#Surgeon Simon Riley

[elysianightsss]

ANAESTHESIA | PART ONE

Success comes with a lot of perks. The way people view you changes. I only found out after I succeeded that success is meaningless when you have no one to share it with.

I lost the only family I had. I lost the desire to make a family too. So, I traded a family home for a nice car. You smiled as you open the door to your black Volvo S90. The car smelled of cinnamon and pumpkin spice thanks to the new air freshener you had bought yesterday.

The light brow leather seats were what initially caught your eye when you bought this car. But then again with the money you had been offered in your hospital transfer, it didn’t matter what the colour of the seats were.

Placing your shopping bags on the seat behind you, you began to drive home. Home was an apartment above the restaurant Farah had bought. Your best friend had moved to the city with you to start her dream of opening the best restaurant slash bar slash karaoke joint in the city.

You were so happy when she told you, so happy that you weren’t going to lose her too. Still there are things you lose that you never forget. Simon comes to mind whenever you think about that. Your parents were both dead, that’s something you couldn’t have prevented, but loosing Simon. You could’ve stopped that.

You remember the first day you met him like it was yesterday; Both troubled. He owned a motorcycle and you wore short leather skirts. He’d punch guys for looking you up and down but never discouraged you wearing those outfits, it was almost like he was glad to have a reason to inflict pain. He was rough and immature. But you were so young back then, it almost seemed normal.

You know better now.

You parked and made your way up the back steps to your front door, “I’m home!” You had barely taken your shoes off and slipped into your fluffy slippers when Farah came rushing out with a ladle in her hand.

“Here! Here! Taste this!” She pushed it against your lips and watched eagerly as you slurped down the rich tomato sauce. “Good?” She waited with raised eyebrows, only seeming to relax a little with my nod. “Ah I knew it was good! The new sauce for our pasta, I’ll have Frank make a bigger batch tomorrow.” She squealed and basically skipped back to the kitchen.

You laughed at her, such a cutie. Dropping your shopping bags by the door, you shrugged off your coat and followed her to the kitchen. Looking around to find saucepans and jars upon jars of red tomato sauce.

“Um Farah? Honey? I don’t think Frank will need to make anything with the amount you’ve already made.” You looked at her like she was a little crazy and maybe she was with the way she whipped her head around to look at you, left eye twitching slightly.

“But it needs to be fresh for the customers.” She almost pouted, you felt bad. Or you would have done if she didn’t look like she wanted to become an axe murderer just to hunt you down.

“Of course.” You backed out of the kitchen, slowly. “I’m gonna take a shower.” You whispered then darted out the room, making a run for the bathroom.

A long hot shower to wash away your day was exactly what you needed. You hadn’t even started yet officially, but you wanted to get a feel for the place. The massive place. It was three times as large as the last hospital you worked at, it had north, south, east and west wings and fourteen floors.

Infinity hospital was one out of four overpriced hospitals created by the Queen long before she passed. They were the top four hospitals in the country and you’d been asked to join the biggest and best one.

It had four huge cafeterias, one in each corner, and even sleep rooms for the doctors and nurses on call. Rooms with three bunk beds in each, scattered around the hospital for doctors on extra long shifts to rest. Common areas for studying and even a library there.

It was amazing when you’d gone in to see the place. You’d wanted to look around at your own pace and see exactly what you wanted to see not what the tour guide wanted when she rushed you around a week ago.

Then after hearing the commotion that a mob boss had a head injury and his gang was making a fuss about the doctor on call not being there. You pulled on your white lab coat and made your way to the emergency area, but they were already pushing you out the way for not being a male doctor. To say you had to fight some of the gang members was an understatement.

Your years of women’s self defence classes and jujitsu classes paid off as you kicked the gang out just as the boss had a hemorrhagic stroke. You rushed him to an emergency MRI to see he had bleeding on the brain.

A nurse you couldn’t remember the name of now, had told you how you couldn’t do the surgery as the on call doctor was in charge of all surgeries today. To then find out he’d left the building you’d scoffed and rolled your eyes moving swiftly to change into scrubs and perform surgery on the mob boss.

After the successful procedure, you passed the man over to the nurses to keep on top of his health until your rounds tomorrow. You even got a Thankyou from him when he woke up. Who knew your first day at your new job would be so eventful….and stressful.

Shopping was always therapeutic for you, so filling those bags that still sat by the front door was your way of blowing off steam after a hard surgery and a team of staff that were loyal to a surgeon who hadn’t even stayed at the hospital for any emergencies that could have happened.

You dried your hair, and got into bed ready to snuggle down after a long day when your phone dinged.

Come to level 8. East wing to discuss your actions today.

- DR. Riley

No.

You replied straight away and without hesitation. This doctor Riley could wait until tomorrow. It was midnight and you had an early and very long shift tomorrow. There was no way you were going back to the hospital now. Especially not to ‘discuss your actions’.

Must be the doctor in charge of the surgeries yesterday, you thought as you slowly drifted to sleep.

“Farah! I don’t tell you how to do your job, you don’t tell me how to do mine!” Frank huffed, looking down at the annoyed woman in front of him. Frank woods, a true gem that Farah had met during a culinary class. He had just quit his last job when Farah had contacted him about becoming the chef for The 141 restaurant. He snapped the job up quick.

“My job is to tell you how to do your job!” Farah scoffed, and the bickering continued.

“Why didn’t you tell me it started already?” Joseph Allen, courier by day, bartender by night came into the kitchen eyes on the pair fighting.

“They started early.” You answered, handing him a cup of coffee.

“How long they been at it?” He pulled up a stool next to yours and sat down.

“Ten minutes already.” You sipping your own coffee as you watched the entertainment in the form of Frank and Farah arguing about how the onions are supposed to be sauté.

“Okay I gotta get to work, fill me in later please. I wanna know who wins this time.” You giggle at Joseph who shakes his head with a laugh of his own but ultimately agrees to your terms.

You leave with a bye to the kitchen staff and head on over to the hospital. It was like fate when Farah managed to buy the building practically next to the hospital you had just been moved to. You took one last glance as the lit up 141 sign above the doors before heading over to start your shift.

Simon’s head was about to explode if he had to hear how great this new fellow was one more time. It was only breakfast and the cafeteria was full of people who were talking about how amazing she was.

So amazing she couldn’t even meet him to discuss her performing surgery on a patient without his consent. “Well don’t you look happy this morning. Someone spit in your coffee?”

“Piss off John.” He cursed the man who had placed his food tray on the table and sat down in the chair opposite him. Kyle sitting down next to John with a fat grin plastered to his face.

“Seen Johnny this morning? Need to go over some things for surgeries today.” John had asked Simon who seemed to be in a particularly bad mood this morning. But if the news spreading around the hospital was anything to go by, he could guess why.

“No. Why don’t you use this miraculous thing invented. It’s called a phone.” Simon gave him a fake smile before a real smirk began. “Though since they were invent before you were even born I suppose I can let it slide you not knowing and all.”

“Oh shut up.” John barked but laughed non the less. He was a good sport like that, he wasn’t even that old but his friends just loved to poke fun, even with the small age gap between him and Simon.

Pulling out his phone and hitting the contact named ‘Scotland Yard’ he put the device to his ear. A few rings and Johnny answered, the two discussed matters of the day while Kyle continued to tease a very grumpy Simon.

“I know there’s a new fellow but we don’t know if she’s even fully trained yet——yes I did hear about yesterday but-“ Johnny continued to argue with John about his beauty sleep being majorly important. He’d been assisting with all of John and Simon’s surgeries while the hospital looked for a new fellow after the last one left. Now that she was here he could finally get some rest.

The murmuring that was already loud in the north cafeteria began to get even louder. It had all three men looking around confused to see where the outburst had come from. A huge crowd of people drew them in, all of their eyes landing on the one thing they never expected to see again, you.

“John? John!” Johnny’s voice came through the phone but John couldn’t look away from you, couldn’t even form a single thought. “Ah fuck this. I’m coming down there.” The beep beep beep from the call ending was ignored just as much as Johnny had been. John was star struck looking at you how gorgeous you were. You didn’t look that different from that night, so beautiful under him and so willing. The picture forever burned into his memory, but he never thought he’d see you again.

Kyle’s eyes were wide as he watched you smile and shake hands of the staff that were gushing over you and your actions yesterday. After your break up he did so much to try and get over you, some things he’s not so proud of. Going to medical school because of your determination to be a doctor was something he was very much proud of. He thought of your patience every time he dealt with a difficult patient, he thought of you. But he never thought he’d see you again.

Johnny arrived from one of the sleep rooms where he’d been napping to see a crowd of people, unusual for Infinity. His breath caught in his throat when one of the members of staff moved to the right a little to reveal you.

You, his friends with benefits buddy that had eventually had him wanting more. Had him wanting dinner and a movie. Had him asking you to come with him to Scotland so he could introduce you to his parents at Christmas. Then things had turned sour, you had never wanted any of that. You made that clear and so had he. Getting attached wasn’t supposed to happen and finding your things packed up and gone when he was went to apologise the next day after your fight was like a wound on his heart that still throbs every time it rains. It was throbbing now, he never thought he’d see you again.

Simon had short circuited. He was sure someone would need to rewire him to work again. He was frozen. You, his Bonnie. The Bonnie to his Clyde, stood there all made up like you had been born with a silver spoon in your mouth. You hadn’t. Was your hair always that colour? He’d pushed you so far into the back of his head to forget his precious Bonnie that he couldn’t remember. Fuck, how could he not remember? But then again, he didn’t think he needed to remember. He never thought he’d see you again.

Yet here you were.

To be continued…

[callofdudes]

Best thought bonked me on the head.

Veteran surgeon Simon Riley and Medical Student y/n who was assigned under him to learn the ropes of the medical field and the technicalities of surgeries.

Simon is a bit of a rough edge, a rightfully harsh teacher who corrects you. (Think doctor stranger, petter parker vibes). But Simon is also very passionate about his job even if he's very monotone about it.

Like, "My medical student, not yours, back off 😤😤." And I mostly just want to see Simon in the surgeon get-up because yes.

Ok bye 👋🏻

[gomzdrawfr]

toy

ps: sniper was traced

disclaimer: do NOT buy a weapon for your pets to play with

[farahfriday]

In this house ghost is a balding middle aged man with a bad back and a big nose and thin lips if u can’t handle a No GMO No Yassification Organic Free Range simon riley get out!

[brokenpieces-72]

The 627th MASH Unit

Okay so this came to me yesterday and just kept going. Thought I would post it. For people who sonnt know MASH is an old series about the war in Korea, focusing on the MASH unit. I altered a few of the names and couple of other details to make it fit. Hope you enjoy.

“Fuck the paperwork it will be filled out later, this woman needs medical attention now!” Price barked.

“Paperwork first, I can’t do anything about it!” The Major said, daring to stand up to a very pissed Captain Price. Apparently because Farah wasn’t an American Soldier and was associated with Alex, a defected soldier there needed to be paperwork for her to be operated on.

“Major-“ a soldier came up next to Price.

“Captain, stay out of this!” The Major barked at her. Price looked at the smaller female captain who simply responded to her superior with a smile.

“Is that an order sir?” She asked, giving a big mischievous grin.

“That’s an order! Stay out of this and get to work.” He ordered. The captain smiled, straightened and turned to Price.

“The hand of Union Jacks with you?” She asked him. Price nodded. “Are you about to hand me paperwork?”

“I’ve been ordered to stay out of this. Sorry sir.” She said. Then she gave him a wink and a salute before leaving the conversation as quickly as she came in.

………

“Bring her this way.” The young captain told Gaz, Soap, Alex and Ghost. They brought Farah in on a gurney before helping her on to an operating table. The captain fled the room, ushering the rest of the men out, as if they were mice.

“Shoo shoo, no contamination!” She said, before getting another doctor to help her wash and clean up. The surgery would take some time, but for now it was best to focus on getting the shrapnel out.

“Do you need anything else from us?” Kyle asked her once they were outside.

“Not at the moment but if you pop over to the mess tent there’s a two for one pint of blood special on juice boxes and cookies.”

The two men exchanged a look once she disappeared back into the operating room. Now all they could do was pray. Alex was pacing already, worried about his friend. Soap and Gaz convinced him to pull back from the operating room, knowing his mind needed to be cleared. The best thing they could do now was take up the offer at the mess tent. Ghost decided to stay behind, able to still hear Price and Major of the MASH unit discussing the paperwork issue.

The captain got to work immediately, getting Farah under anesthesia. She worked carefully and quickly. The doctor wasn’t about to let something as ridiculous as paperwork get in the way of helping someone. She’d heard about Farah Karim’s exploits. Violent and bold they were, but respectable all the same. The Major was an idiotic teachers pet.

………

Gaz, Soap and Alex stepped in and greeted the chaplain who welcomed them with surprising warmth.

“Take a seat gentleman. We’ll be right with you.” They take seats at the benches. Alex’s leg kept bouncing nervously.

“Are you alright my son?” The father asked him.

“My friend is in the or. Worried about her.” Alex said.

“May I ask, who is your friend?” The father asked.

“Can’t really say father. But she means a lot to me and to a lot of other people.” Alex explained. Not all of his fellow soldiers in the MASH unit would be very pleased to know they had Farah Karim in their camp. The Major made that very clear.

“Saved our lives today.” Kyle added.

“Almost wouldn’t take her.” Soap mentioned.

“Oh I see. Is that what the commotion was with Major Borne?” The father asked innocently. They all nodded. “I see. Well the best I can do is pray for her, and hopefully get this blood to her to help.”

With that, they all willingly rolled up their sleeves.

………

Price had nearly lost his voice trying to get something done about Farah when he realized his men were missing. Giving up on trying to go through the Major, he decided to either find a doctor willing to go around him, or someone higher up.

He spotted the looming presence of his lieutenant outside the OR. Price made his way over to him.

“Captain.” Ghost said, addressing his captain.

“Lieutenant. We need to find some-“

“Farah’s in the OR sir.” Ghost said quietly. Price’s thoughts halted in their tracks. Did he hear that right?

“…how is she?”

“Unknown sir. But she’s being taken care of. The rest of the men are at the mess tent, donating blood. Figured the Major would try to stop the operation, so I’m keep watching unless you need me.”

Price nodded absently. They were doing it without paperwork. He needed to fill it out otherwise he would have that irritating rank pulling asswipe on his neck.

“Mess tent?” He asked. Ghost nodded. Price headed off but not before calling back, “Don’t scare off the nice nurses.”

………

The captain finished up, closing up her patient. The Major would come in at anytime and give the poor woman hell but it didn’t matter to her. Taking a few deep breaths under her mask she ordered the nurses to get her to post-op, giving them a routine to follow. At the moment she was too low on blood, and there were still a few more things needed to be done. Her pulse was poor, and any more operating might put her at higher risk.

The doctor took the time, to slowly remove her gloves and gown, tossing them in a hamper. Her bunkmate, came to see her.

“How is she?” Captain Tracker asked while Captain Bird-eye sat down on a bench, leaning against the wall.

“She’s in post-op, and needs to rest. Got her a pint of blood and to check up every half hour or so.” She said, arching her back to get some cracks out.

“Want to tell me we got some guy who doesn’t know when Halloween is over posted up at post-op?” He asked.

“Came with the Urzikstan conflict.” Bird-eye said with a tired smile. “How’s the vampire convention at the mess tent?”

“The three cosplaying soldiers are willing to get sucked dry for that woman.” Tracker replied.

“Well let’s go join them.” Bird said, standing up and shoving her hands in her pockets.

The two captain’s made their way to the mess tent, and once inside, they were greeted by Price, and the rest of his men.

