usual spot for a quiet drink after a hard week, but tonight was different, and not in a good way.

Someone had been watching you, and not in the harmless, fleeting way most people did. His gaze lingered too long, his smirk too wide, his attempts to approach you far too persistent even when you refused the drink he’d sent towards you. When you’d brushed him off the third time like that, you could see clearly on his face that he didn’t like that.

Men like him were common, but that just made them all the more dangerous.

The weight of his presence was suffocating, so you’d bolted toward the one corner of the room where you felt the most secure. Them.

You’d seen them here before- an unassuming group at first glance, but the way they carried themselves screamed “don’t mess with us.” Four men with their thighs each bigger than your head at the very least, and tonight, they were your only hope.

Standing up and doing your best to ignore the angry gaze practically boring into you, you approached their table cautiously, feeling several pairs of sharp eyes land on you. Mutton chops tilted his head, pretty boy stood from his seat slightly, brow furrowed. Mohawk’s wide grin faltered, replaced with curiosity, while the last one’s gaze, though obscured by his balaclava, was cold and assessing.

You should probably ask for their names. If they let you sit you with them, that is.

“Uh- so sorry to bother,” you started, voice shaking slightly. “But…there’s this guy…” You didn’t need to finish. Balaclava’s attention shifted subtly, big shoulders tightening as his eyes flicked past you. Mohawk’s grin returned, but this time, even in the dim light, you could tell it was dangerous.

“Where?” Mutton chop asked, his voice steady but just as sharp as his eyes

You subtly nodded toward the man at the bar, who was now visibly trying to act like he wasn’t watching your every move. The second he noticed who you were speaking to, his face drained of color. He turned away, gripping his drink like it might shield him.

Pretty boy snorted. “Well, ain’t that something? Big man suddenly doesn’t have the guts, eh?”

“Stay here.” Balaclava said firmly, standing up with the kind of slow, deliberate movement that made your stomach flip. The other three followed suit, each moving with the kind of quiet unity that could only come from working together for years. Maybe they were a team? You knew there was a military base somewhere nearby, could they be from there?

Still, you obeyed and stayed behind, heart thundering in your chest as they approached the man- not from fear, but from excitement. Ghost leaned in, his imposing frame towering over the guy. Whatever was said was too low for you to hear, but the way your harasser paled, hands shaking as he grabbed his coat and bolted from the pub, told you enough.

When they returned and introduced themselves, Soap clapped you lightly on the back with a bold grin. “Dinnae think he’ll be botherin’ you again, lass.”

Price pulled a chair out for you, right with their table. “Sit. You’re safe here. Anyone who’s got a problem with you’s got a problem with us now.”

You sank into the chair, warmth spreading through your chest. You didn’t know them, not really, but in that moment, you felt like you’d just gained four overprotective, no-nonsense bodyguards. Is this what celebrities felt like? It was amazing.

“Thank you, really,” you repeated, giving them such a grateful, blinding smile. “Again, I’m so sorry for bothering you like that. It was just-“

Gaz shook his head, not letting you finish. “No need to, love. We don’t mind at all. Just enjoy your night now, yeah? No more of pricks like him bothering you.”

And judging by the way Soap was already offering to buy you a drink and Ghost’s subtle but watchful eye, you were honestly more than okay with that.

[maggyme13]

Refugee (Jealous!Ghost x Medic!Reader)

Rating: Explicit Genre: Smut, angst, comfort Word count: 6,5 k Tags/warnings: SMUT 🔞 Jealousy, possessive behavior, grumpy/sunshine dynamic, pining, like... all the pining. Size kink, p in v, cunnilingus, creampie, hugs. Minor injuries. POV: horny, bitter, lonely Ghost. Reader is female and works as a medic at the base. Everyone is a hot mess. Summary: Oblivious & jealous Ghost makes the reader feel better.

Pretty smiles are much like traps, and he has learned to avoid them. But there's a hole in his armour, some weak spot that allows hers to slip inside. It's not the first time, nor the last, so he squares his shoulders and starts to mend that spot. He stuffs it full with whatever he finds; he does whatever it takes.

But then he sees her smile to Price, beaming like the fucking sun.

Of course it has to be the man he respects the most, the man he wishes nothing but well. And there's nothing more to it. She likes the captain, and of course she does: everyone likes John Price. She'll soon be waiting for him if she isn't already. Smiling, wet and sweet, spread all over the captain's bed.

It's only work that awaits him. From dawn till dusk, with hungry arms and a cold, dead cunt.

---

The first thing he notices is a fuckable mouth.

It's crude, but so are most of his thoughts, from sunrise to sunset. It has been years since he has even tried to check them. They are allowed to run rampant nowadays: he fucks hostiles with bullets and knives, and it hasn't given him nightmares in years.

And besides, it's a nice thought: one of the very few.

Women are women, and he has killed the desire for anything more than flesh beating against flesh years ago. There's no time, no use, so why torment himself with something that will never be?

But the mouth turns into something more than just fuckable. It's also a smile.

She's smiling. Often, too. Far too often for a woman who works in a place like this, for people like them. Far too softly when stitching up someone like him, only to send him off to meet death again.

Pretty smiles are much like traps, and he has learned to avoid them. But there's a hole in his armour, some weak spot that allows hers to slip inside. It's not the first time, nor the last, so he squares his shoulders and starts to mend that spot. He stuffs it full with whatever he finds; he does whatever it takes.

But then he sees her smile to Price, beaming like the fucking sun.

Of course it has to be the man he respects the most, the man he wishes nothing but well. And there's nothing more to it. She likes the captain, and of course she does: everyone likes John Price. She'll soon be waiting for him if she isn't already. Smiling, wet and sweet, spread all over the captain's bed.

It's only work that awaits him. From dawn till dusk, with hungry arms and a cold, dead cunt.

---

By the time he sees her in a civilian setting, he knows he's pretty much fucked.

The oversized medical uniform doesn't disguise her frame this time. Everything's on tray, not distastefully, but still. She's classy, feminine, and so fucking gorgeous that it takes him a while to rip his eyes off her as she walks to the pub with Price.

It was supposed to be just him, Soap, and the captain but of course Price had invited her – some medic – as if it was the norm here to invite medical personnel out after work. It changed the mood – that there was a woman. Tongues were tied, jokes were prude, three cocks competed for her attention, whether consciously or not. Seeing Price and her laugh together was a vision he could do without.

But as much as the boys followed the sway of her ass at the pub, they didn't see the potential jerk approaching at two o'clock. It was fucking pathetic of him to check her out as she walked to the bar and then feel a flare of rage as some drunken fool did the exact same. But when the obvious preying starts, no one leaves him with no choice but to walk to the counter too. No one does a thing, and he's slightly appalled: not even Price will claim her.

Women can handle themselves and all that shit, but he's not going to watch the whole night how she tries to politely rid herself of a bloke who doesn't seem to take no for an answer. The guy is small and so plastered that he wouldn't even notice the knife before it sank into his liver.

"Sod off."

He gets a mock of a whistle – disappointment and awe.

"Look at that… Of course you're into big fuckers."

The comment is directed at the woman behind him, and it's fucking laughable how it makes his chest puff up like he's a gorilla.

Like he's her man.

He wants to be big enough to make everyone in this joint cast their eyes down when they pass her by. Wants them fear to raise their sights from the ground while he's standing here with her.

There's fear in his eyes, pissed as the sorry little idiot is. It doesn't take much more, just a silent stare and the printed mask. Maybe 6 feet and then some more. A hood to disguise everything else so that the only thing he can see is a big fucker with a stare that says nothing to lose.

The man creeps back to where he came from, and it's not unheard of that he gets his thanks. He even waits for it like a fucking dog, like it's some kind of a treat she offers from her silken soft palm.

"Thank you, lieutenant."

The name causes a twitch in his lip. She always calls him lieutenant, sometimes even sir. Never Simon. She calls Price by name, calls him John, sometimes when she slips. Calls Soap John, too.

"I could've managed, but thank you."

She could've managed, but never said anything when he came to interrupt the eye fucking.

"No problem."

He continues to eye fuck her himself for the rest of the night. Imagines what it would be like to be her man, to be the one who takes her home. But he hasn't got a home, really, only a room to crash at. It's not a place for someone like her. He's not a place for someone like her.

---

She is everydayness. Decency. Normalcy.

But there's nothing mundane or bland about her. She's unique, perfect, perhaps because she's unattainable. It's just an enchantment, nothing more. It's safe to look at her because she will never be his.

Because he is chaos, underworld, madness. He will never have to fear her leaving because she will never be his in the first place.

She is fierce and alive while he walks through life like he's at the bottom of the sea. There's no variety; every day is the same, only a repetition of what he already knows. Perhaps that's why she hurts so much: because she's far too bright. The colours surround her as she walks. Her luminosity is blinding.

"You should quit."

He sees her approach, but when she finally speaks, it causes the smoke to get stuck in his throat. She takes her gloves off and sighs, leans on the wall, and he chooses to look at the trees instead of her. He has to.

"Old habits."

He hopes she will just leave it, but she doesn't.

"Hm. A shame, really."

He blows the smoke from his nostrils this time, hoping it will cover the ugly scar on his lip. The mask is only halfway in place, and he doesn't want her to see any of his face.

"...What is?"

"I thought you were the perfect man."

He lets his gaze drop to the asphalt to not give away the storm raging inside him.

"Turns out you're only a mortal like the rest of us."

He can hear her smile as she speaks. Softly.

That fucking smile…

"You don't have vices?"

He's talking to the ground like an idiot. He shouldn't be talking at all; he should just leave her be. Leave her to Price, who's better than him – at least in these things. In terms of being good to a woman, making them smile and laugh, making them stay and want more. The perfect man.

"Oh I do. Just nothing that will kill me."

He turns to look. Long lashes drop over eyes, then rise again as she gathers the courage to look him in the sockets of the skull.

"I'm not dead yet," he rasps, throat dry from smoke and something that tastes like bitter, fucked up yearning.

"Let's keep it that way, lieutenant."

---

When he sees her at the beach, the day's obscured by sunlight, and he's maskless. He almost turns away, but then he remembers she cannot know what he looks like, not even after seeing half his face amidst some wisps of smoke.

She might recognize his walk, might remember the way his shoulders are raised even when he tries to free them from tension and will them down. But she doesn't really notice anything but the card game she's playing with her friends.

Everything's so alive: her hair in the wind, the way she tucks it behind her ear, the way her breasts press together, barely covered by an apricot bikini. The sweat that gathers there, between all the softness, then runs down her stomach and into her navel.

Her smile is wide and fucks up all his hard work. The stuffing in the hole he has tried to fix drops out like days, weeks of iron will ain't nothing. The wind takes it, but it never takes her smile.

He is supposed to just walk by, but the sand and sweat between her breasts makes him sit on a bench further away. He's soon panting like a dog, wishing to lick and lap her sweat and follow the trail down and under the hem of the apricot swimwear while crawling over her for a sixty-nine. See how much of him she can take in that pretty little mouth while he makes her forget she even has a name.

And he realizes he's a fucking creep.

Was he really a goddamn stalker now? Is this what it had come to?