“How is she?” Alex asked.

“She’s in post-op, and is slowly getting blood. I can continue operating once her pulse is normal and blood levels are higher. I have a nurse reporting to me every half hour. She’ll make it.” Bird explained.

Alex relaxes a little, while he is handed some food to keep from passing out, as are the rest of the 141 in the tent.

“Your major is a pain in the arse.” Price commented as Bird sat down next to him.

“The only major he isn’t is reasonable.” Bird replied in agreement. “Captain Birdeye at your service captain. Just call me bird.”

“Captain Price.” Price said, offering a hand. Bird shook it, while Price introduced the rest of his team. “My sergeants, Kyle Gaz Garrick and John Soap MacTavish. Alex Keller.”

“What about the Halloween prankster?” Tracker asked from his seat with Soap and Gaz.

“My fellow captain and partner in crime, Captain Tracker.” Bird said.

“That’s my Lieutenant, Simon Ghost Riley.” Price explained to them.

“The guy could scare away shadows.” Bird commented.

“Have him haunt the Major, convince him to believe in Christmas again.” Tracker added on.

“When will you be finished operating on her?” Price asked, breaking up their banter. Bird checked her wrist for the time, thoroughly.

“Would say quarter to freckle.” She responded sarcastically, before Price offered his own watch. “Ah much more accurate. Right now we need to wait until her vitals are a little more stable. If I go in now, then I’ll be operating quick and sloppy. It will be a few hours, so probably 0300. If there’s no positive change in her vitals, I’ll have to start sooner.”

“Seven hours…” Price sighed, taking a bite of the food to keep his blood sugar up.

“We have to wait for seven fucking hours?” Soap griped from the other table. The chaplain, straightened and cleared his throat. Soap raised a hand and politely apologized.

“Yeah, welcome to the health care system.” Tracker said to him, doing a quick check of Soap’s pulse.

“Welcome to the MASH unit, the drive thru for shrapnel, plasma and blood.” Bird added.

“What about the Major?” Kyle asked, thanking a nurse for another glass of juice. She gave him a sweet smile before going off to help the other donars.

“I think he’s just as scared of Skeletor as everyone else.” Bird said. “Not like he’d do anything, probably thinks the same way he thinks of everyone else from Urzikstan that ends up in post-op.”

“I don’t think I want to know what that is.” Alex said.

“No one in their right mind thinks like Borne, hell anyone who does is in a mental institution.” Bird commented, already noticing the major coming over. “Honestly how he’s escaped discharge is beyond me.”

The Major stormed into the mess tent. Price was about to stand to address him, but Bird kept an arm on his shoulder. Last thing she wanted was boiling blood. Tracker had to keep Alex from standing as well, reminding him to keep drinking.

“Captain, would you care to explain to me why there’s a high ranking Urzikstan officer taking up one our beds?” The Major asked. Bird blinked and let his statement register with everyone in the tent.

“You’re better off speaking to me, the other captain is a little busy.” Bird said jerking her head to Price and taking another glass of juice.

“I am talking to you.” Borne snapped at her.

“I’m sorry but the doctor can’t see you right now, any inquiries about patients can be directed to the pentagon. Please leave a message after the conflict.” Bird said. Soap and Gaz sat there stunned to see a Captain mocking their superior. Gaz had seen Price threaten one, sure but he had the skills to make good on that threat.

“Cut that out Bailey. I ought to report you for this misconduct.”

“What fucking misconduct?” Bird questioned, her face changing smug to irritated. She softened for a moment to address the chaplain. “Sorry father.”

“Going over my head for one, neglecting proper procedure and protocol, and aiding the enemy.”

“What enemy? The woman in there is with the Brits you see in this tent. What’s the problem, she ain’t decorated like a Christmas tree?”

“She’s a terrorist-“ before the last word could finish out of the major’s mouth, there was a loud slap. The Major nearly fell to the ground from the impact. The whole tent went silent, turning their attention to the scene. Even Price went quiet seeing the younger captain stand and glaring daggers into her commanding officer.

“If she was a terrorist, then why would these men care so much about her?! Try racking your head around that, the common human decency of giving a damn. All that woman has ever done is defend herself and her people, and never asked for anything else except a bit of help! All she wants is her home and everyone else is trying to evict her out of her own country! Now either get the paperwork for Captain Price, roll up your sleeve, or go cry to the general who’s got the hots for your favourite head nurse!” She yelled at him. The Major looked around for anyone to side with him. He ended up turning and leaving and honestly Bird didn’t care where he went. A patient is still a patient. Don’t matter who it is, she would operate on a bomber.

Once the Major left, she glanced around the room sighing. “As you were.”

She sat down getting a few last moments of people’s reactions. The sergeants were wide eyed and avoiding eye contact. Alex just looked incredulous, not hearing many outside of Farah’s own forces stand up for her. The captain simply shifted over letting her return to her seat. Bird straightened in the seat, clearing her throat.

“And that was her being nice.” Tracker mentioned to Gaz and Soap. Soap couldn’t help but laugh, maybe it was partially the blood loss but he had to admit that was bloody brilliant.

“Sincerest apologies captain.” Bird said.

“I appreciate you taking over for me, while I was occupied.” He said, still reeling from seeing someone so short, and lower rank give their major an earful.

“I’ll drink to that.” She said holding her glass of juice. Price obliged her with his own, and they toasted.

“You have anywhere to be for the next seven hours?” She asked.

“Nope.” Soap answered for the captain.

“Care for some poker or uno at our tent? Nurse knows to find me there later, you can get updates in real time.” Bird offered.

“You smoke?” Price asked.

“On occasion.” Bird replied.

I may continue but I would love to have some suggestions for what happens next.

@yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @H0n3y_L3m0n @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129

[moondirti]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

[oceantornadoo]

Hiii can I request one of the boys (or all) comforting medic/surgeon reader, who’s in their unit, for not being able to save someone and reader goes into a depressive episode because reader has known them since they got recruited. They’re doing their best to cheer reader up, but it’s hard to budge through the stress of not being able to save a life. Thank you 🥹

this is not poly!141 so each blurb is that character x f!reader. some are established relationship, some are just unlabeled.

ao3 link

simon:

simon riley was a quiet man. that's why he liked you, always talking just because you were eager to share, never expecting him to reciprocate. he knew he was blunt, gruff, and (a bit) unlikeable, so it always seemed safer to respond in as little words as possible. on days like today though, he just had to say something. you hadn't said a word to anyone in a week (he checked) and stopped coming to every "optional" friendly hangout after a rough mission. you were holed up in your room ever since your patient had died, and he meant to do something about it.

"what." you said gruffly to the person knocking at the door. "'s me, dove." simon. "go away." instead of listening, you heard the door open. you turned around in your bed to face the wall, avoiding eye contact at all costs. "i'm not good company right now, si." you could practically hear him shrug. he closed the door with a sigh, the silence between you two enveloping the room in a cocoon. instead of hearing your desk chair sqeak, you heard a rustle of clothing, tac gear dropping to the floor. almost as if he was taking off his clothes? but there was no way, this was ghost, who wore a stupid mask and stupid gloves that always made you wonder about the veins underneath and-

and suddenly simon riley was climbing under the covers with you, clothed in only his boxers. you knew because he was everywhere, skin on skin, wedging one large, scarred thigh between yours. his left hand under your pillow, right hand sneaking its way to your waist. he drew shapes on your skin with his calloused hands, the only sound in the room the scrape of his skin on yours. "we'll get through this, yeah?" you nodded against him, not trusting yourself to speak, tears caught in your throat. simon nuzzled himself into your neck, and for the first time that week, you slept through the night.

johnny:

usually, you loved the sound of johnny's laughs, boisterous and fun, bringing energy into every conversation. this week, though, you couldn't stomach it. you stopped laughing at his jokes, stopped shoving him when he tried to put his arm around you, stopped engaging in his talk on comms when you had the mantle of field medic. you cringed when you saw the spark in his eyes dampen, but you couldn't seem to care when a similar image of your comrade dying on the field took a starring role in your nightmares.

this was your second nightmare tonight, the image of your comrade's bloody body, sinking into an open grave. you could almost feel the packed dirt in your throat, succumbing to the grave you put her in. and suddenly you were awake, blinking at the darkness of the room. you were so tired, emotionally drained, you didn't even think about where you were walking, just knew you were leaving your room. and suddenly, you were knocking on johnny's door, knowing he'd be up at this time. he swung open the door, misinterpreting what you were after. "bonnie. knew ye'd give me a late night call soon." you rolled your eyes at his joke, feeling an unwilling smile creep onto your face.

"not that kind of night, johnny." he winked anyways, ushering you into his room. "glad ta see you smile, lass." that dimmed your mood. you suddenly scrambling changing your mind. "well i just wanted to say hi but you're busy so i'll leave you to it-" johnny covered your mouth with his hand, effectively cutting off your thoughts. "up ye go." you squealed as he picked you up, depositing you onto his bed. he locked the door and turned off the light, keeping a nightlight on just for you. "yer gonna tell me about all those thoughts in that pretty head of yours, hm?" you nodded, and felt the weight lighten off your chest for the first time in weeks.

john:

john was your rock. a fellow higher-up, hardened by war and bittered by reality, wrapped up in a fatherly manner. he was all knowledge and hard truths with his men, but with you? on a day like today? after standing in blood for three hours, using half of the base hospital's resources to try to stop what should have been a typical infection that was actually poison? that fatherly attitude could shove it.

"need to search your office for poison, doctor." john was a shadow at your office door. "yeah, sure, whatever." you needed to put in requests for all the supplies used, finalize the death certificate, launch the investigation. the last thing you cared about was john following protocol. you didn't register the captain's movements until he was behind your chair, leaning down in your ear. "come on." he took your hand's off your laptop's keys, placing them in your lap. "the boys will be here any minute, love. come on." you let him guide you, going numb at the feeling. the reality that your patient had been poisoned, targeted, and you couldn't do anything about it was suddenly hitting you. john was making you stand up, but you were in a trance, just a body he could move however he wanted.

you blinked and you were standing in his office, looking at his chair. "go on. i'll make an exception just for you." you shook your head, unable to explain why not. "you need to sit, love." you shook your head again. the medical part of your brain told you the shock was hitting. john sat in his chair instead, guiding you between his legs. you looked down at him, at his hands on your waist. making a split second decision, you ungracefully collapsed sideways into his lap. john grunted but said nothing, adjusting your feet to hang off the chair. your arms circled his thick neck, hands rubbing at his beard. he took off his hat, laying it on the table, then kissed your forehead. you tucked your head into his neck, and finally, finally, let yourself cry.

kyle:

gaz was loveable and cocky, which you were okay with. you called him kyle to humble him, a playful nudge. he called you sweetheart right back, that accent of his playing with all the right vowels just to rile you up. but today, two days after the death of your comrade that you should have saved, you didn't feel sweet at all. not one bit.

"its after 11. should be in bed by now." he was at the door of your office, taking in the heaping piles of medical reports on your desk.

"kyle, im busy." you huffed, not bothering to look up. your comrade's autopsy report was staring right back at you, clinical notes on how she could have been saved if you had just had the supplies.

"sweetheart-" you almost slammed your pen on your desk. "don't call me that, kyle. i'm not in the mood." he wasn't deterred, warm eyes swimming with understanding. "this about what happened?" he mumured in a soft voice, like he was comforting a kitten instead of you, a dark hole of guilt. "i just-" you made the mistake of making eye contact, of seeing how kind he looked. the tears started rushing out and you couldn't stop them. you hadn't cried when she died, so maybe it was finally time. "i just keep looking at these notes about what i could have done, if things were different and gaz, idontknowwhattodo..."

you trailed off, embarrassed. calling him gaz was a sign of weakness, of this whole facade crumbling down. "come 'ere.” you stood up and walked between his open arms, a small laugh erupting as he overexaggerated how heavy you were. "you did more than anyone on that field could have done. and you're still sweet to me. even when you're a bit of a snotty mess." he kissed your forehead then, and you weren't even going to touch what that meant. all that mattered were gaz's strong arms, holding your waist and rubbing small circles as you put all your physical and emotional baggage on him. and for now, being held was all you needed.

--

had to let this one simmer for a bit. thanks anon <3

[mindisrotting]

𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐈 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎 | simon "ghost" riley

tags | wife!reader, parenthood, a little angst, fluff, mentions of murder, not proofread (sorry for any mistakes)

special thanks to @athanasialove for inspiring this little fic <3

Imagine Simon Riley, who sometimes before going to bed thinks about the things he went through. He found friends, and he found love, unconditional love, but he will never forget what Roba put him through, all that torture and grief of having to see his lifeless family on the floor of his home.

He's become a tough guy, a ghost, but he still has feelings and emotions. Sometimes he feels paranoid, the thought that in some corner of this cruel world there's someone who wants to cause him pain by hurting those he loved, his wife and precious kids, won't leave his mind. They're his reason to live, to survive, to give the best of himself. His little family will always be the light at the end of this dark tunnel. So no matter how much he wants to brag about them—to tell his squad about the perfect goal his son scored on his last football match or how his daughter recently learned how to read, and now she will read every word she sees aloud—he's terrified. Until Task Force 141 is coming back from a mission that ended with him getting shot twice. The surgeon had told him that he got lucky, if the second bullet had perforated a few centimeters more up, he would be in a body bag instead of laying on a hospital bed.

When you picked up a phone call from an unknown number, the last thing you expected to hear was your husband shaky’s voice. With tears in your eyes, you listened as he told you everything. Even though that wasn't the first time he's got hurt on the job, it was the first time he did since growing his own family, and it unlocked a new fear he never experienced before. He never wanted to leave you, not like this. When he asked you to do something, he wasn't thinking about the enemies he's made in all his years of service, he wasn't thinking about everyone seeing them in broad daylight.

When the military plane landed, and everyone got out to reunite with whoever was waiting for them to come home, everyone assumed Ghost would just say goodbye to Johnny and be on his way alone. But he went down the aircraft steps rapidly, because in the distance, he saw two little people running towards him with an older person walking behind them. He got down in one knee and opened his arms, waiting to feel the impact. When it did, he cried—the last time he shed any tears was when his daughter was born at only 28 weeks, she was so fragile and small, but she was a survivor—feeling the warm hug of his seven and four-year-old, it was the best feeling in the universe having two tiny humans yell “Daddy!” at the tops of their lungs and saying how much they missed him. Johnny was bewildered, because he never knew those people existed. He looked at Price but he was just as shocked, he looked away knowing it wasn't his business. Then came you, his beautiful wife of nine years, the mother of his children, his bridge, his strength, his everything. You, too, cried as you hugged him, knowing that he’s home safe and well. You stayed like that for longer than normal because Simon refused to let go of you.

When he was laying in the bed of his cold hospital room, he knew he needed to see you as soon as possible. He couldn't wait for the aircraft to land at base and then take another flight and drive an hour to his home in the countryside of England. He begged you to go with the kids to the base, and without hesitation you agreed, knowing this is what he needed.

He unwrapped his arms from you and took your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs while his kids stood patiently. Then, your gaze directed from his brown eyes to the man standing looking at the scene, you motioned to Simon to turn around. He told you who the man was and crouched down to meet his kids’ eyes.

“wanna meet uncle Johnny?”

[l4zyb0n35]

I’M OKAY

PAIRING: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!Reader

SUMMARY: Ghost has came back from a harsh mission, most likely beaten to the core, and his S/o arrives worried sick. But, Simon can reassure her that everything will be alright.

WARNINGS: Implied Relationship between Simon and Reader, Reader’s gender is female, Injury and Medical Descriptions, Hospital Setting, Emotional Distress, War/Military Themes, Angst (comfort at the end).