He leaves them to it, to their fun and games in the sun.

There's nothing but silence and old dust in his apartment, his shadowed territory of barely 20 square meters. The sun never reaches here, even when it's the middle of summer. The armchair is old, but it welcomes him like an old friend as he spreads his legs and pulls himself out, already half hard, and dreams of hot cum spilled on apricots.

---

If seeing her smile is bad, seeing her cry is even worse.

First, he walks by, pretends to buy the way with which she tries to suck up her sniveling. Tries to act normal, tries to hide in plain sight. Then he turns.

"Hey."

She doesn't freeze. The pain is bad enough for the woman to seek consolation anywhere she can get.

"Everything alright?"

She finally raises her stare, and everything comes right through: pain, months of it, something that has festered behind that pretty little smile.

"Mum's at the hospital," the walls whisper to him, and before he knows it, she walks to him and lands on his chest.

She smells of coconuts, full-bodied cream, with a tinge of palm trees – a peculiar scent in the midst of a dim, sterile hall. All her softness meets his middle, and a head tucks under his chin, almost like a memory – hers or his, he can't tell. There's a shudder, and then the dam breaks: she cries hard and good while his arms close around her. Awkward, but sweet.

Nothing in her is fuckable now; he just wants to be… there, needed, or something. She feels like another bad habit, illegal, almost. It's fucking dangerous, and he knows it, but he is a mortal like the rest of them, just like she said.

He knows people grow mad without physical touch, without human connection. He grew mad years and years ago. And this is not enough; it only makes him want to rip her apart and then bury himself in the ruin, fall into an eternal sleep there.

"She's a smoker, like you."

It is not an accusation, only a gentle whisper. It grabs his heart and yanks as if it's an iron fist instead. He raises a hand, moves a strand of her hair from her shoulder. Strokes her head, and her cries gradually fade. His caress has the power to do that…

"I can talk to Price if ya need time off," he tries delicately. The last time he was delicate was with a computer.

"There's… there's no need. But thank you."

There's the softest silence swirling about them, and he feels ethereal. It's a peace like no other. It's better than smoking, this. His nerves settle into a lukewarm sleep.

"Is there anythin' else I can do?"

Her hands clutch the back of his shirt and tug; she holds onto him like he's driftwood, perhaps something even sturdier – and he responds by pressing her against him, crushing her so that she lets out the tiniest little whimper. Her hands start to wander, and his cock stirs – she's fuckable again, and he's in trouble.

"Could you…"

He grows tense with hope and greed, not only from groin but his shoulders as well. His whole stomach goes tight like an iron coil, his neck starts to sweat. He imagines himself fucking her against the wall, making her cry for a whole other reason, ghosting kisses along her neck and down her shoulder, marking her if need be. As his. Fucking his.

"I– um, no. Uh, nevermind."

She withdraws, thinks he's refusing her by tensing and powering up like a fucking bulldozer. He knows what she was going to ask, or at least, he hopes –

"Thanks for the… hug," she detaches from him like a fragment of his soul, gives him a small smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Mission failed; all of them.

---

He could patch himself up just fine on his own, but he needs to see her. He's an addict after that hug. He even takes the smiles she gives to other people – he would lick the floor for some crumbs if it came to that.

"Lieutenant."

She gives him a smile when he enters her little domain of disinfected steel and rubber gloves.

"Nice to see you." She looks to the floor and smiles even more. But it's shy, almost timid. He's the only one this little sunbeam is shy with. "What can I do for you?"

All the purity has stopped him at the door for a second, then he steps in.

"Need some stitchin'."

Another smile, and a bit flirty, at that. Perhaps his mission didn't fail after all. Then she puts her profession on and pats the little bed he always fears he might break with his weight.

"Hop on."

Gloves are put on with such delicate daintiness that it's like he's watching a dance, some kind of a show just for him. The purchase on his arm is less gentle; she has the grip of a person who has done this a hundred times before. The smell of antiseptic hits his nose, but underneath, he catches the hints of a summer beach. Tropical, rich, like a whole plate of fruit. He knows he reeks of old sweat and gunpowder.

"Price was in a good mood today," she starts to prattle as she cleans the wound and then gets to it. The softness is covered only by a thin veil of rubber, and her hand looks uncorrupt and small against the scratched, scarred, tattooed surface of his arm. He's a thrumming effigy as the needle threads him through: she could touch her with a sledgehammer, and he would only feel a ripple of pleasure.

"That man's always in a good mood."

"Are you ever..? In a good mood?"

The goddamn woman is flirting with him. The soft tone rises higher at the end of her string of words until it sounds like she's singing a little song to him, making his cock twitch.

"Yeah," he lies. "Y'just can't see it."

She hums a soft laugh right on his skin.

"Would be nice to see it," she says, softer still, and his heart rams against his chest like his ribcage is too small for the organ.

"Careful what ya wish for."

There's awkward silence, blushing, stitching, and he has to bend a little to conceal the erection – only a fucker like him gets a fucking hard-on while a good-smelling, well-meaning woman is stitching him up – he disguises the movement as pain, and she turns her touch even more gentle while quickening up the pace.

"There you go," she pats him too when she's done. He doesn't even have to look at her work to know that it's fine, that it's something he will remember as a gift instead of the knife that caught him unawares. She turns even scars into blessings.

"Neat work. As always."

"Well, it's my job."

Price would say something warm. Clever. He would have the girl in his bloody arms by now.

Why the fuck isn't she in his arms by now?

"You like the captain?"

"I– yeah, I think so. I mean, of course."

But he's not Price, and he's not that clever. His tactic is different, and he already knows it's the most wrong possible one.

"Well, he's not taken. In case you were wonderin'."

---

She's sad. Price tries to make her smile; Soap cracks his dumbest jokes to summon even the faintest laugh.

Perhaps he's got it wrong. Perhaps Price is taken, and she can't have him.

He's a prick and twists the knife inside, continues with his tactic: foul, like the rest of him.

"Asked him out yet?"

The spoon in her coffee stops stirring. The woman likes her vices sweetened and watered up: there's two sugars and some cream in her coffee, not even milk, but cream. As if she wasn't sweet and lush enough already.

"No."

She gets back to it, then stops again. The tactic works, and she's trapped, and his chest is filled with pressure that precedes a flare-up, a detonation.

"I didn't mean…" She starts, and the smallest, sweetest of bombs goes off. "I don't like him that way."

Perhaps she can't get Price for some unfathomable reason or the other. Settles for the second best. Doesn't know that it's the worst option.

He can keep her safe from everyone and everything except himself now.

"Hm."

He reaches for a mug around her, closes her in and against the counter. She gasps lightly, her ass perks up – fucking beautiful. He bends a little toward her ear and summons the deepest voice he knows will go straight to her cunt.

"Good to know."

The swallow that follows is even more exquisite than the feel of her ass in front of his crotch. He resists the urge to shove his hips forward and up, to impale her with himself right then and there. See if she moans for him. She is still breathing heavy as he pours himself hot water and reaches for a bag of tea; her breaths follow him as he walks out of the breakroom.

He doesn't even wait for the next day like he had promised himself he would. He's a horny dog, and not just for her cunt: he wants her sweetness, the soft look in her eyes. A taste of cream and sugar he had in his folly thought were the antithesis of vice. They are as much a sin as his cigarettes. Too good, too addictive; she is pure weakness and love.

"Did you get nicked again?"

"No."

"Well what can I do for you today?"

"That one night. What were you going to ask?"

Her hands shake slightly, but she tries to hide it by organizing the clutter on her table.

"Mm… Can't remember."

The attempt to lie is so pitiful that even the woman's aware of it as she turns her head to the side. Caught, poor thing, who doesn't know he has interrogated dozens of people before she was even allowed to buy beer. He has a knack, a talent to know what makes different people break. For some, it's fear of pain; for some, lack of sleep. Prolonged exposure to sound or light. He knows because he's been forced to study it all, down to the marrow of his bones and soul.

Not that he'd ever batter the truth out of her. He doesn't have to. It breaks no sweat to see her weak spots. It almost makes him feel sorry: to witness such softness in a creature.

And it's the weakness that does the trick. Combined with his silence and stare, it's torture. She breaks for him beautifully, with a shuddering sigh.

"I wanted to ask for your help."

"Figured as much. What did ya need help with?"

"For god's sake, Riley." She lets go of her little things and leans on the table.

"Tell me."

She looks up to the light in the ceiling for help. Blood-red tongue swipes the bottom of her lip and then retreats back to her sweet little mouth.

"I wanted to ask if you could make me feel better."

She can't have Price. Settles for the worst.

His hunger is deafening, all-encompassing; it threatens to swallow him.

"Still need help with that?"

She turns to face him with pure helplessness in her stare. It's such a benign hunger, the complete opposite of his own. It's chaste; it doesn't feel hatred or despair. She knows how to do things properly. A perfect woman.

Let me inside. Let me feel all that.

Just a taste-

"I don't know."

"Ya don't know?"

She's afraid. Not unlike the bodies under his knife. This time, it's a culling, a whole sweep of a scythe.

"I thought you didn't like me."

She is reaching out with her eyes, but her body is still. He cocks his head a little, nearly forgets he's bigger than Price and wearing human bones. Of course she's scared.

"What a silly thought."

"Is it…?"

He shifts, and it causes her to gasp. She turns slightly, looks down at the objects splayed on the table, reaches for support on the edge. A prey who knows what's coming, trying to play dead.

He takes a few steps, gently, gently, to not scare her away.

She comes back to life as he presses against her from behind, grasps her neck in a tight hold, draws fingers up until she is exposed and at his mercy. The small mirror in front of them shows her fear, and he's the devil himself because it makes him hard.

"Ask again."

Her eyes flit between his eyes and his hand. It's a blessing he got rid of the gloves before he came here. The pulse under his thumb is like a choir of angels.

"You're scary," she whispers while her ass reaches for his crotch, foolhardy and everything but timid.

"Unlike your captain?"

He allows her to see his jealousy in full. A dark glare under the mask: the eyes of a madman. Her head tilts back, the throat under his hand is stretched wide open for his taking.

"He's not my–"

He catches that breath with his fingertips like it's a treasure, then gives her another lie that, to his horror, might actually be the truth.

"Ya don't have to be scared."

"Says the man in a skull mask…"

That ushers out a chuckle. In his world, it's a whole outbreak of laughter. The first in many, many weeks. Might be years, even.

"This is not the proper place for this, Riley."

"Don't give a fuck about proper."

He releases her throat to dive down her sternum. Her breasts heave: they are desperate for some claws. He uses both hands to rip her tunic open. She doesn't even wear a shirt underneath. For the first time ever, he's surprised at her audacity.

Naughty girl.

She's wearing fruit again: plum or something, dark like wine, and just as tasteful. Lace, elegance, lust, right there under that tame professionalism.

She breathes even more rapidly when he pulls the thin fabric of her bra aside and paws each breast before they catch the raw air. She's soft and warm – like sun-kissed sand.

Her head rolls back against his shoulder as he weighs her, sweeps calloused thumbs across her nipples that respond to his touch like soldiers called to arms. She arches her back even more, tries to offer herself to him. The woman is melting like snow between his arms, trapped against the hard table and an even harder body. It's his turn to swallow. Then he grinds his hips against that rich ass currently driving him insane.