NOTICE: please don't copy or steal or translate any of my work or you will be haunted in your dreams and i will spawn something unpleasant at your porch the next day. But...thanks for liking my work !! >.< Property of @l4zyb0n35 and @genderlessdude92

Requests are open, support is highly appreciated!

〰ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ..。.:*･ﾟ♫₊ ♪ *♬‧₊enjoy!~

Nor Simon Riley or Ghost were a man of feelings. She was never a man of reassurance and all the ‘little things’ like that.

That is, until he met Y/n.

Y/n, who introduced him to feelings, who introduced him to reassurance.

And today was a day for both of those things.

Simon was laying in a janky hospital bed, drenching in what he learned to be called, ‘guilt’, after he received a call from his s/o, panicking over the phone on how he didn’t call her sooner.

He knew she would be worried sick, furthermore mad. And truthfully, so was he- well, not mad. Just worried sick, terrified even.

The mission was going somewhat smooth at first, just to catch some intel from a base in the coast of Mexíco. But, with that being said, he hadn’t expected to fall into an inferno along the way. After two days, he managed to dig himself out, covered in burns, most of which where on his body that wasn’t currently under direct sunlight. His bones ached, he head hurt, and even in the hands of the surgeons and doctors taking care of him post-mission, nothing is comparing to the guilt he has to this moment.

And then the door slammed open, emptying out a troubled Y/N and a slightly annoyed, slightly worried doctor following behind, trying to inform her of the injuries listed on his clipboard.

Simon noticed her presence as soon as they walked in, letting out a heavy sigh before the doctor started talking, the worry clearly written all over her face as she listened.

When the doctor left the two of you alone, finally, Y/n tugged a heavy sigh out her bones and turned to Simon.

“…It’s my job.” Simon said, already knowing what she’s going to say. He turned his head back to the wall in front of him he quite fondly stared at often.

“…I know, I just…” Y/n began, trailing off as she stood beside his bed anxiously. Her eyes fell to the clipboard she held in her hand, a small amount of reading material with his list of injuries still popping out to the couple in bold, almost mocking them.

“It won’t happen again.” Simon assured her, reaching out to gasp her hand in reassurance.

Y/n scoffed, putting the clipboard aside on the bedside table, “Si, we both know that…you’re gonna get hurt…on a lot of more missions…” Y/n said, trying get some eye contact with him as she turned his head towards hers softly. She looked sad, and he didn’t like that.

“…Well, then…” Simon began, rubbing her palm with his thumb, “…Think of it as…i won’t not call again. So you’ll know sooner, yeah?” He Explained. “Since we both know that there’s no getting out of…um…getting hurt.”

Y/n let out a tired chuckle, dragging a chair over to the side of the bed and sitting down, laying her head on the edge, just near his thigh.

“I’d like that.” She replied.

The silence fell between them as Simon began to rub her scalp through her hair, broken only by the soft, gentle beeping coming from the machine beside the bed. Y/n silently dozing off from all the stress, and Simon silently thanking the workers outside this room, roaming the hospital.

Those workers, somewhere in this god forsaken building, just doing their job, and Simon was alive because of it. And he thanked the heavens above for it.

As long as his dear S/o knew that everything would be okay.

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

END NOTES: This is really short and i don’t like things being short so…smut for part two i guess. But don’t get mad if i go on a 2 month hiatus again. 👅

-Lynn ¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩ Masterlist Link

[elysianightsss]

ANAESTHESIA | MASTERLIST

Pairings | Surgeon Simon Riley x Clinical Fellow Reader, Surgeon Price x Clinical Fellow Reader, Clinical Fellow Soap x Clinical Fellow Reader, Nurse Gaz x Clinical Fellow Reader, Doctor!141 x reader.

Summary | Simon was your high school sweetheart, Kyle was your rebound from Simon, Johnny was your friend with benefits for your first year at med school and John was the one night stand you couldn’t remember. Five years later they’re all working at the same hospital you’d just been transferred to.

Tags | Smut, Fluff, Angst, medical stuff I had to google to make sure it was accurate, awkwardness, mentions of blood, mentions of surgery and wounds, the hospital is massive, the guys pining for you while you try to ignore them, Simon being a dick, comedy gold, a written soap opera if there ever was one.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Fin

Divider credit | @cafekitsune

[peachesofteal]

Courthouse

Part seven of the Sassy series

Simon Riley/female reader 2.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI (no smut) mentions of blood, brief mention of sex, little bit of angst, fluff, romance. Uncle Johnny, Soft Simon Riley. Note: I wrote this with Haley Reinhart’s version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” in mind. You're the sun.

Wise men say Only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you

Theo thrashes in Johnny’s arms, making irritated mouth sounds while squirming his body in a desperate effort to pry himself loose from his uncle’s grip. The man behind the desk gives the lad a kind smile, before turning his attention back to the paperwork fanned out before him, and Johnny huffs in exasperation, his forearms banded around the giant six-month-old who continues his attempts at crashing his head into his uncle’s chin.

“Bleedin’ christ Theo, be still.”

“He wants his mum.” Simon explains, reaching over to wipe some drool from Theo’s chin with his thumb. “She’ll be here in a minute.” He tries to reason, patting Theo’s back to get his attention. He can’t understand him, but you insist on speaking to Theo like he’s an adult, telling him everything and anything about what’s going on at any given moment, so Simon does the same. He trusts your instincts.

The sound of a handle clicking draws his attention and he turns to the two oak panels that slowly part to reveal where you stand on the other side, hands clasped in front of your waist, nervous smile on your face. You’ve left your hair down, a rarity now since Theo has taken to attempting to rip it from your scalp every chance he gets, and your eyes are a little red, like you’ve already been crying.

Your dress is white. A crisp, bright white that reflects the morning sun that streams in through the tall windows. It’s a far cry from your field uniform and tac vest, or the leggings sweatshirt combo that you’ve been sporting around the house. Not that he’s complaining, because he considers every day he gets with you a gift that he’s not sure he deserves, a gift he’s still terrified will slip through his fingers when he closes his eyes. But this, this day, this dress is different. This wedding dress, that hangs delicately at your knees and has intricate lace that flows over your shoulders, is a special, sacred thing that he is still having trouble believing is really happening.

You had been so nervous about it this morning, tutting at Theo while you strapped him into the car seat, anxious to avoid having it smudged or stained. Simon had watched you, indulgently, from behind, as you bent at the waist to give the baby a sloppy kiss, whispering about how much you loved him, how cute he was, how good and perfect he was being, and how he better not torture his Uncle Johnny. You had wrestled Theo into this little dress shirt-pant combo that kind of matched Simon’s, and he had promptly spit up on it during the drive over here, Johnny frantically trying to dab it clean from where he sat in the backseat without you noticing.

When he looks at you now, wearing this dress, he feels like he’s having a heart attack. He thinks he might be dying. Not dying, he tells himself, just getting married.  

Shall I stay? Would it be a sin If I can't help falling in love with you?

“You better get yer fuckin’ hands away unless you’re the one with MD in your title.” He snaps, long strides eating up the distance between him and med tent. The medic, a nervous looking young guy, tries to keep up next to him, hands fluttering uselessly over where you’re bleeding out of your abdomen. Johnny throws the medic an apologetic grimace as a woman, the trauma surgeon on base here, meets Simon just as he’s bursting through the door, two more assists behind her with a gurney. 

“This the gunshot wound?” The surgeon points to the metal transport bed, and he places you down as gently as possible, cradling the back of your head so it doesn’t thunk against the hard plastic. Your eyes flutter open, red stained hand reaching for something. 

“Ghost.” you slur, bloody fingers dragging across his vest. The gurney slides into place in a room, and your body jostles, a ragged moan slipping from your lips at the movement. He glares at the two medics on either side of you, and their faces go white. 

“I’ve got you.” He says, gripping your hand in his, eyes trained on yours. You blink, hazily, mouth moving but no words coming out. Fear, real, shockingly cold terror, snakes through his entire body, and he squeezes your hand so tight he thinks he might be hurting you. A minute, maybe less, passes like this, with him unwilling to tear himself away, until he feels a hand on his shoulder, Johnny’s voice right above his ear. 

“You gotta let them work, LT. They’ll take care of her.”

Like a river flows Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be

It’s not an aisle in a church. He’s not flanked by family or dozens of friends. Just Theo, a judge-type official, and Johnny bear witness. He thinks you’re supposed to have a bouquet, or someone walking you towards him, but you don’t have either of those, no one to hand you off, no one to tell you how much they love you before shaking his hand like they approve of this. He briefly thinks of Price, who’s known you longer than he has, who’s served as your captain on countless units, and feels a pang of regret. He wonders, if you thought about him being here with Johnny to witness, to celebrate.

It feels loud, for a moment. Like there’s too much going on, like Theo’s soft babbles are actually screams, like he’s not even really here. He fights the blank, white space that’s burning at the edge of his mind, fractured clips skipping through his skull, mixing with his memories until he’s not sure what’s truly going on.

He’s jolted back into his body when your hands take his.

“Hey.” you whisper with a squeeze of your fingers. “You okay?”

“Shoulda got you flowers.” He mumbles, disappointment tinging the words.

“Why?” You give Theo and Johnny an obvious look before swinging your gaze back to him. “Looks like I’ve got everything I need.”

Take my hand Take my whole life, too For I can't help falling in love with you

“What the FUCK is this?” you shake the stack of papers in your hand, and he sits rigidly in the chair where you’ve cornered him. He doesn’t look at you, focusing anywhere else but where you stand in the tent as your voice changes, the tone hitting high notes of disbelief and anger.

“Can’t have ya here Sass.” He trains his eyes on the wall to your left and resists the urge to bolt or worse, grab those damned papers and tear them to pieces. 

“So, you reported an intimate relationship to Price? Just to get rid of me?” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to explain it. Yes, no. No, yes. He needs you to leave, before it happens, before you’re lost forever. “Oh my fucking god, Simon.” Your laugh is bitter and it breaks him apart somewhere, somewhere deep and buried, somewhere you should have never touched in the first place. 

“Can’t have ya here.” He can’t do this. Can’t feel this, can’t go through with this, can’t get this over fast enough. His heart feels like it’s burning in his chest. The walls look like they’re going to cave in and crush him, kill him where he sits. 

He stands on auto-pilot, a burning panic searing under his skin. 

“Simon!” He hears you yell; he hears your scream but he’s already walking away as fast as he can, desperate to escape your pain, running like a bloody coward. “Fuck you, Simon Riley.” Your words die on the wind, but he hears them all the same.

Like a river flows Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be

“I, Simon Riley, take you-“ he stumbles over your name, voice dangerously close to cracking with emotion. “for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part…”

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life.” The official prompts, and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He can’t look away from you, can’t see anything else but you, the memories of your laughter, of your screams, of the way you sound when he’s inside you. Can’t think about anything except how terrifying it is, to have you, to feel the way he does, to know you in the way he does, to love you in a world like this. 

Johnny clears his throat.

He presses down on your hand that he’s holding, just a little harder, and moves his thumb to where your pulse beats. Strong and steady. He takes a deep breath.

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life.”

Take my hand Take my whole life, too

“You,” he hears you say, voice light and sweet, “are going to be so smart, and kind, and strong. You’re going to be able to be whoever you want to be, do anything your heart desires.” He holds his body incredibly still, standing around the corner just so he can see the sway of your hips moving side to side as you rock Theo. “except maybe, don’t go into the military. I don’t think me, or your dad want you to follow in our footsteps. You should do something cool instead. Build rockets or become an acrobat. Anything you want.” Theo babbles and you tap the baby on his nose, causing him to shriek with laughter, little baby giggles seeping into Simon’s bones and warming him from the inside out. 

It’s a sight he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. It’s the sight he knows he’ll see when he closes his eyes for the last time one day. He doesn’t deserve this, that he knows. He doesn’t deserve the happy ending, doesn’t deserve to be loved by you, or Theo, or anyone really. He’s caused too much pain, taken too much, hurt too many people, hurt you. 

The glaring reality is that if he was a better man, he’d give you up. He’d save you from himself. Not push you away because you terrify him, no. He’d let you go, let you be free to find someone else, to build your life away from him and the hell that is his existence. 

But he’s a selfish man, not a good one. You, and Theo, are the brightest point in his world. You’re everything. You’re the sun. 

He can’t live without you.

For I can't help falling in love with you

“You may kiss the bride.”

He cradles your face, thumb smearing a runaway tear across your cheek. You’re crying, but trying really hard not to, and you sniffle with a laugh before his lips find yours, the kiss so sweet, so overwhelming that he loses himself in it, sneaking his tongue between your teeth, sliding a palm down your hip to the curve of your ass-

Theo shrieks. He flails in Johnny’s arms, unreasonable and uncontained, so Simon pulls him into his own, cradling the boy against his chest while you try to hold them both.

“What do you say, want to help dad put this on?” You stroke some of Theo’s wispy curls while Johnny pulls something from his pocket, a gold ring, sized for Simon’s finger. He hands it to you, and you let Theo wrap a curious paw around it.

“I have a silicone one for you too.” You say quietly, lowering the band to his ring finger. “But I thought you might want this, for when you’re at home.” You push it halfway on before pulling it off, eyes widening for a moment. “I uh, forgot. It’s inscribed.” He plucks it from your fingertips to inspect it, and the tiny, engraved writing gleams in the light.

‘I got you. -S.R.’

“S.R?” His initials? 

“Sass. Riley.” There’s a timid smile on your face, and he’s lost his breath, again, for the hundredth time today as he stares down at you, unsure if he’s dreaming or not. You pull the ring from his grasp, slipping it onto his finger the whole way this time, stroking the pad of your thumb overtop the gold.

“Do you like it?” Theo babbles in his arms, swinging a small fist into his chest.

He nods and leans forward, ghosting his lips across yours, gentle and soft as he whispers, “I love it, Mrs. Riley.”

For I can't help falling in love with you.

[soggyriceee]

I Can't Hurt You ~ Ghost NSFW

[ mentions of gunshot wounds, anxiety, trauma and sex. plz like and lmk if there angsty type of stories interest anyone, have a good day <3 ]

It had been 6 weeks since you'd been shot. Once in the leg, once in the arm. For days you had thought you'd lose your arm and leg. All you could really remember was Simon yelling your name while blood covered his hands. Your blood. But, the base surgeons were some of the best and you were at home almost fully recovered. Your husband, Simon Riley, the man who unfortunately was leading that mission you'd suffered injury from, was always by your side. He was on e for giving you your space so having him everywhere you were at was new. But you loved it because the more you saw him and how caring he was towards literally only you, it made your heart flutter.

Ghost was a whole war criminal, why would he spend his time going to the store, getting flowers, cards, clothes gifts, all that stuff? Because he was so deeply in love with you, it was like his money and time quite literally belonged to you. He spent hours trying to learn to cook for you since you were glued to the bed.

" Tell me if it needs more salt." He demanded, towering over you as your sims started a house fire on your laptop screen. " Its good baby please stop bothering me now." You laughed, wiping some of the homemade pasta sauce from your lip. As much as he did annoy you, you couldn't ask him to really leave you alone.

He wasn't stupid, he knew that the whole happy persona you put on in front of him was fake. You were trying to act tough and brave for him. Independence was something you both had and in your eyes alone, it was embarrassing to be the first in the relationship to need help. Consistent help. Ghost was good at reassuring to you that he did not see you as weak, he actually saw you as brave, strong. " You survived two gun shot wounds at once lovie.. that makes you stronger than me." He whispered to her as you quietly sobbed in the hospital bed a few weeks back.

And this injury definitely caused some small bumps for you both. For example.. sex. It wasn't that it was different, it literally was not happening. Despite you being able to move almost all on your own, stairs were still a bit hard, he wouldn't touch you unless it was to help you. And as much as you loved how gentle and genuinely kind and caring he was for you, you needed a bit more. " Simon.." You'd whisper in his ear when it was close to your given bedtime. By Simon. "Yes my love? Do you need anything?" He asked, looking away from the news on your guys TV.

You moved to sit on his lap, struggling to raise your injured leg a bit. But you made it onto his lap successfully and with mi animal pain. But he sensed it immediately. " Lovie.." You shushed him and placed your arms around his neck. " I appreciate all the care you've been giving me.. but I need a bit more." You spoke softly, eyeing his lips. You began to move in but you could tell he began to panic, jolting his head back and hitting the bed frame. You looked up at him, your chest feeling like it just got shot this time. " I-i can't.. Im sorry." He had took you off his lap before standing and walking out the room and rubbing the back of his head.

It had been about a week since that encounter. It hurt you, and you definitely cried about it after. He ended up sleeping on the couch that night, but still coming every 30 to check on you, even when you were asleep. Neither of you really spoke about it. And you could assume thats what made the relationship more awkward now. While yes he did sleep in the bed again, and he was still taking care of you, the conversations were small and minimal. " He won't touch me Soap.. I don't know what to do. We used to have sex almost every day at least twice a day." You spoke into your phone as you looked up " How to Get My Husband To Have Sex With Me After Gunshot Wound". Almost no good articles came up. I mean, who really goes through this?

" Im sure he'll come around. I mean, he did see you literally almost die in his arms. You mean a lot to him and I think he's just terrified of hurting you more." He said through the speaker. He was on base, doing paperwork for the next mission. Another you and Ghost would be sitting out on. " Its been almost three months. Im practically healed... it just sucks because I feel like a..like a disease. He won't touch me in any way other than to help me. Even when I dont need it." You sighed.

Simon had gone to the store, grabbing you ice cream you had mentioned to yourself you wanted to get at some point and your positive other things to go along with it. Despite that awkward encounter he was still there to make you feel better. " He hasn't really said anything to me but you know how he is. Try talking to him again. I have to go, Price is calling." He said before hanging up abruptly. You sighed and looked around. You needed to get up and do.. something.

You moved your laptop to the side and began to stand. A minor pain stabbed your injured leg, causing a whimper of pain to leave your lips. As you opened the bedroom door, you heard Simon return into the house. " Lovie? Im home with that ice cream you wanted." He yelled from downstairs. You moved towards the stairs, gripping the handles and moving slowly. As your uninjured leg hit the bottom stair, your injured one again gave your a little trouble. "Shit" You squeaked, gripping the handle more. " Lovie?" He walked over swiftly to the stairs, dropping the ice cream and spoon that was in his hands. " What are you doing?! If you wanted to come down you should've waited for me to carry you down." He began to approach you but your hand hit his chest, stopping him. " I-i can do it mys-self." You grunted. Finally, your injured leg was on the same step as you. " You can't thats why your face is scrunched up in pain just let me help-" " GO AWAY! I dont need you here every two seconds simply just to help me. You won't do so much as cuddle with me let alone have sex with me. Im not made of glass im a human im your wife for crying out loud but you treat me l-like im not. leave me alone!" You screamed at him, tears welling in your eyes.

His face looked hurt, but also surprised. " L-lovie I just-" You cut him off by turning away, moving back up the stairs. He wanted to help you, but you had made it clear you wanted him to back off. You made it back up the one step and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door. You moved onto the bed, holding one out of the 10 stuffed animals Simon bought you and silently, again, cried into it. You felt bad, but at the same time you didn't. You were able to tell him finally how you felt. You heard his boots at the door, no matter how hard he tried to keep quiet. And he just stayed there. Listening to you cry but feeling too scared to say, or do anything.

The next morning you woke up and Simon wasn't there to wake you this time. You rubbed your eyes as the sun peaked into the room. " Simon..?" You asked, your voice a bit hoarse. You looked around and noticed a rectangular, long box at the end of the bed. You reached over and grabbed it.

Your right, ive been too overbearing. I'm sorry lovie..

You opened the box and inside was a cute lingerie set. It was with and pink, a little bow in the center of the bra. Your cheeks turned a bright red as you read the second note inside.

I hope you like it. I hope I see you in it soon <3

Just as you finished reading, Simon walked in the room. In his hands was a tray full of French toast, coffee and fruit. His eyes met yours, his big puppy eyes. " Oh I was.. expecting you to still be asleep." He chuckled softly, placing your breakfast on the night stand. " Im sorry for y-" For the first time in almost three months his lips touched yours. You gasped into the kiss, your heart going a 100 miles per hour. His hands snaked around your waist, pulling you up into him.

His lips yearned for yours. He slowly sat next to you, keeping your lips connected. You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him just as passionately back. He broke away, sighing. " Dont apologize. You were right. And plus.." He right hand snaked up to your cheek, cupping it. " I've missed touching you like this." He whispered. His lips landed on yours again, this time a bit more passionately. You moaned into the kiss, a signal to him that you felt good. His free hand moved up your body, slowly. You had nothing on but his hoodie and some underwear. His favorite outfit of yours.

" Is this okay?" He asked against your lips. You nodded, smiling softly. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt genuinely happy. He smiled and gently pushed you down on the bed, fixing you a bit so that your head was on the pillow. He hovered over you but you could tell he was still nervous as ever. " You can touch me anywhere.. Simon. Im not hurt anymore." You said softly, looking into his worried eyes. " I know but.. w-what if I get too aggressive-" You took his hand from beside your head and smiled. " How about this. If im hurting, ill call out.. "strawberries." Then you'll know to stop." You suggested, smiling up at him still. He pursed his lips but nodded.

He leaned down, attaching his lips to your again. This time, with lust and desperation. You could tell how much you both missed each others touch. Your hands slid under his black hoodie, tracing every ab until you got to the top. He hummed at your soft fingers against his skin, breaking away from the kiss. He moved down to your neck, gently sucking your skin. His right hand slowly, like criminally slow, slid up your thigh, gripping it every now and then.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your bottom lip trapped under your top teeth. Small, quiet whimpers left your lips every time he'd suck your neck. He left behind big and small marks, red and purple mix. He pushed himself off your body a bit, smiling at his work. " You look beautiful my love.." He whispered. You blushed and looked down. You saw the tent in his sweats, his Calvin Klein boxers peaking through at the top. His hand gripped your chin, gently moving your head to look up at him. " Don't be shy." He smirked. His hand that was still on your thigh was now at your wet core, It was throbbing for him at this point. Desperate.

" Awh.. your so wet.. show me how deprived you are from my touch baby.." He whispered, his thumb moving in small circles exactly at your swollen clit. Your body jerked up, a small moan leaving your lips. You watched his hands, only turning you on more. He watched you, his eyes not telling you what he was feeling. You felt embarrassed and began to slowly cover your face. He growled and grabbed your hands, pinning them above your head. " What did I tell you? Dont be shy.. I dont wanna have to stop you from cumming baby.. especially if you deserve it." He said, slowly moving his eyes down your body.

You shook your head, grinding your hips against him more. " Awh baby your so fucking cute when you get desperate like this." He sighed. You felt his thumb stop moving and instead, two of his fingers pulling your soaked panties down for you. He tossed them off the bed, licking his lips at your exposed pussy. " Fuck.. I wish you'd yelled at me sooner my love.. its gonna be so hard trying to hold back." He said before pulling off his hoodie. He tossed it away, before grabbing your knees, spreading them apart.

Yes this was your husband, but after being celibate for three months, you were nervous. And he felt it. He looked at you from through your legs, smiling. " Let me take care of you.. you deserve it baby." He smiled, kissing your inner thigh. He kissed down, surely leaving marks on your thighs, before finally reaching your dripping pussy again. He kissed it, earning a desperate whine from you. He chuckled before sliding his tongue through your folds, a gasp coming from you.

He slowly spread your legs more far apart. " Am I hurting you?" He asked, looking at your injured leg. " No.. remember ill say strawberry if you do." You said, patting his head gently. He smiled and nodded before turning his attention back to your pussy. It was on full display for him. He placed his hands on your hips, moving you onto his tongue. His tongue immediately went to your aching clit, sucking it ever so gently. You let out a satisfied whimper, your eyes again fluttering closed. He worked his tongue on your clit, sucking it, kissing it. His hands definitely started to make bruises on your skin but you were happy with that. Because it felt like normal. Like the sex you both used to have.

" O-oh Simon~' You'd whimper below him, gripping his brown hair. Your knees tried to connect but he gently, still worried about hurting you, kept them apart. " Don't close your legs until im done with you." He said, his lips glossy with your juices. It was such a hot sight to see. it felt like you guys were teenagers all over. Horny and desperate. His lips went back to working on your pussy, sucking your clit perfectly. " Because you had been deprived of your regular orgasms, you felt this one building fast. And it was surely gonna hit hard.

Your legs began to shake and you began to let out pathetic, desperate whimpers. " Sim-Simon I f-feel it.. shit." You cried out, gripping his hair and the sheets. He only moved his tongue faster, pulling you onto his face more. He was desperate. You could tell. He even began to moan against your pussy, looking up at you. " Thats it baby.. feel good for me. You deserve it." He said against your pussy, his middle and ring finger sliding in to help his tongue out. " Cum on my fucking face." he growled, moving his fingers faster.

His tongue moved with his fingers and quickly, you felt your body release its high. Your whole body began to shake, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. He whimpered quietly as he devoured every last drop of your cum. " Fuck baby.." He whimpered against your pussy as your body still jerked from the intensity of your orgasm. He moved his lips slowly against your pussy, sighing. He eventually sat up, his lips, nose and chin completely covered in your juices.

" You did amazing my love. Im so proud." He said, smiling down at you. You were out of breath, your eyes still shut. You felt him kiss your neck before your lips. " Do you want to continue baby? I can take care of myself. I want you to feel rested-" You pulled him down by the collar, your lips smashing onto his. He moaned into the kiss, smiling. " Yes.. I want to continue." You said after pulling away from him.

He kissed your cheeks before standing from the bed, pulling his pants down. His dick was huge. But, after three months of nothing, not even self pleasure, his dick looked..bigger. You had to admit, it made you a bit nervous. You watched as he pulled his boxers down, his whole body exposed in front of you. You quickly felt your clit throbbing all over as your eyes looked at every part of his body. " Are you positive you want this my love?" He asked, crawling back on the bed with you. He hovered over you, looking at your naked body as well.

" I swear Simon.. this is what I want." You said, looking up at him. He nodded before placing a soft but passionate kiss on your lips again. You kissed back as you felt him position himself at your entrance. " Just.. take my hand. And squeeze as hard as you want if it hurts." You nodded up at him. Despite how sex deprived you both were, how desperate, he still was patient and careful with you. He didn't want to do anything other than take care of you. " Okay.." He breathed out. Slowly, you felt him push into you. By the time his tip was in, you had already felt how thick he really was. He continued until he felt your hand grip him hard. He stopped.

" A..are you okay?" He breathed out, looking into your eyes. He was a little more than halfway in you by now and he felt like he could cum just off that alone. " I just.. need to get u-used to the feeling." You said, your other hand gripping his forearm. He nodded, kissing your cheek, then ear then neck. You loved his caring and gentle side. If you weren't injured, he'd probably be a bit less gentle, but still respectful of your needs.

" You can keep going." You smiled up at him after a minuet or so. " Are you positive?" He asked, moving his lips away from your breasts, again leaving behind more red and purple marks. You nodded and slowly, he pushed the rest of himself in. You both let out a gasp, his balls hitting the bottom of your ass as he went all the way in. " Fuck." He groaned before moving his hips back and forth slowly. With each thrust, a whimper left your lips. His head fell in the crook of your neck, slowly his hips picking up the pace.

You didnt have to ask for anything. He could read your body and what it was that you needed easily. You wanted him to go faster? He was already doing it before you moved your lips to ask. Your nails dug into his back, his hips now slamming into yours. " Yes Simon! y-your fucking me so well." You moaned, both of you not caring if your neighbors heard your moans. His hand slipped around your neck, his eyes hooded. " Yea? I am baby? Is my dick making you go.. fucking crazy?" He moaned, his free hand on your hip.

You whimpered and nodded, your body jolting up with each thrust of his. " U-Use your words..lemme hear that pretty voice." He whispered into your ear, slamming his hips into yours. You couldn't feel any pain. It was like all you needed was him fucking you silly. " I-i'm crazy..Im crazy for y...your dick Simon." You whimpered, barely able to make out words. He chuckled and kept his hand on your neck, moving at the same consistent pace.

Above you, his eyes were closed, squeezed shut matter of fact. His thrusts began to become a bit inconsistent, signaling to you he was close. " Baby.. I-ive missed this.. this pussy so much.. your gonna make..me fill you up." He groaned, his grip on you tightening. "Your gonna take.. all my cum to. Every..last..drop." He said, slamming his hips into yours with every word. You felt your stomach start to cramp and your legs shake. Both of you slowly became louder with your moans, your hands resting on his chest.

You could feel his arms wrap around your waist, hugging you as his body rested on top of you. His thrusts got sloppy, and he at this point, was a whimpering mess. " Oh baby.. im gonna..im gonna cum." he mumbled into your boobs. You tried to tell him the same but you again, felt your high wash over you. Your whole body froze, your vision weirdly went white for a quick 5 seconds. You didnt even realize Simon slamming into you fast, chasing his high. "F-fuck!" You felt his warm cum shoot into you, his body jerking as he tried to stay on top of you. But he failed, collapsing on top of you.

" s-shit.. Simon." you moaned, closing your eyes. His chest rose and fell fast, holding you tight as his cum slowly seeped out of you. He gently pushed himself back into you, wanting all of his cum stuffed into you. " I know baby.." he said, his voice tired.

both of you stayed like this for about 10 minuets. he eventually pulled out, watching your body react. " Are you hurt?" He asked, finally realizing his grip on your hips left finger marks. You smiled and shook your head. " I feel the best ive felt in three months baby.. thank you." You whispered, smiling up at him. He nodded before sliding off the bed. " I know.. I said I wanted to see you in this but. You looked beautiful and sexy regardless." He smiled before placing the box on the floor. You sat up, stretching.

" Lets shower and eat breakfast. We can go shopping. I want today tp be everything you want." He said as he lifted you up bridal style, carrying you to the bathroom. " I love you Simon.." You whispered, watching him as he carried you. He smiled and kissed your nose. " I love you more my love.. ill love you no matter what."

the end

[strlingsav]

Hi! Congratulations on another wonderful piece, I thoroughly enjoyed Drive and reread it 5 times now🥰🥹

please feel free to ignore this request, but I'm so painfully addicted to your writing style (seriously you are my top favorite creator along with stararchangel) I would love to see your take on this, I have 2 ideas-

1) female reader x Simon Riley, she's civilian, and basically how they meet is somewhere random (like grocery store?) and he, a cold hardened killer, immediately melts and thinks she's the most beautiful piece of art he's ever seen. Now, he doesnt immediately approach her bc he's like, scared or dumbstruck, or maybe just doesn't wanna bother her? But he can either follow her out of the vicinity to find out where she resides/more about her (stalker lowkey ik) or maybe they can meet a second time, same place, but she accidentally bumps into him? Then they get to talking, he wants to pursue her etc AND LOTS OF SMUT OMG YOUR SMUT IS PEAK! I did read something similar from someone else, I think they did könig though, or even just another civilian female x ghost and he is just dumbfounded thinking she's the most beautiful things ever man

2) female reader x ghost, where she's like an insanely skilled killer, perfect sniper executions, can rip dude's faces off per say and is super fast and skilled in some fighting style like jujitsu, easily knock people off their feet ok? And basically she has a reputation for being excellent at her craft and SUPER well known not just within the army or whatever in the US but overseas like in the Middle East and Japan and Russia and shit man idk (honestly I was watching Hunter x Hunter thinking about the flesh collector girl that Kurapika had to bodyguard for, so what if the fReader was known too for like selling shit on the black market? And being the best of the best medic, head Doctor/ surgeon type shit), then she joins task force 141 and they see all her badass-ness in action and how she just fucks dudes up and gets head shots from crazy far sniper locations and fixes up awful injuries like it's nothing and yea then ghost also falls in love w her and LOTS OF SMUT AGAIN pls

Thank you SO MUCH FOR READING! 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽😭

Thank you so so much for the kind words and for reading!! (You're so sweet omg) I'm so happy you enjoy it.