"Are you clean?"

The hushed question is clinical, a blunt blow in his stomach. It's a sane, healthy thing to ask, but it makes him feel like a dog full of fleas even though he has none. He can barely remember the last time he touched a woman. Always protected. Distant.

He wants nothing more than to stuff himself in now, vile and bare.

"Yeah. Are you?"

"Yes."

"Do we need a–"

"I take the pill."

She's breathless under his touch. Tries to cover it all up, but she's plummeting, falling straight into his lap. He's relatively sure she would suck his cock if he asked. But he has caught a scent and just has to have a taste, a sniff.

Her pants come down easily enough, and he falls on his knees behind her. Before long, he has his mask on his nose and his nose up her cunt.

"Jesus–"

She doesn't know what he's capable of, that he has no shame. He follows the scent, pushes his tongue in there as well, nearly laughs upon finding her running with cream.

"Oh, god…"

The bone on his mask must feel cold and jagged against the silky skin of her folds and ass. It's a good thing that his tongue is thick and hot: he's not dead yet.

"Ask again," he gruffs inside her, chin wet with juice.

Let me in. Take me home.

"F-fuck, Simon…"

She uses his name. So that's what it took.

His tongue makes her even swear, and he could take it as a plea; it almost sounds like a command. And she might be one of the very few who possess the power to command him.

"Ask."

She hovers, tries to get away and sit on his face at the same time. She tastes sweet – sugar and cream, and he's suffocating in his pants.

"Could you…" She's panting, swallowing tears. "Make me feel better? Please?"

"Ya want my cock or my tongue?"

"Uh…"

"Can't have both."

At least not at the same time, he thinks somewhat begrudgingly. He would lick her arse if she let him.

She pushes her cunt down again, hesitantly. He gives her another sample of what he can do, and she wails softly.

"No need to be shy," he mutters somewhere in her depths. The woman's leaking all over him.

"I… want you to feel good too," she peeps somewhere above him.

She wants him to feel good too. She fucking…

"Alright."

Poor little thing. His tongue would hurt much less.

He rises, finally frees himself, fat and ugly – it's always painful to shove something so ugly inside someone so beautiful and sweet. And she's the sweetest to his ugliest…

"Kind and considerate, are we?"

He prods around with his cock; it slips between her cheeks in a surreal fantasy. She's so slippery that it drives right through, slides smoothly between her thighs, and the sugar and cream soon coat his whole length.

"Well-bred and polite…"

Her eyes shimmer and blow wide as she looks at him through the mirror. She can see the scar now, can see that he's out of breath and desperate. The most desperate man soon to be inside her. He grabs the weight, bends, hinges at the hip, and finds her – and the bulge of his cock dips right in.

She gasps, cute little fuckable mouth open, looks as sweet as can be as he glides more of himself in.

"Christ you're huge," she sighs, swallows as she tries to gulp that confession back down her throat.

"Barely halfway in," he cannot help but boast. Brag. It squeezes out a cry from her – it's almost a mewl, hopeless… And it makes him even harder; he pushes another inch in, and she tightens like a snare around him.

"Bloody hell– you tryin' to strangle me?"

She laughs, with teeth, smiles for him… He pushes himself all the way in until there's no air left between them; he's lodged in, buried deep, safe, home. She takes him surprisingly well, accommodates him like she's made for him. It's warm, hot, so wet that he can guide himself effortlessly through a reluctant withdrawal and another hungry thrust.

Her mouth opens more, lids drop to cover at least half of those doe eyes. She’s everything but in pain. Every emotion comes right through, and it's going to end in things much sweeter than blood.

Something rattles on the table as he pushes her against it with every homecoming. He has no trouble with this: he has to bend in the knees to pull out, then jerk himself up to be buried back in, but he's got stamina. It's no problem, even if it leaves him breathless.

But she's trembling, her thighs are already shaking, the much smaller body is trying to take him and stay upright, wants to succumb to pleasure, too – he has to wrap an arm around her middle to keep her steady and supported, and his hips and chest do the rest. Thighs against thighs: she should have no fear of falling. He's here.

Forever has been, from the day he saw her. He didn't know it then, but he knows it now.

"Ya smell good… Sweet," he tries to say something nice while fucking her brains out.

She's sighing with every thrust, crying against him, in front of him. His cock makes her fucking cry.

"Simon," she's begging, meowing like a cat. The woman's begging, and it makes him dizzy. "I thought you didn't like me…"

She’s repeating herself, a divine heap of mess.

And she… she doesn't want Price.

She doesn't want Price.

She's into big fuckers.

Bloody fuckin' hell.

A tiny hand rises to cup his neck, and she looks at him like he's the most wondrous thing she has ever seen. He pants some of the shock out, then remembers he's inside her.

"Well think again," he grunts in her ear, a tender scolding. He drives himself in with more purpose, more hunger.

She sobs, grabs him by the neck and by the arm holding her by the waist – it makes his cock throb, makes his heart swell and nearly burst inside his chest.

The woman holds onto him like he's some kind of saviour. Her breasts bounce with each thrust, but it's her eyes and soft little mouth his gaze is glued to. Hot sweat and cunt juice run down both their thighs, the wetness sings around them, the frigid, hollow walls of the room echo the sound back to his ears and make him want to roar. But he's soft with her, has to be – and he wants her to tell him, tell him how his cock makes her feel…

"How does that feel?"

He sounds harsher than he means to while savouring every fat inch of his thickness plowing its new home. She looks at his reflection, eyes kind and wet and loving. The woman's soft and soaking all around; she swallows him like a wave.