This'll have to be a two-parter for both requests, but here's your first!! Second will come later.

Thank you again, I hope you enjoy 🤍

Afar

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— Simon's enamoured with you.

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

You were hesitant about your friends' choice to meet for drinks at a dive-bar downtown. You knew the place; a rustic establishment tucked into a quiet corner of the city. It was well known for the crowd it attracted: blue-collar workers, bikers and the like. You'd never stepped foot inside, it's outward appearance alone was daunting. It was a historic monument in the city, given away by the dying neon of the 'open' sign and weathered letters above the entrance.

It was filled with a haze of cigarette smoke and the smell of whiskey and beer. Neon lights plastered on the walls, dated decor with posters of vintage cars and women- it certainly wasn't an obvious choice.

Your eyes shifted around the bar, classic-rock playing softly in the background, the sound of pool balls clacking against each other- it almost made you uncomfortable how much you stood out among the predominantly masculine crowd. You were still dressed in your office attire, and your friend was no different. She insisted it was a great place for drinks after work, and the men never bothered her.

You gave her the benefit of the doubt, sipping your beer slowly while she chatted about the newest developments in her love life. Your eyes met, adding a nod or a smile every so often, but you were on edge; your guard was up just in case.

Simon had seen you walk in.

His hand was clasped around the glass of bourbon, perched at the bar with tense shoulders. Another deployment finished meant he would spend most of his free time there, where people tended to mind their own, and didn't ask any questions. He liked the solitude, liked knowing that no one knew who he was- or cared.

He could drown out the flurry of thoughts and internal conflict with whiskey, focusing solely on the sweet hint of caramel, the bitterness of burning tobacco and melody of classic rock in the background. It was his sanctuary, the place he had no distractions, no obligations, only staring down the amber liquid in his glass, ice cubes pressing against his lips as he took a sip.

His attention was quickly grabbed by the bell above the door, ringing just loud enough to make his head turn. His eyes met yours for a fleeting moment, before you turned back to the woman you were with.

He certainly hadn't expected to find himself giving you a second look. He didn't consider himself to be the kind of man that stared at attractive women. His composure had cracked just a bit though, enough to let his gaze follow you through the bar as you took a seat within his view.

He was quickly enamoured, something that hadn't happened to him before- aside from the early years of puberty, and it terrified him. How you walked in, brushing your hair from your face, the way your hips swayed when you walked- you'd already more than caught his attention.

He swallowed, harshly. He took another sip of his drink, a deep breath in as he finished the last of it. Maybe it was a fleeting attraction, maybe he was just sexually frustrated, gratifying it with the first woman he saw. As he peered over his shoulder, watching you lean forward, smile softly- fuck, if it didn't make his stomach lurch. He wanted to know you.

Your pencil skirt more than complemented your body, and he'd noticed. The silk blouse that fit just right around the peak of your breasts- he stared forward, shutting his eyes as he tried to shake you from his mind.

He couldn't help it, though. Watching you from his periphery, beer in hand as you crossed your legs, he heard you laugh. He forced himself to lean over his drink, tune out your conversation. It wasn't right to listen, wasn't right to think about a woman, a stranger, the way he was.

But the sound of your voice carried, and he could practically taste the shampoo in your hair, the fading scent of perfume. He wondered if all of you was as sweet as you smelled. As an even nastier thought crossed his mind, what he'd do to have your body in his hands, his nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he slid from his stool, marching outside. He didn't allow himself to look back, didn't want to be the one to make you uncomfortable. He was sure you were used to being leered at- how couldn't you be?

He was transfixed with the shape of your lips, the way your eyes crinkled at the edges when you laughed, how you'd lick your lips after a swig of beer. It was too much- all too much for him to handle while a few drinks in, and he refused to be the asshole that hit on you in a bar. He knew he treasured the peace and quiet, he imagined you did too.

He stepped outside, the cool night air on his skin helped drop his rising temperature, bringing him back to reality. The lit cigarette in his hand glowed as he sucked in a breath, fighting the urge to throw it away and stalk back inside to you. He wondered whether you had a boyfriend, perhaps a husband- someone you'd go home to that would never know just how lucky he is. Who wouldn't worship you the way he knew he could, treat you the way he would. Make you feel the way he would. He clenched his jaw, already despising the bastard.

His thoughts got ahead of him, and his cigarette was already burned to the filter before he realized he'd been stewing outside for at least ten minutes. He flicked it from his fingers, watching it sizzle out on the pavement. He cleared his throat, turning to open the door when you appeared on the other side.

His breath caught in his chest. Up close, he could see the true curves of your cheekbones, the allure of your lips, the sparkle in your eye as he interrupted the conversation with your friend. He could even smell you better, and it hit him like a wall. His heart pounded in his ears, aching to say something-anything, but he refused to fall victim to his inflated desires. He didn't know if you'd reciprocate it, anyway.

You stopped and stared, eyes meeting his as he stepped out of the way, holding the door for the two of you.

"Thank you," You gave him a small smile, your eyes still on his even as you were clear of the door.

He was tall- and big. A mass of muscle that caught your eye. His eyes were dark, plagued with some sort of stress as his brows furrowed. You noticed the way his gaze trailed down your body, and felt the twinge of heat rise up your chest and neck.

He had short hair, brunet, disheveled. He was handsome. A crooked nose, defined cheekbones and jaw, a hint of stubble across his face.

You turned back, taking one last look as the two of you made your way to the taxi, waiting on the curb.

The second time your friend invited you out, you'd had the weekend off. Free time was never a guarantee in your line of work. A demanding boss, deadlines, company meetings; usually your weekends were filled with errands. She'd caught you at a good time, and asked if you liked the bar she took you to.

So you ventured out again, happy to be free of your office clothes, and took a seat in the same booth. This time, you were feeling less on edge, more excited to be out, enjoying yourself. Your friend brought her current girlfriend- one you'd met only once before, and weren't sure how many more times you'd see her.

"I'll get us a round," You said, setting your hands on the table as you stood up.

"If you insist," Your friend grinned, watching you with a smirk, her arm over her girlfriend's shoulders.

You rolled your eyes, "You're paying next."

She didn't say anything, but you kept your eyes on her with a playful glare as you walked off to the bar.

You stopped at the bar, and stood on your toes, trying to catch the attention of the bartender who had his back turned polishing glasses.

Simon couldn't believe he was seeing you again. You'd been on his mind since he last saw you, flashes of your lips, your eyes distracting him from everyday tasks. He even took it a step further to imagine what you felt like beneath him, the way you'd say his name as you came around him. He spent most nights in a sweat, desperately chasing relief. It didn't work. He didn't think it ever would.

He turned his head ever so slightly, and you met his eyes.

"Hi," You said softly, a bashful smile over your face as you realized it was the same good-looking man that held the door for you.

He could feel his heart beat just a bit faster- his eyes trailing over your face.

"Y'alright?" He asked.

His voice was deep, raspy, British. You licked your lips.

"Just trying to order some drinks," You said. "I don't think it'll be happening anytime soon."

He looked over at the bartender.

"Oi, mate," He called, catching his attention.

"Thanks," You said.

You were inches from him, your hip nearly touching his arm, and he noticed. He could feel it, feel the heat emanating off of you, smell that same delicious fucking smell that drove him insane. This time, you were in a shirt that showed a tease of cleavage and tight jeans that clung to every curve and detail of your body. As he leaned back ever so slightly, taking in the sight of your ass, he let out a soft breath.

"You're the guy that held the door for me a couple weekends ago, right?"

You were waiting for the bartender to make your drinks, and couldn't help but strike up a conversation with him. Your eyes moved to his fingers, wrapped around the glass, and you bit the inside of your cheek.

He definitely works with his hands, you thought. He did something that formed callouses along the crown of his palms and helped keep the obvious tone of his arms. Construction, maybe?

"Yeah," He nodded, taking a sip of his drink. You watched intently, his lips plush and inviting, wet with liquor.

"That was my first time being here," You looked away, feeling intimidated by his gaze.

He was staring so intensely, you almost felt suffocated. But you liked it. Liked the way it made you feel, liked how he shifted in his seat to face you, how you could imagine your legs over his broad shoulders.

"You like it?" He asked, raising a brow.

"It's not bad," You smiled. You just couldn't stop fucking smiling. "Company's good and the people seem nice enough."

"You with your friends?"

You nodded. "And you?"

"I like drinkin' alone."

You tried to hide the frown that crossed your face.

"But I don't mind talkin' to you."

He was so damn charming- too charming. He was definitely good at sweet-talking. Your cheeks burned, wondering what else he was good at.

"That's sweet," You grinned, your hand landing on his arm.

He could've fucked you then and there, your hand on his arm lit up his entire body. He felt himself harden under the restraints of his jeans. He'd never gotten hard from a woman touching his arm before, and he wondered when he became so goddamn pathetic. He didn't mind it though, not if you kept talking and smiling like you were.

You introduced yourself, holding your hand out for him to shake. He seemed entertained by the idea, a small smile lifting his lips as his hand engulfed yours. He knew your skin would be soft, knew you'd have a light touch.

"Simon," He nodded. "Don't let me keep you from your friends."

"I think they're more than okay." You looked over your shoulder at the two of them, kissing in the booth, not paying a sliver of attention to anyone else. "Let me just drop these off for them," You took the drinks off the counter.

You came back with a purpose, a new mission for the evening; taking him back to your place, or his- whichever was closest. You had no idea he was thinking the exact same thing.

You and Simon continued your conversation, leading to the revelation that he was in the army, a soldier. If it was even possible, it turned you on even more.

"I work in an office," You said, stirring your drink with the thin, black stir-stick. "Nothing as interesting as that."

"I remember your blouse- that skirt you had on," He looked at you, a grin playing at his lips.

"You remember my outfit?" You giggled.

He nodded, "Couldn't forget it," He admitted, hoping it wouldn't scare you off.

"Didn't know I had that much influence," You raised your brows. "You should've introduced yourself then. We could've been having this conversation weeks ago."

"Didn't want to disturb you," He said, his palm pressing flat along your thigh. Your eyes drifted to the source of warmth on your leg, then looked back at him. "M'alright with where we are now, though."

"That's a shame," You sighed, now two cocktails deep, and undeniably aroused. He waited, brows furrowing at your words. "Think we'd be better off at my place."

He looked shocked, not sure how to proceed- whether it would be okay for him to accept, or make him appear too eager. But Christ, if he wasn't already burning up, desperate to get you undressed, kissing every inch of your body until you begged for him. He couldn't resist.

"Y'might be right," He drawled, his palm trailing further up your thigh, his thumb resting in the crease of your thigh and hip.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

He grinned, standing up from his seat, dropping a wad of cash on the bar.

"'M ready when you are, sweetheart."

He drove a new pickup truck, opening the door for you to step in. You sat comfortably, trying to restrain yourself as much as possible, but as he reached out to turn on the heat and you caught sight of the tattoos that engulfed his arm, you sighed deeply.

You were already aching, dying for a taste, anything to sate the throbbing in your abdomen. You could feel the wetness dripping from you, and you were sure you'd already soaked a spot on your panties.

When he set his palm on your thigh again, you exhaled, setting your hand overtop his. His hands were rough, worn; and you couldn't wait to feel them against your bare skin. You glided his hand carefully, slowly, up your leg, urging him to feel you, touch you.

"You can touch me, Simon," You whispered.

He looked over, his eyes narrowing as you leaned back, spreading your thighs a bit.

"I want you to touch me."

"Christ," He muttered, his fingers pressing against your pussy from over your jeans.

The pressure pushed the seam into your clit, and you let out a soft sigh. He watched with wide eyes, heavy breathing as he moved his fingers in small circles, forcing your jeans against you. You writhed under the pressure, whimpering softly, clinging to his wrist with an iron grip.

He listened to the sounds you made, trying not to close his eyes and savour it, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road. If that was all it took to have those sounds of pleasure coming from your lips, he couldn't imagine what you'd sound like when he was inside you. He could hardly wait to show you the attention you deserved, make you cum endlessly, beg for his cock.

The trip to your house wasn't long, and when you entered the apartment, he had you pressed against the entryway. His hand on your waist, the other above your head, you stared into his eyes.

"Been dyin' t'get my hands on you since I first saw you," He whispered, goosebumps exploding over the surface of your skin.

"You shouldn't have waited," You said back, your face tilting up to his.

His hand left your waist, his thumb running across your bottom lip as he stood up straight. Letting out a heavy sigh, he grabbed your hips and yanked your pelvis flush with his.

"You're a fuckin' tease," He breathed.

He pressed his lips against yours, already a hungry and devoted action. Your lips felt like velvet, you tasted like a sweet fruit- cranberries, from your vodka-cran. He moaned softly, cherishing the feeling of your mouth against his, your hands coming to his face, delicately holding him in place.

He loved the way he made you look so small, so innocent against his larger frame. He'd have an easy time moulding you into positions, right where he wanted you. You felt so good, pressed against him, your soft little whimpers spurring him on. He introduced his tongue, gliding it against yours with no hesitation, tasting you.

"Show me your room," He said, breathless as he pulled away.

He was slow in his movements, his tall frame circling you like prey. He took a seat on the edge of your bed, thighs spread as he leaned forward. His fingers grabbed the hem of your shirt, rubbing it between his fingers.

"Take it off for me, sweetheart," His raspy voice was low, eyes unflinching as he watched you. "Nice n' slow." His elbows rested on his thighs as he watched you.

Your hands went to the hem, lifting it off your waist and over your shoulders. You unbuttoned your jeans, too, sliding them down your thighs and stepping out of them. You stood in your bra and panties before him, feeling a bit nervous with his unfaltering gaze, his eyes taking in every inch.

He was practically eating you alive. He trailed up and down your form, a strangled sigh coming from him as he watched your breasts push against your bra, thong clinging to you nicely with the wetness between your thighs. He couldn't believe he'd gotten you in his grasp, so willing and ready to do anything he asked. It made his cold heart melt, watching the way your hip shifted nervously.

"C'mere," He said, leaning back.

Your feet pushed forward, standing before him, and he grabbed your hips as he tugged you onto his lap. He let his hands reach around to sit on your ass, exhaling, nearly exploding with how good you felt in his hands. Such silky skin, he couldn't help but let his hands roam.

"Pretty little thing you are," He whispered against your throat, his nose nuzzled against your chin.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he pressed a soft kiss to your neck, his tongue sticking out to lick a short strip over your skin. He took his time, lips exploring your neck.

"Simon," You sighed, hands reaching for his forearms. "Please." You wanted him to touch you already, your pussy was aching from being so aroused.