"You like that…?"

His voice turns soft and loving too. She's a pretty little thing, desperate for his cock and care.

She doesn't want Price…

"Yes." It's sweet, the despair in her broken voice. "Love it, I love it…"

She sings to him about love.

He hits so deep that it makes her jolt in his arms, and he takes a wider stance, a huff or two, resumes…

"Might not make you smile," he grunts as he continues the torture, "but sure as hell am gonna make you feel better."

He fucks her slow but sweet, and she is shuddering with each thrust now. He pulls her more tightly against him: she's not going fucking anywhere from his cock or his hold. She wraps around him, with both cunt and hand, so tight that his head sinks somewhere in her neck.

His first kiss is planted on her pulse, the next behind her ear, and the oozing honey of her moans and pleas surround him in waves.

"Simon…"

She likes his kisses, his rhythm too, offers her cunt with such generosity that it makes him want to cry. She comes more undone, one thrust after the other, until it feels like she's trying to consume him whole. She sounds like his cock is slow torture, and he grits his teeth, keeps the pace steady, groans on her skin as every muscle in his body grows taut.

"Simon– Jesus Christ…"

She tightens around him the last time, a strong, starved pull that sends him seeing white. A tight cry paints the air; the woman moans and throbs, then shatters all over him. His balls are taut, shot to the sky unless they weren't shot up against her soaked cunt, and the load that blows nearly makes him blind for a second.

Can't fucking believe it–

It's a dream, a hallucination-like vapor, to realize that they come together.

He can't even move for a while, the first spurt seems to last forever, until the second demands action, and he has to release her and grab her by the hips instead to fuck them both through the reverie.

She collapses on the table like a ragdoll that has lost its strings. He hasn't shed tears in ages, but he gives her everything he has to give: starved noises and a load that would make paid women blush. He fucks through the third spit, fourth, and then he loses count, he's gone.

"Oh…god.."

His cock still sails in her cunt after there's nothing left. The woman is high on it, rocks back and forth on the table, limp and frail when he's not supporting her. It's painful, and he stops, like a gentleman should.

He pants, then closes his mouth before he drools all over her. A loving caress steals its way under her tunic, up her back, then settles to splay over her hip again – possessive. He's even more famished than before he got here.

She's opium, or morphine, the kind they stick in him in the field if things have gone more than amiss. It could lead to an addiction, the haze that follows, the feeling that everything's kinda ok in the world.

But this is even better; this is fucking heaven. A Shangri-la where the sun never sets. He doesn't want to pull out, not even when his cock settles into numb slumber, as if satisfied. As if.

He wants to grab her with both hands and take her to...somewhere, anywhere, out of here. But women like her won't debase themselves. She might not want Price, but that doesn't mean she wants him to stay.

He has to finally draw his hips back and watch how the only part that can make her feel good slips out of her. His departure is followed by a miserable little whimper and a desperate amount of cum. A week's worth of load, if not more – the last time was after he saw her on that beach.

His hand lingers on her still, drifts somewhere between her hips and waist, ghosts along the tender line of her spine.

"Was I of any help," he asks, and she pushes herself from the table, wobbly and sweet – so bloody fucking sweet. She laughs as if this wasn't his doom, a pitfall from which he can never climb out again.

"Yes." Her laughter shoots him full of holes. "Thank you, lieutenant."

Fuck.

His rank on her lips feels foul; it sounds as wrong as can fucking be.

"I got a name," he says, can't tone down the bile.

She turns slowly – a difficult task when still trapped between a table and a jealous giant who's only left wanting more.

"Sorry. Thank you, Simon."

The wet pools of love regard him with dedication. She raises her hands, they go about his neck. The breasts he so crudely exposed now press against him, and he curses he wears a mask, that he wears gear or clothes at all.

"Could you stay for a bit? I– I really need you."

She's high on cum and hormones that make women want to bond. He wants to extend his welcome long after they've worn off. But stay…

"You're always in a hurry," she sighs and nuzzles her way into his neck. Makes a nest there, like a bird.

"Am not."

She laughs again, a singsong laugh.

"Yes you are. Always running from me." She settles over his heart, more solemn now. "Wish you could stay for a while."

Fuck.

Fuck, if that ain't his wish too.

"I really like you," she whispers.

"Yeah?" He swallows. "I like you too."

She appears to like hugs, closeness, and it rips his chest open, claws his throat to shreds. His hand finds her hair again as he holds her close.

"Don't worry. I'll stay."

She squeezes him like it's a deal. He is hers to do with whatever she pleases.

"We could go to the beach someday," she sings more happily. "Have you ever been to the beach?"

"No," he lies, fluently.

"I can take you there," she smiles promises on his skin. He doesn't deserve such gentle kisses, but she grants them nonetheless. "You can make me smile in return."

"Don't know how to do that."

"Yes you do."

She lifts to kiss his lips next. The little hands around his jaw hold him gentle and tight, fingertips caress their way further under the mask; they trace the skin he hasn't shaved for days. He crushes her against the table again on an instinct – and she smiles all over his lips.

"There. You see?"

A smile pulls at the corner of his lips as well. God damn…

"Yeah," he breathes in her mouth, and neither of them has dragged their pants up yet, he is half hard and sticky against her stomach, and she won't let go of him, won't let go…

"You're a silly man," she whispers. Her eyes are drowsy, and he wishes they were someplace else, at his place, even, so he could lay her down, maybe fall asleep while cradling her.

"Have been called a lot of things but never silly."

"Well, you are. Can't see what's right in front of you. I thought you were supposed to be an expert in infiltration."