"I'm takin' my time with you, sweetheart," Was his response.

You shivered, his hands running up and down your back, reaching for your ass. You arched your back, chest flush against his. He wanted to memorize every curve, learn you inside and out until he could blindly please you.

"Take off my shirt for me."

You obeyed, nimble fingers working quickly to unbutton his shirt, eyes widening as you pulled it open. His chest was muscular, and your eyes trailed down to his abs, scars scattered over his torso. There was a trail of coarse hair that disappeared into his jeans. You felt your pussy clench, a fire that was already raging in your womb exploded tenfold.

You tugged the shirt off his shoulders, breath hitting his chest as you sighed, nearly riding his lap.

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your lips. You moaned, exhaling harshly through your nose as his tongue slid inside you mouth, gliding against yours. Your head went dizzy- intoxicated, drowning in the taste of his lips. You never wanted to pull away and your fingers reached his jaw as you leaned into him, hunger in your kiss.

Your hands then ran down his chest, over the hard muscles on his torso. He grunted softly, his body jerking as you felt his shoulders and biceps.

His hands reached around, unclasping your bra. He let it drop, watching you pull your arms from the straps. His eyes flashed to your breasts, one hand reaching up to cup your breast. Your head fell back, the ache in your pussy only getting stronger as he massaged your breasts. His thumb grazed your nipple, making you gasp softly.

"So fuckin' beautiful," He groaned.

You lifted your head, eyes boring into his.

He leaned in again, licking your breast before he took your nipple in his mouth, tongue swirling around it before flicking over it. You gasped, fingers lifting to his hair.

"You taste so good, sweetheart," He pulled back, lips finding your neck in a passionate kiss. "Bet your cunt tastes even better."

You sighed aloud, your hips jumping against his crotch. His words sent a shiver of desire straight through you, fingernails digging into his shoulders. He lifted you up with ease, turning to settle you on the bed.

Your legs were still wrapped around his waist, his lips back on yours for a moment before he kissed down your neck. Travelling over your breasts, he left bruises on the soft flesh, moving to your stomach, then hip bones.

His fingers tugged at your panties, parting them from your body with a bit of resistance from your wet core, then slid them down your legs, discarding them on the floor.

"Fuck," He mumbled. "You're soaked," He growled.

His lips attached to your inner thigh, throwing your legs over his shoulders. Your fingers reached into his hair, exhaling as you waited, hardly able to contain the thrumming in your chest, your desperate writhing.

His tongue licked a stripe through your folds and your hips jumped when he ran over your clit. Softly exhaling, you squeezed your thighs together around his ears.

He groaned softly, doing it again to receive the same reaction. His tongue worked a bit harder now, moving in circles over your clit. You were already wet- he knew that well. He wanted to eat your pussy for his own pleasure. He listened intently to the beautiful moans from your lips, his cock hardening even more when your fingers tugged and pulled at his hair.

You let out a soft moan, fingers curling into his hair, tugging as he lapped generously. The sounds of your pussy on his tongue were vulgar- echoing around your room. You were writhing in his grasp, even as his hands came to your hip bones to steady you.

He slid a finger inside you, curling it up against the rough spot inside your pussy. Your chest lifted, panting as he continued the motion, tongue still on your clit.

"God- Simon," You croaked, shivering. He adored the way his name sounded from your mouth.

It didn't take long for your climax to near, having already been turned on for so long, you were just waiting for his touch. You shifted with restlessness, and when he added a second finger, you knew your release would come any moment.

"I'm almost there," You whispered, voice hoarse as your abdomen clenched down.

"Cum for me, sweetheart," He cooed, fingers still coaxing it out of you.

Your eyes rolled shut, pussy squeezing down as you came- hard. He didn't relent, pleasure coursing through you as he continued his movements. He could hardly move his fingers at a certain point, your pussy constricting around him.

"Fuckin' hell," He murmured, eyes watching your body as you came.

You sighed softly, finally recovering from your orgasm, and Simon stood to his feet, face wet with your cum.

He leaned forward, "You wanna taste yourself?"

Your body shivered, meeting him halfway, pressing your lips to his. You made an effort to find his tongue, moaning at the taste of yourself on his tongue; mostly bitter, a hint of sweetness.

He stood up, yanking the belt from his jeans. You gulped, eyes watching with anticipation.

"I want to feel you," You said.

"Go on, love."

You reached out, fingers undoing his button, then his zipper. You yanked his pants down over his thighs. His bulge in his briefs was larger than expected- much larger. You pulled his briefs down, met with his large cock. Your hands immediately reached out to feel him, and his head fell back.

He was so used to fucking his own hand, the skin of yours was like satin on his cock. He choked back a gasp.

"Yeah," He groaned. "Just like that sweetheart," He praised, watching you twist your wrist, hand running up and down his length. You sighed softly, hips rocking as you listened to him, burning desire as he praised you.

You shifted, thighs rubbing together to create friction on your clit.

"Can't wait anymore," He said. "Lie back."

You did as he said, and he crawled over you, kicking his jeans off. He grabbed your thighs, tugging them to his waist as he lined his cock up to your entrance, tip rubbing against your clit.

"Can I?"

"Yes," You breathed. "Please."

"I'll give you just what you deserve, sweetheart," He grunted, his cock sliding slowly into your pussy. He let out a long sigh, basking in the way your walls took him in, how easy it was to glide in against the natural lubrication.

You moaned, your pussy stretching to accommodate his large size. It was uncomfortable for a few moments, before he began thrusting his hips against you. He leaned down, head beside yours as he rounded his hips, nudging his cock deep inside. You were all moans, body no longer able to do anything but obey. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding onto him.

"Takin' this cock so well," He said in your ear. Your eyes nearly rolled in your skull, squeezing shut. "Gonna make you cum for me."

"Keep talking like that, please," You whispered, eyes opening to watch him.

He groaned, "Been wonderin' what you'd sound like on my cock."

"Oh my-" You couldn't even manage to get out another word, another coherent sentence, so you relied on his name. "Simon."

"Fuck," He groaned in your ear. "So fuckin' wet."

"So good," You breathed.

His hips drove into yours, his pelvis hitting your clit repeatedly. His thick cock massaged your walls and it was nearly too much. You arched your back, toes curling, thighs clenching around his waist.

His body pressed against yours, neck craned to look at you from beside your head, watching your lips part as you gasped for air; he wanted to etch the vision behind his eyes. Your skin was flushed, fingers clawing at his back, hand cradling his head against your neck. He was repeatedly burying himself inside you, massaging your clit at the same time, and you couldn't hold back.

"F-fuck," You moaned. "Fuck- Simon," You gasped, pussy clenching around him.

"You gonna cum for me?" He asked, his hand moving back to grip your thigh.

You choked out a 'yes' as he bottomed out inside you, tip pressing against your cervix. You felt the sparks of pleasure level out over your body, enveloping you in a full-fledged fire, every nerve lit up with pleasure.

Your chest met his, tensing as your orgasm made your body rigid. He didn't relent, though the way you held him so tightly and whispered his name made it increasingly difficult not to.

"Simon," You moaned, eyes widening as you looked at him, lips parted with pleasure. "So good, Simon."

He groaned, listening to your swollen lips call his name, his cock twitched inside you. Your small frame, innocent eyes, soft thighs wrapped around him while he stroked his cock in your tight, wet pussy; if he was a lesser man be would've finished inside you immediately without hesitation. But he wanted to experience it all for as long as he could.

"That's right, sweetheart," He rolled his hips again. "Fuck you feel good."

Your fingernails scraped down his back, his muscles flexing as he moved. He exhaled sharply. Your thighs were squeezing his waist, and his fingers were surely bruising the delicate skin, but you didn't care.

He devoured your moans with his lips, relishing the way you still groaned, even with his tongue in your mouth he could hear you. He could still feel you too, your sensitive pussy clenching around him every time he hit your clit.

"I want you to cum again," He said. "Let me make you cum again," He pleaded. He so desperately needed to see it again, needed to see you fall apart for him, call out for him.

"Don't stop," You said, pressing a kiss to his neck. It was desperate, an attempt to make him feel just as good as he had for you, and you kissed up his jaw when you heard a satisfied groan in his throat.

Your eyes rolled back, abdomen and pussy clenching as the tension in your stomach began to build again. It was unraveling quickly, crumbling when he praised you, talked to you, even looked at you.

"I'm-I'm close," You said, clinging to his shoulders. "Again."

He nearly laughed. "Yeah, love. Let it out, give it to me."

"Yes," You moaned, head thrown back. "Fuck yes."

Your climax wasn't far, another wave of pleasure pulling you under. You struggled for breath, your eyes squeezing shut, fingers digging into him.

He let out a short gasp, feeling exactly how tight you could hug his cock, and it sent him over the edge at nearly the same time.

"Where do you want it?" He asked, pulling out.

He was massaging his cock, and you took over, lowering yourself as he released over your breasts, thrusting forward in your hand.

"Fuuck," He drawled, seeing your breasts painted white with his cum.

You sat back, staring up at him. He leaned forward, kissing you softly.

"Definitely should've said something sooner," You teased.

"I've got you here now," He said, a small smile on his glowing face. "That's all I care about."

[roachsideblog]

COD GORETOBER DAY 10! Woo, still only a day late.

Blacklist tinyduckies goretober 2024 and tinyduckies kinktober 2024 if youre sick of this <3

Prompt: Surgery (thanks, @nonsenseafterdark !)

Words: ~1k

TWs: Insects, gore, body horror, medical horror, burns, torture, blood, insect/animal death, being drugged, gangrene, decay, emetophobia/vomit. No human death though. But maybe that makes this worse <3

Summary: Makarov tried playing surgeon and kidnapped Captain Soap to show off his results.

Shit's fucked up. I'm not kidding. Dead Dove, babes.

~~~

Smoke from the blast obscured Soap’s vision as he climbed through the hole he just made in a cinderblock wall. Makarov’s base of operations—the heart of everything they’d been fighting for so long, the final barrier between him and avenging two of his best men. It was quiet compared to the facility’s perimeter lined with guard towers but he dare not think too hard about the ‘Q’ word. He steeled himself, crouching below the black sooty clouds, smelling thermite even through his filtered mask. A faint buzzing sound emanated from down the hall.

Lt. Simon Riley and Sgt. Gary Sanderson. Ghost and Roach. Shot dead by General Shepherd, their bodies burnt to a crisp. All they wanted was to defeat Makarov. To ensure weapons of mass destruction never made it into nefarious hands.

He crept along the concrete floor. The buzzing grew louder. There was nothing. No one. Not until a staircase appeared, leading down into a dark room. Descending, the air was stagnant and sickeningly sweet with the smell of decay growing stronger and stronger with every step until Soap’s eyes watered.

Through the threshold. He checked his six and—

A sharp pain pierced his upper arm. A goddamn blow dart hung from his flesh by its needle as if he were a wild animal. His heartrate began to slow immediately, dizziness taking hold.

Footsteps.

Soap jerked up, saw Makarov emerge from the abyss ahead, then collapsed before managing to fire a single round.

…

He woke tied to a metal chair. The buzzing was louder than any explosion. It was deafening in the tiny, dark room. The walls, floors, and ceiling were painted black.

A corpse fly landed on Soap’s nose. He shook it off, only to startle thousands more into the air.

Only upon further inspection did Soap realize all the dark surfaces were actually coated in insects that wriggled like ferrofluid.

He gagged, mask nowhere to be seen. The stench of death was unbearable but if he breathed through his mouth the flies sensed its moisture and flew in. Breathe through his nose and the smell brought tears to his eyes that the nasty things landed on his cheeks to lap up. He scrunched his eyes, forcing air out of his nostrils to keep curious corpse flies out.

The walls were light gray concrete.

A floodlight turned on and they all went mad, nearly blotting out its intense light. They rammed into its glass case, shoved themselves inside to fry on its bulbs.

“Captain MacTavish!” called a familiar Russian accent. Makarov. He had to yell over the roar of wings. Lucky bastard had a hazmat suit with a face shield as he appeared from the glare of the light, every footfall crushing flies.

Soap couldn’t reply lest a fly crawl down his throat carrying remnants of whatever attracted them here. Rage filled his veins.

“You've been such a pain in my ass. A pest, if you will.” He laughed and gestured around. “Seems you fit right in. Tell me, why are you here?”

Soap’s nostrils flared.

“Yeah, yeah. To put a bullet in my brain. I know. Show some introspection skills. Because I think you’re here for the same reason all these fucking bugs are,” he spat, grinding his toe on the floor. Flies fled but it was too crowded; an unlucky handful were mashed into paste. “You’re confused, I bet. Don’t worry. All will be revealed.”

With Soap silenced by disgust, Makarov disappeared again, though not for long. He came back holding a rope that disappeared behind the light. He stopped walking when it grew tight. Faintly, Soap could hear someone shambling. Something dragging. The rope went slack and Makarov yanked it tight again, causing whoever was on the other end to stumble forward and pick up the pace. Their movements grew louder. The humid, rotten smell got thicker. Ragged wheezes could be heard, as if their lungs didn’t inflate fully. They groaned in pain.

Flies cleared the area near Soap and raced for Makarov’s victim. He gulped hard, on the edge of his seat wondering what the fuck was about to reveal itself.

Suddenly, a massive frame blocked the floodlight.

A wide set of shoulders. A torso about two men across. Yet the person was average height, if a little tall. Makarov leaned on Soap’s shoulder and yanked them closer. The silhouette became clear. It had three legs. Two heads.

Ghost and Roach shambled into the light. They were sewn together with thick leather thread, sutures not quite healing as their burned skin remained in active decay. About half their flesh remained pink and red, the other half varying shades of blue bruises, pale bloodless patches, and green gangrenous bits. Veins bulged. Roach was missing his right arm, leg, and that side of his face. Ghost’s legs did the walking, the right and middle two, while Roach’s left leg dragged limp on the ground as if his ankle weren’t fully attached.

Soap gasped at the horrific sight, coughing up flies.

“Had to fit them together like puzzle pieces. Sanderson’s one half was burnt to a crisp; I didn’t even need to cut anything off. Pulled him apart with my bare hands like pulled pork. Wearing gloves, of course.”

Soap vomited into his lap. It couldn't be real. There must’ve been something more in that tranquilizer.

“You don’t appreciate art,” that fucking bastard scolded. “Anyway. Ghost’s left arm had to be amputated so their shoulders could connect. I think the burns acted like pottery slip—they fused together like two pieces of wet clay as they healed. Ha, ‘healed’ is such a funny word.”

Ghost’s eyes welled with tears. His polyester balaclava had melted into his face.

Roach groaned. Maybe if the skin around his mouth wasn't simultaneously stretched and sloughing off, Soap would hear him pleading for death. Goggle-shaped burns cut into his cheekbones and nose bridge.

“Care to join them, MacTavish?”

[moondirti]

JIGSAWS [ surgeon! simon riley x f! reader ] — masterlist / each part can be read separately : dealing with cruelty is hard when stress has a crippling effect. simon gives you a place to find comfort, however unconventional

dom/sub. dubcon (power dynamics). adjustment disorder. sexual harassment and battery. dacryphilia. hurt/comfort. biting. marking. brief fluff. medical settings. 2.8k

"Fuck aff, ya useless pillock."

At 0600 hours, a belligerent intake is the last thing you need.

Fatigue works her wily fingers into you, kneading staunchly into your shoulders to add resistance for every step forward. The sun hasn't yet peeked over the horizon, pellucid blue sky outside somehow consolidating every misery from the past week. If your exhaustion felt impregnable during the bright stretch of summer, autumn encroaches vindictive, dreary winds intent on teaching you to count your blessings, next time.

"Good morning, Mr. Cook. I'm one of the daytime neurosurgical residents, here to see how you’re doing since your admission last night at... 2100, is that right?" The script, if not plainly artificial, is a cornerstone for when you cannot muster your own words. Too often, you opt to lean into its guidance – a habit you picked up the hard way during intern year. Control all variables. That way, if things go sour, you can be almost sure that the error did not lie with you.

But perfunctoriness doesn't always bode over well. Mr. Cook's face twists into something foul, sunken eyes assessing you spitefully from his cot. You should have known to affect a different approach. He called you useless after all, for what you assume is frustrated reason. No one likes spending their time here without answers.

Try cutting to the chase, then.

"I see from your chart that you came in complaining about headaches, fever, and nausea. I understand how tired you must be. If it's alright with you, I’d like to perform a quick exam to get to the bottom of things."

"Ye'd be wasting my damn time, girl. Jus' lookin' at ya, I can tell the only thing ye're good for s'wetting my cock."

You sip a startled breath, consoling the erratic stutter of your heart with oxygen and four fingernails curled into your palm. It's not a serious threat – that much is evident by the slurred cadence, the unfocused hands he waves accusatorially in your direction. The overnight resident hadn't noted any aggression on his chart, either; which suggests this is new. Exacerbated by his condition, else the pain has loosened his tongue.

(And Kyle knows better than to schedule you with the tough ones. It's noted especially in your file, documented as a corrective action plan in prim, red ink.)

Though the smile has long since slipped off your lips, you amass what sympathy you can, nodding like it'll do anything to dissuade his suffering. Useless. "A little civility would help things run a lot smoother, Mr. Cook. It's just a few questions that will give me insight to your malaise. I'll even forward those to a senior physician, if you would prefer more qualified care."

Just one face refines itself in your mind's eye. Deep-set brown eyes, prying behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Sentiment that teeters the tightrope between indifference and affection. The days have buried their thumbs into your obsession, urging it deeper, beyond professionalism. Nudging your lungs, finding place amidst life-sustaining organs to become one of its own. Now, veins wire through, supplying blood to what should not be encouraged, should not be sustained–

You think of him, anyway.

"A'll tell y'what." A blurry shape swipes for your face. You flinch, neck snapping back, before finding that the rest of your body can't follow suit, arm held in a vice grip by a set of gnarled fingers. Mr. Cook's hold curls into bone, urging a whole world of pain to match the terror storming through your head. Your blood pressure skyrockets. Stress whistles sirens behind your ears. "How 'bout you call a proper doctor in now, and put on a li'l show for me in th'meanwhile, eh?"

A multitude of scenes, each more harrowing than the last, unfurl at his implication. If you cannot wrench yourself from him, what's to say you can fight back should he decide to pull you closer? Oh god. Your wrist struggles, thrashing wildly, disregarding its wellbeing for the opportunity to screw out of his grasp. The clipboard clatters to the floor. Your heart palpitates arrhythmically, unsteady palpitations battering war drums on your ribs. Though you've been trained for this, you cannot regulate your response to adrenaline. The exercises given to you by your therapist scatter at the first sign of real turmoil. Your body shuts down. Things spiral out of your control.

But your assailant's condition is not usual. Where a healthy man would only grow more determined in your struggle, he lets his aggression get the best of him. Roaring, his legs kick from beneath tight-fitted sheets, arm shuddering with the force it takes to keep you tethered in place. Eventually, your panic grows too much for him to subdue. With a final push of your heel off the floor, you free yourself, stumble three steps back, and fall flat on your ass. Hurt, but safe.

Mr. Cook grumbles, moving on too quickly for someone who had been so passionate just moments ago.

Safe, safe, safe.

You force yourself to repeat only that as you straighten yourself out. Hone in the truth of the matter, and not what your body tries desperately to have you believe. Safe. It's just another patient with neurological deficits. Safe. You have reason to hand his check-ups to someone else.

Safe. There's a place you can go to sap this off your chest.

"I'll order a CT scan for later this afternoon. We will do our best to help you once the results come in. Have a good day, Mr. Cook."

Still, as you scuttle out into the white-lit hall, you feel anything but.

"Come in."

Dr. Riley's office is comparatively dark to the fluorescent rest of the hospital, brightened only by the warm light of his desk lamp. Though his curtains are drawn shut, beams of pink from the vibrant dusk outside sneak their way through, casting everything in a rich glow. The day has been long, leagues more taxing than usual. Stepping into the space offers brief respite, then, like sinking into bed to reach for better dreams.

He looks up at you, impassive. There's never any indication to how he truly feels – whether creeping adoration curls around his heart at the very sight of you, or if he reserves it for after hours – but you've found that the puzzle attracts you more than it pushes you away. You like feeling pinned under his scrutiny, a little lab mouse tested for its wit. Even now, with a whole host of real matters to discuss, you can't help but pick apart the minutia in his expression.

"Dr. Riley," You whisper, careful not to disturb the tranquillity.

"Yes?"

"Um, I'm so sorry to bother you–"

"No need for that." He clips, the liquid of his eyes shifting as they coast back to assess his screen. The monitor projects stark shadows onto his face, harsher than usual. Despite your... relationship, it's hard not to feel discouraged. He wouldn't look away if he were interested in what you had to say. "We're alone."

"Right." Clearing your throat, you shuffle through the glossy prints in your arms. Cross-sectional imaging from Mr. Cook's CT scans, annotated in your illegible hand. The aftershocks of your stress are evident in the writing; loopy letters boasting sharp corners, a liberal use of shorthand where it wouldn't be allowed. When you place them on his desk, you pray he doesn't take heed of it. "A patient who was admitted last night. Though the tomographs are nonspecific, I have reason to believe it might be a brain abscess. If that is the case, I'd like to schedule him for surgery as soon as possible, and I know you're in the OR tomorrow, so..."

He doesn't look up at you while you speak, opting instead to skim the analysis you've left for him in the margins. Only after a long moment's silence do his lashes quiver, a voiceless acknowledgement to your request. The details come later. Tomorrow morning, likely, assigned by Kyle upon clocking in.

"You'll serve as my resident."

Your lips part. Seeing Mr. Cook again, even while under the effects of anaesthesia, brings a queasy ache to your stomach. It's about the most unprofessional thing you could voice, however – more so than any nasty promise Dr. Riley whispers to you in private – so you settle on keeping it to yourself.

"Okay."

But he doesn't miss a thing. The warble in your tone catches his attention like steaming gore to a predator, jaw ticking as salivate floods his mouth. You should have schooled your emotions better, should have given it a good, long mourn before coming to see him – because if you know anything, you know that there's nothing he loves more than seeing you cry.

And now–

Now, it's too late to renege. You're on a fixed path, the only variable being a matter of time until when. The rush of it already devastates your throat, stone lodged in a white river rapid of sentiment. Warmth fogs your eyes. Prelude to collapse, tremors buried deep beneath the earth's crust come to light.

"Out with it." He says.

And your body serves him, better than it could ever serve you.

A sob breaks the dam, first – snarling, ugly thing, face screwing up in a vain effort to tamp the subsequent flow of tears. Your head feels heavy, weighed down by briny devastation and the culmination of your pressures. Yet catharsis never fails; immediately, you feel it unravelling, hiccups picking the presumably impossible knots in your chest until they are nothing more than strings, meant to eventually tie back up again.

So it goes.

But it doesn't matter here. Can't. Not when Dr. Riley scoots his seat back, clearing a space by his legs. Parting heaven's gates, a little sanctuary for the desperate. You run to it, crumpling to the floor to bury your wet face in his trousers, hugging the wide breadth of his calves. It is as though your troubles melt off your skin, wax held close to a flame. No cologne or scented-soap veils the true essence of him; him, who's able to pacify you with little word. Musk, traces of sweat, a sage and cedar-wood body wash that still clings to him, despite the day and several layers. You suck in a chest-straining whiff of it all, stitching your eyes shut to etch the smell into your memory.

"H-He was awful. Said I was... was good for n-nothing but bei-ing a whore." You sniff, curling tighter around him. A lab mouse indeed, basking in the hand that feeds it. His own – large, dry, warm – pets your nape, tugging a little at the baby hairs below your ear. Idly playing, as though your grief does not necessitate his full notice.

"Comes with the job, little thing." You know that. You know that – have heard it many a time from your parents, your therapists, your peers and higher-ups. Anyone who has ever been privy to your condition has warned you that the medical field is never stressless, that you'll spend years miserable until it grows to be too much. And he must feel your bristling, the discomfort his advice affords, for he moves on sooner than you can state your case. "Did he touch you?"

You doubt it's meant as more than a simple inquiry. Still, you fumble for the right answer. Though the one you tend to is yes, yes he did – a childish grasp for some cosseting – you wonder if he'll take your minor wounds seriously at all. Does it count if what you have to show for it are surface-level contusions? Or will it only warrant mention if you can match the fissures of his flesh?

Tucking your arm between your legs, you shake your head no. Dr. Riley's forehead creases, brows knitting together reflexively. The move must not have been subtle enough, because he extends an expectant hand, impatience igniting his tail. Bones work under the scarred skin of his knuckles, muscles rippling in the quarter-length of an exposed forearm. He doesn't need to say anything. Just sits there and waits, the ire emanating off him enough to urge you into lift your bruised wrist.

(Splitting to his will like brain matter to the knife.)

Anyone would look delicate when set against him, yet you marvel at the contrast nonetheless. It resembles porcelain, fine china in his grip. His thick fingers twist to inspect the splotchy discolouration, set there by Mr. Cook's hold.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when– ah," You huff. His thumb presses into the tender flesh, recalling the pain you've worked all day to ignore. "you do that."

"Hm."

The words tumble from your tongue before you can catch them.

"Are you mad?" You ask, softly, then cringe as the question finds its place in the lull. It's an awkward echo, like the ocean gnawing desperately on shore, trying to make its mark in the sand. No matter how hard the spume and saltwater crashes, no matter the devastation it wreaks, it will always be pulled back, away from what it hardly affected.

(You used to liken him to choppy waters, feeling drowned in all his callousness. Yet as you wipe your tears with the back of your hand, your passions warring with each other within a vessel that cannot contain it, it has never been more clear that he is the earth. The ground. Unfixed, unmoved. It is an impossible endeavour for you, whose impact is as thin as the tides.)

More than anything, you covet an admission of his concern. Warmth to feel him in your corner, eternally there, even as your sight’s set on other horizons. With it, you'd be able to stand it all, you think.

"No." He says. "Brain abscesses can exacerbate aggressive behaviour. I don't fault him for that."

It needles right over where it hurts, mangling the softened muscle of your heart.

"Oh."

"But," Dr. Riley adds, guiding you to a wobbly stand. If he didn't plan on transferring you to his lap, you would have fallen right back down. As it is, though, he uses your fawn-like strength to nestle you across his thighs, brushing the flyaways from your temple. "Don't like seein' the marks on you."

Your cheeks heat. Pressing them into his collarbone, you speak against his pulse. It flutters, tandem to your breath. "I'll put a warm compress on it tonight."

"Better. Should only be mine you carry, pet." His voice vibrates through you, sound waves absorbing to become one with your body. Never did you think it could feel so good, yet as he continues to speak, you find yourself wishing that he’ll do so forever, eternal, so that you may weld together eventually.

"Sir…"

"Lift your head f'me." He whispers, nipping your jaw when you follow his instruction. Thin lips scratch your neck, chapped from the tight constraints of his mask and the dry hospital air. You dizzy to think of wetting them with your tongue, running the muscle along his cupids bow, sharp canines, dunking to map the inside of his cheeks. But that isn’t what this is; he’s made sure to clarify that, of all things.

So, you dip your head, neck arching to widen the canvas to his onslaught.

His groan is hot, ticklish as it fans over the area. You wriggle in his firm lap, coming to expect something much more permanent once he latches to your sweet spot. Practiced, trained to the hollow of your throat. Blood rushes to the capillaries sitting just under the skin there, bursting when it grows to be too much. Building pressure that takes away from your brain, your numbing extremities. Your cunt throbs, balmy and slick. He keeps a large hand anchored between your thighs as if he’s aware of what you’ll try to do without direction.