He tries to catch some breath. A sudden need pulls him, dread and stress that can only be relieved by smoke – but he doesn't want to go anywhere from her little grip.

Need you too.

Fuck, I need you…

The hole in his protective gear is fist wide. It allows all kinds of things in, things that tear him apart. He surrenders to death gladly, offers his ruin to her as a refuge. A forgotten little bird's nest for her to occupy.

"My mistake," he mutters.

"Make it up to me then, lieutenant."

"Told you I got a–"

"Oh shut up, Riley." She laughs straight into his mouth like an angel, soothes a wound somewhere deep before kissing him silent. He can hear the sound of waves crashing on the shore, on the beach where the sun never sets.

And to think that she will take him there.

[maggyme13]

call me

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

genre: fluff! (rescue drabble!)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, mentions of motorcyclist!ghost, protective!ghost

synopsis: the downtime after missions was rarely a time that ghost looked forward to. everyone's aware to leave him alone during this period. that is, until he gets a call from you asking for his help to rescue you from an awkward situation!

a.n. wOW! hi lovelies, it's been a while! I was inspired to write this because something similar happened to me at an anime convention! and yes it was with a mw 2019 jawbone ghost cosplayer hehe (¬‿¬) oh, here's my kofi! and pls enjoy! <3

-

-

-

obsessed with the idea that ghost would drop everything and come running to you if you called him. 

-

the conclusion of an operation was, albeit, a bit bittersweet for ghost. sure, he benefited from the downtime of not being in an environment that constantly triggered his fight or flight response and a small break was necessary for his well-being to avoid pushing past his physical limitations. yet, those were the only beneficial factors he could conjure up. most operators took advantage of the intermission to catch up with friends at pubs or visit family for a couple days– a luxury he never allowed himself to have. thus, he spent the days of rest endlessly secluded. trapped within the barren walls of his flat. choosing to occupy his time thumbing through a nonfiction novel or finishing some exterior maintenance. he referred to his living space as a place to rest his chaos. to ease his hardships into a lasting slumber– that is, until he’d receive intel about a new operation. and his home was an enigma of great strength accompanied with struggle, providing a solitude that ghost was well acquainted with. he preferred it that way. no one reaches out to him during this time of isolation. which is why he doesn’t expect your name to flash on his phone’s screen and it’s even more astounding that he chooses to pick up the call. 

ghost who leans low enough that his leg almost touches the smooth asphalt when he cruises down the road. the sleek, pitch-black motorcycle adapts easily when he wrenches the steel handlebars. after adjusting in his seat, his gloved hands rev to intensify the speed while his mind recalls the conversation he had with you. approximately two minutes ago. the way you quietly pleaded, “could you please come and get me?” and immediately, the lack of context backed with the sticky hoarseness in your voice awakened unease within him. “you hurt?” his instinctive question is followed with a gruff, “who do I need to talk to.” and the sheer seriousness of his threat forces a minor giggle to leave your lips. the sound encourages him to mull over possibilities. where were you? where could you be right now? think, damn it, think. he drags a heavy hand across his face while vaguely remembering the lighthearted conversation you had earlier in the week. a pair of squad members had politely asked about your weekend plans to which you shared that you planned to get some grocery shopping out of the way. a mundane answer that pulled a couple laughs. but now, the rather ordinary task seemed to evolve into a nightmare as he hears you suck in a wobbly breath. “you still in town, sweetheart?” ghost forces his voice steady despite the crazed way he’s tugging on his shoes and shoving away stray papers to retrieve his keys. you instantly respond that you are and he tries not to dwell on the chance that his presence might’ve helped calm your nervousness. compels himself to solve the blatant issue before figuring out why his decision-making is so sudden. why he’s swiftly weaving through traffic in hopes of finding you when he should be relaxing at his flat. but his voice rumbles out of your phone’s speaker when he instructs, “stay put. I’ll come get you.” 

ghost who visibly tenses up when he spots you from the crowd of shoppers. most are occupied in their own business; choosing from a variety of commodities or paying for their groceries at the checkout line. but that’s not what he’s here for. treading through aisles, his appearance manages to raise curiosity from a couple onlookers before they tactfully glance away from the massive man. having one’s identity partially hidden away by layers of clothing while clutching onto a motorcycle helmet tends to facilitate that reaction from the average citizen. it works in his favor. his heavy-lidded eyes scan the room and before long he recognizes a tuft of your hair. he figured his first encounter with you would be under different circumstances, albeit more jovial and perhaps you’d grace him with one of those blinding smiles that you reserve solely for him. however, all he sees is vermillion flooding his vision. you’re backed into a secluded corner of the store by a sleazy man who’s testing his luck. unfortunately for the stranger, ghost was never a believer of good fortune. you venture to put more distance between you and the man but to no avail. he inches closer. “like I said earlier,” you strive to keep your tone of voice stable, “he’s on his way already. I don’t need a ride.” a courageous act but the guy is already responding. a shoddy decision, in ghost’s opinion, because upon hearing the stranger’s crude innuendo, ghost’s nails form crescents within his palms from how fiercely he’s balling his fists. sees you shrink from the words. and he’s a reaper with the sole mission to deliver punishment.

ghost who eases beside you and subtly reaches to touch your shoulder while murmuring, “I’ve got you.” his voice leaves his lips in a soothing drawl that has you inwardly crooning. safety is synonymous with him. always is. initially checks in with you before engaging in conversation with the stranger. you’re top priority. “simon?” his name is a relieved gasp from your plush lips. clearly you weren’t expecting him to step into the situation with hopes of diffusing it. he slowly tilts his head, “told ya I’d come.” mentions it like it’s a common occurrence that he spends his downtime shutting down harassment directed towards you. yet the first observation you make is that he’s dressed rather casually. clad in an ash-colored hoodie and denim jeans that always cause you to wonder whether he has them tailored because of how well they fit his physique. the homey outfit is a sight to behold considering you typically saw him in uniform; you ravished the domestic image. burnt it into your memory for safe keeping. apparently, so does ghost. “you look proper cozy today.” waving a gloved hand, he indicates your casual outfit and the sudden change of topic prompts a small grin to form on your face. which, ultimately, is his entire plan. dragging your eyes to a sudden motion, you watch as he rolls his sleeves up to reveal a swirl of veins and intricately tatted skin. he’s mystifying; everything about him is– which seemingly adds to his appeal and no matter how vigorously you fight against it, you can’t help but feel the inevitable pull. “don’t get any ideas, sweetheart.” of course the comment is meant to scold but the breathy rasp in his voice morphs it into pure sin. he shoots you an inquisitive glance when he regards your heated gaze and wordlessly chastises your behavior with a raise of his dark brows. 

ghost who absolutely resents whenever someone interrupts you. the act itself is rude beyond doubt but it’s especially ignorant when it concerns you. and the tacky stranger had the audacity to do it in front of ghost. from beneath his mask, he clenches his jaw when the other man decides to open his mouth to continue conversing with you. again. ghost shifts, positioning himself between the two of you, and spits out the words, “you’re doing me ‘ead in. do one, will ya?” his tone is level, devoid of any expletives in his question yet his manchester accent is gravelly enough for his words to border a threat. the manifestation of trouble. he pushes up his sleeves for good measure. truth be told, ghost would’ve simply told the other man to ‘piss off.’ perhaps give him the finger. but you were around and he favored appearing posh. 

ghost who basks in the gratifying burn of watching the stranger scurry away from just his words. runs like a scruffy dog getting caught going through a trash bin and he bites back a snicker. but who wouldn’t run from ghost? dressed as the embodiment of shadows and danger. probably his physique too, if he was being honest. towering at six feet and some more. he states, “don’t think the bloke was fond of me.” can’t refrain from the mockery that lines his words. perhaps the possessiveness was corrupting him more than he imagined. he glances at you, paying special regard to the way the corners of your lips curl at his remark, “suppose you’re right. I appreciate you coming, by the way.” isn’t quite sure why you’re thanking him. he’d rush to you whenever you needed him. but he dismisses it with a throaty, “not a problem.” and it dawns on him that the two of you are alone. away from the prying eyes of the task force members. surrounded by the normalcy of civilian life. and the motorcycle gear that he’s adorned with seems obvious that there’s more to him than he lets on. like the fact that he rushed here without a second doubt. there’s a glimmer in your eyes and he’s aware that your mind is racing with possibilities. “I wonder,” there’s a playfulness in your tone as you shift closer to him, “what was lieutenant riley up to before coming to my rescue?”  

ghost who exhibits the duality of man when he’s with you. his voice gets caught in his throat and he promptly answers, “nothin'.” because you’re placing a gentle hand on his forearm. vanquishes him to a robot that can only utter a single word from a single touch. this wasn’t what he was like before; the esteemed protector with a jealous streak. no, he’s reduced to a pining jumble of tenderness for you. even through the layers of clothing he recognizes your warmth and yearns for it. you gaze up at him through your lashes, a telltale sign that his lack of plans served as an invitation to propose more. he knows that look. “you’re quite a secretive man, simon,” you teasingly narrow your eyes, “has anyone ever told you that?” your fingertips trace the swirls of ink on his arm and he desperately tries to fight against the way his eyes drop into a half-lidded stare. your touch always reduces him to a puddle of adoration. “no,” he breathes out and hopes to convey his ardor in irony, “never.” knows you’re grinning at his automatic responses and heat bubbles within him. 

ghost who allows your caress to dip down to his wrist which, conveniently, was the hand that held onto his motorcycle helmet. watches as you draw delicate patterns on the helmet’s shell. recognizes that you’re working up courage. for what, he's not sure. maybe you’ll ask him how long he’s been a motorcyclist. that’s typically the first question that’s settled. but nothing could prepare him for your honeyed voice that asks, “can I ride?” and how you use him as leverage to push up on your tiptoes and pleadingly whisper, “please?” he's pretty certain that you mean getting a ride on his motorcycle. yet, with the way your lips are practically pressing against his neck and how the heat of your breath forces him to stifle a groan of satisfaction, all logic flies out the window. pure, unadulterated hunger for you seizes ghost in an unexplainable grasp. he needs you. wishes he could whisk you away to someplace else. perhaps to his place. gosh, he appreciated the downtime after a mission. “bloody vixen,” he murmurs lowly while slipping the helmet into your hands, “it’s all yours, sweetheart.” on his motorcycle it typically takes 10 minutes flat to get to his place or 7 minutes if he turns a blind eye to the speed limit– which is an act he’s willingly committed before. 

[maggyme13]

♡♡♡

simon’s work wife

one — two — three — four

people start calling u simon’s work wife and he takes it literally. starts referring to you as the ‘missus’, your cheeks warming as his heavy hand rest on your hips to pull you into him.

he’s snarling at one of the recruits that stared at you a little too long for his liking, caging you in against his big ass frame. that same recruit later coming to you a stuttering mess, apologizing because he didn’t know you were married.

you aren’t, but you’re too shocked to comment on it.

and when you confront simon he just shrugs his shoulders lazily, staring at you with darkened eyes as he mumbles, “ya’ didn’t deny it.”

it ends with you moving in, you aren’t sure how it started—or if you were even in an actual relationship but everywhere and anywhere you go he’s calling you his wife.