As a high whine pitches from your chest, and you darken to the shape of his maw, Dr. Riley doesn’t budge. He pushes further, rather. Digging his teeth into you, laving over the iron that surfaces. It hurts something terrible. If it weren’t so late into the night, you would doubtlessly be interrupted as a louder wail splits the sheltered office space, carrying through the labyrinth halls. Pain eclipses any internal worry, though. And perhaps that was the intention, mind buzzing with white noise once he pulls away.

Blinking, you clear the gossamer webs of delirium off your eyes. His mouth comes into view, first; swollen, tinted with a diluted wash of ichor, purpling with a bruise that no doubt mirror yours. You can only imagine what a mess he’s made of you, if the evidence of his own undoing is so stark.

The dual marks brings a dumb smile to your face.

“There.” He resolves, at last. It sounds like pride and feels a lot like damnation. “Good.”

You can’t help but agree.

(Even the earth will eventually erode away. Even the earth.)

[thoughtsandbones]

Doth thy demons dwelleth in the darkness too, my belov'd Reaper?

🚨WARNINGS: Mention of mental health illness mention, profanity, scars, fluff, anxiety, medical inaccuracies, blood, gore and just getting the POV of our friendly neighbourhood masked menace.

I do not consent to any AI or anyone taking my work!

Plot: Doctor Ruhari Hari Kaur (OC is South Asian ☺️) joins the 141 again, but this time as their doctor. After the betrayal of Shepherd and Graves, Task Force 141 begins their hunt on his whereabouts and locating Makarov.

Word count: 6043K

Song inspo: Summer High - AP Dhillon, Don't Fear the Reaper - Blue Oyster Club, Sinner - The Last Dinner Party, The Lara Croft: Tomb Raider Legend soundtrack.

All rights reserved to the rightful owners of Call of Duty Modern Warfare.

spelling and some grammar mistakes as I am bad at times... :/

(FYI: bold sentences... that are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] .. )

Please do let me know how you all are finding this fanfic! :D

MASTERLIST

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15 I, PART 15 II and PART 16

Part 17

The tiny specs of dust floated amongst the surrounding atmosphere, highlighted in the beams of sunlight that penetrated your room. A few settled down on the frame still clutched in your hand, the gold frame sparkled from the light as you tilted it, staring deeper into the image of Simon. That mole on his jugular kept drawing you in, beneath the skin, the vein you thought for the past 13 years had been burnt to ash was actually flowing steadily. The deep crimson blood slithers from his brain back to his heart after all.

Could it honestly be that Ghost is Simon Riley... or Simon is Ghost... One in the same. You thought to yourself, you get up lay down on your bed, the framed photo at the tip of your round nose.

Time stood still for what felt like hours.

It would make total sense, he knew your old name. You recall the day you first met, when he said that name. The inscription of the former shell you shed. That person who you haven't been able to come to terms with. Unable to reclaim the innocence of not knowing the cruelty of mankind. The lust for war over land, oil, weapons or whatever it is people fight for nowadays...Unwilling to let go that guard you have down.

That mole drew you in again, displayed on the only available photo you have of him.

Did everyone else know...? Surely. Perhaps not... A supposed dead man displayed by a skull face was filled with irony. You couldn't help but laugh at the thought of Simon's smug face startling new and old people with this faux relic of his former self.

Checking your watch, you realise you spent perhaps too long wondering about the past. No time like the present to find out the answers to the questions that flushed through your synapses.

Gathering your selected files and papers, placing the gold frame on top, you put the lid back on the box and slide it back to its former spot. Placing the chosen contents in a spare tote bag, swinging it over your shoulder.

Glancing around your room you look at the knick knacks laying in their places. Collecting dust and time. The gemstones you once fiddled with when looking out the window laid dormant.

Heading back down, you meet Clarissa back in her car. Once back in the passenger seat, you feel a lightness overcome you.

If Ghost really is Simon Riley, then it means he had his own reasons to hide. After what brief knowledge you of have of his supposed death, a part of you understood. Yet there was a slight annoyance growing inside of you.

Clarissa noticed you pursing your lips and frowning as you lulled your head side to side with the smooth motion of the car. After contemplating whether or not to tell you about her encounter with Gaz, the cute sleauthe, to fill the quietness.

But she was reminded of your sudden snore coming from your mouth that you were a surgeon who dealt with an extremely serious injury, and then be ridiculed by the moronic Dr Jones.

As Clarissa drove up to the gate of base she called in a favour from a new friend, Kyle Garrick, to help with getting permission to drive up to the rear of building 2 so you could get back with ease to your quarters.

Clarissa was guided back to the emergency back entrance of Building 2, you woke suddenly with the familiar sound of a large tank thundering by. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and blinked several times, trying to focus them to know your exact location.

"Go get some sleep" Clarissa said as she gazed at you as your rubbed your temple.

"Been a long day" You scoff slightly and then yawn again.

"I'm gonna talk to your Captain about Jones and get something done" Clarissa said

You had heard what she said and nodded, unable to move your jaw to let the words escape.

Exiting the car you to wave Clarissa goodbye and then make your way back up to your room. As your reach your dear you look down the corridor and see the rough outline of Ghost's door...

Taking a deep breath you open your door, the tote bag carrying the gold frame and your documents swung as you strolled into your room. Closing the door behind you, placing the tote bag on one of the hooks and then stripping off your scrubs and crawl back into bed. Gathering the strewn duvet cover from when your were first paged nearly 2 hours ago.

As you cocooned yourself your mind went back to Ghost - or Simon Riley. How 3 hours ago he was shrouded in mystery. But now... You have an idea of who he really could be...

I hope it is you Simon you plead quietly within the emptiness of your room. Your aching bones and flesh beg into sink into the mattress, sleep came quickly this evening as the heaviness of your strung out body shut down.

...

Simon took another deep inhale, his tongue became even more drier as it touched the roof of his dry mouth. Trying to moisten his mouth with saliva, he swallowed the little that came out down. He looked up and realised he had fallen asleep in the shower. The white light of the bathroom pierced his still tired eyes. Simon adjusted his body and sat up straighter, his back bracing the cold white tiles.

With his left hand he touched the now dry bandage and sighed with relief. As he got up, the wound pulsated with pain across his abdomen. Finally, he was feeling the full physical effects of the mission. Simon examined his pale naked body in the mid sized mirror.

Bruises began to appear, especially on his stomach and right shoulder. He could make out the thick red imprint of his gun strap. Brushing his fingers across his shoulder, he felt grains of sand roll against his skin. Simon resorted into having to wash himself with a damp towel and small splashes of water. All in order to avoid the bandage and the wound you stitched together from getting wet.

After feeling far more fresher, Simon wore his comfiest black joggers and socks that had a little German shepherds embroidered on the cuff. Slowly he put on a black vest and then a grey zip up hoodie, but leaving it unzipped. He laid down on his bed and took in the calm silence.

The ringing in his ears came back suddenly; tinnitus. An ever so common issue for soldiers, especially given close contact with flash grenades. Simon tried to forget the images of a bloodied Soap out of his mind, but they, along with the many demons, echoed within his mind.

Suddenly, there was a sharp rapid knock on the door, Simon knew all too well that it was Price. Gently getting up he reached for a clean skull balaclava and put it on and sliding on his trainers.

Ghost opened the door and saw Price, also showered and refreshed, not with his signature boonie.

"Alrigh' Price?" he mumbled, as he leaned against his doorframe.

"Not bad, Soap is awake" Price said, giving a slight grin, which grew as he noticed Ghost's eyes widen.

"How is he?" Ghost says grabbing his keys and moving out of his room, zipping his hoodie as Price moved out the way.

"Alive and well. You can see him, Gaz is there right now" Price said as he watched Ghost lock his door and then turned to face him.

"Let's go"

"Have a good rest?" Price asked

"Somewhat" Ghost gruffed "Can Johnny walk?" He asked

Price chuckled and gave Ghost a light pat on his shoulder

"More than that, he's dishin' out gossip to anyone who would listen" Price huffed

"Really?" Ghost said confused. Hours ago Soap was near the edge of death, and now he is gossipping.

"You have to see it for yourself" Price said

Both Price and Ghost made their way to the ICU where Soap was recovering. And recovering well Ghost assumed as he heard the sergeants laugh fill his body with ease; finally safe and alive.

Ghost approached the edge of the bed, Soap and Gaz finished their conversation before turning their attention to him. Gaz gave him a brief nod.

"Lt! You finally came!" Soap exclaimed his arms reached out, both which had ECG cables coming out him. Ghost saw the biggest grin he had ever seen coming from Soap's bruised and grazed face.

"Johnny.." Ghost mumbled

"Can yer believe that I am alive?!" Soap said, spitting out a laugh, lightly clapping his hands together "For sure thought I was dead" Soap laughed again finally resting his arms from excessive movement on his stomach.

Ghost narrowed his eyes at Soap and crossed his arms. He was acting like he had just had a small tumble and not got shot in the back.

"How's the legs?" Ghost mumbled moving closer over to Soap.

Soap gripped the blue hospital blanket, pulling it up slightly and revealing his wiggling toes. Ghost felt another wave of relief ripple through him.

"Alright Soap, put your stinkers away" Gaz said poking at Soap's feet with his charts that he was looking through earlier.

"Pfft, wanna gimme a sponge bath Gaz?" Soap grinned at Gaz who looked back him disgustingly at the thought.

"Come off it Johnny" Ghost said shaking his head at Soap.

"I was only jokin' Lt!" Soap chuckled

Ghost took in Soap's face and the shared moment of relief and serenity with Price and Gaz. The team was safe, wounded and shocked in places but back in familiar territory.

Gaz sat back down and continued to chat about who would give Soap a sponge bath, asking Price how much or what would it take... Price huffed and said something along the lines of not even if my right leg was blown off.

The conversations between the three faded as Ghost grabbed a chair and sat down, observing his comrades.

"Hey Lt, you hear about Doc?" Soap said, turning his attention to him

"Eh?" Ghost grunted looking up at Johnny with narrowed eyes

"Well, I was laying here, recovering, just woke up from the coma" He starts

'Wasn't a coma mate" Gaz said, Soap ignored him

"I hear a conversation slowly drift into my ears as I lay here recoverin'" Soap continued

"Ah he's telling the long version" Gaz interrupted and quickly went silent as Soap shot him an evil look.

"That Jones fella apparently paged Doc 999 - ICU.. Bless her soul, she must've thought I was dyin' again" Soap said sympathetically towards Ghost, whose eyes were still narrowed at him.

"Runs down here, and Doc notices my intubattery is out"

"Intubation tube" Gaz corrected stifling a laugh with his hand.

"Spit out the short version Johnny, I ain't got all day listenin' to fairy tales" He said sighing

"Pfft thought yer'd be nicer to be me since I am recoverin'" Soap spitted, point to his back.

"Basically, Jones paged Hari on the basis of doing an unauthorised surgery and said to show him her qualifications" Gaz summarised

"Oi, I was tellin' a story here!" Soap shouted, and flung a piece of apple at Gaz from his tray.

"Cut it out Soap" Price said and Soap promptly had a guilty look on his face.

"Wait, what?" Ghost said, straightening up in the chair

"Jones think she committed medical fraud" Price said

"But she saved 'im" Ghost said, throwing his hand out to Johnny

"Aye she did, oh forgot to mention the part Jones said she went psychotic at Foxham"

"Soap.." Price said sternly

"I didn't say anthin'" Soap exclaimed

"You say a lot shit Johnny" Ghost said "What you mean psychotic?" He added

"She apparently had a mental-" Soap started

"Alright, that's enough" Price stepped in "It's all been sorted" he added

"Is she leavin'?" Ghost asked, worry began to tremble through him.

What if you left before he could tell you who he was?

"No, she's staying." Price said

"Good" Ghost said aloud, then realised he said that aloud.

"Takin' a likin' to her ey Lt?" Soap said, giving him a mischievous grin.

Ghost looked away from Soap, he could feel his cheeks and neck getting hot.

"Not the only one" Gaz said, leaning back in his chair looking at Ghost and Soap with a grin. Both looked at eachother.

"I said she was pretty, I'm not in love with her" Soap shouted back at Gaz

As Gaz continued to tease Soap, Ghost got up and put the chair back

"You going?" Price asked

"Yeah" Ghost said moving closer to Price "Might see Doc, see if she's alrigh'?" He added

"She's knocked out at the moment, give her a till tomorrow" Price said and Ghost nodded.

"You goin-" Price started

"Give me 5 days." Ghost said looking straight at Price, who nodded and smiled, he gave him a light pat on the shoulder and let him go.

During the walk back to his room, Ghost made a promise to himself, to you.. 5 days, Ghost checked his watched, it was the 8th of October, 5 days would make it October 13th... He soon realised what day that was; the day The Captain died.

...

Finally after a good sleep, you were feeling slightly better. Yet the inner itch of anxiety trickled down your nerves anytime you heard the words Jones said to you...

"Heard you went psychotic whilst on shift."

Everytime that sentenced pierced your grey matter, your body shuddered, an attempt to rid the thought.

The hot droplets of water scattered across your naked body, taking your bamboo loofah, scrubbing your apple soap, creating a nice lather. You watch the bubbles accumulate as you scrub clean the sweat, the gunk trapped in crevices and bringing new life to the skin.

The fresh apple scent uplifted you, in combination with the hot shower, you felt like you could melt away...

But the oncoming thoughts of the revelation made the previous day flooded your thoughts.

Why would he take so damn long? You thought as you scrubbed over your knee and then down your calf.

But in your mind, you reasoned with yourself.. If you had been betrayed and then supposedly burnt alive you would keep that a secret. Anonymity was literally his name. Ghost

There... But not there really.

Getting out the shower, the cold morning breeze drifted into the bathroom, hitting your fresh skin.

After getting ready you made your way to the mess hall. As you locked the door, you gazed down the corridor to Ghost's room. Checking your watch it was 9:36 am, he would most likely be doing paperwork or something...

Heading down to the mess hall, it was there in the near empty hall you saw Ghost sitting alone on a lunch bench, a cup in front of him. As you both locked eyes, your mouth instantly curved into the biggest grin as you stared at the man hiding beneath the mask.

Your mischievous big grin made Ghost wary of you suddenly as he saw you walk in the mess hall, grabbing breakfast.

Something is up he thought to himself

Watching as you grabbed some breakfast, he kept his eyes on you until you sat right in front of him.

"Morning Lieutenant" You said, trying to not say Simon... Another grin appears.

"Mornin' Doc" He said, puzzled still by your big grin.

He watched as you slowly tilted your head to the side, strands your long brown hair falling too, as if you were analysing his inner workings. Trying to figure him out

"Is it your turn now doin' the starin'?" Ghost huffed, folding his arms

"Hmm perhaps" You replied

Ghost grumbled and looked down at his near empty tea in his mug.

"How's your injury?" You added as he remained silent, now it was his turn to stare at you.

"Fine. Better" He said.

"Good" You said, sucking in some air. You could feel some tension rising between you.

"Heard about Jones" He said, breaking the silence

You look at him, shocked at the bluntness.

"How did you-" You started

"Soap" Ghost said

"Soap?" You questioned "He's awake?!" You exclaimed

"Yeah, he's all good, you did a great job" He said, his eyes softened as he met your curious brown eyes.

"Good..." You say, taking a sip of coffee "What did he say about Jones?"

"Something happened at your old hospital" Ghost said, studying your face for any reaction.

"Yes..." You whispered, dreading the conversation that will follow.

Ghost took a deep breathe in.

"Tomorrow, we need to resume trainin'. Assume you've been doin' some since we've been away" He said changing the subject.

Shocked that he wasn't going to question you, you smiled briefly at him.

"Yeah, definitely, and yes, been training with the martial arts team on base too" You replied

"We shall see how well you can spar tomorrow" Ghost said.

He picked up his mug and said his goodbyes. He knew not to pressure you into giving him information he desperately wanted to know.

Within your own darkness, you seem to be hidin' your own demons too Ghost thought as he walked out.

...

It had only been a 3 days since Ghost, aka Simon Riley, had his deep wound stitched up, and yet he was persistent on picking back up the training, especially hand to hand combat training.

It was no surprise, the Simon you remember was proficient in unarmed combat. Now added with his Ghost persona, daunting others in his stride.

Each time you greeted each other in front of the training room he booked out, you'd ask him how he was.

"Alrigh'" He gruffed

That was his usual response. You didn't want to annoy him any further so you bit your tongue.

Finally, on the fourth day of training, you pinched a nerve with Ghost when you kept repeatedly asking if he was okay and if his wound be able to handle a beating or two.

"So far, I've overthrown you... 7 out of 8 times past three days" He snapped at you, blue eyes narrowed at you.

"Pretty sure it's 6" You replied bluntly as you recall the time you were jumping repeatedly to try and pull him over.

"7" Ghost retorted crossing his arms and stepping closer to you

"You are twice the mass of any normal combatant" You say rolling your eyes edging over to the mat.

"Well if you could knock me over, then it'd be easier knocking normal people" Ghost said following you onto the mat, and got into his ready position as you did the same.

He watched as your face changed, the fire suddenly lit behind the eyes as you narrowed your eyebrows. Waiting for your move, because he knew you would lunge first with a kick. And you did, he used his right arm to swat it away as if the oncoming kick was a fly. He took in satisfaction from your frustration at his easy block.

"Too predictable" Ghost muttered as he circled you slowly.

Taking a deep inhale you let out a deep sigh

"I don't have the upper body strength to take you down" You hurled back at him

"Just try it" He calmly said

Pulling your arms closer to your chest and face, jolting forward and giving a right punch. Ghost dodges.

Ghost decides to up the game and throws a punch, you duck and attempt to trip him with your legs again. He sighs and raises his leg in an attempt to kick you but you block with your right arm and side of the body, with your left arm you grab his thigh but Ghost quickly uses his upper arm to push you back - you stumble with the amount of force he put with such ease.

"Good attempt" He groaned as he stretched his neck and arms. where the muscles laid too defined under his scarred pale skin.

Meanwhile you were panting for air like anything. Walking off the mats you grab your flask and take a quick swig from it. The water replenishes the dryness of your mouth.

"Ready for another round?" Ghost asks, and you swear you heard a glimmer of laughter

Turning around placing the flask down in its own spot, wiping away droplets of water from the edge of your mouth, walking back up to the mats and face Ghost, getting back in your stance.

Lunging first again, you manage to hit Ghost and block one of his oncoming punches. Using his thigh as a stool, you jump up and twist round to his back and wrap your legs around his shoulders hooking your feet against his lower back, trying to use your core to tip him over, but you just ended spinning yourself to his front, feeling you slip, Ghost instinctively grabbed hold of your waist, keeping you from falling and snapping your neck.

"Ain't ya gonna listen to me and not use your legs?" He said gruffly

A small groan come out from your mouth.

His calloused fingers of his right hand grazed the brown skin beyond the edge of the joggers you wore. His grip around your hips tightened as he felt you relaxing your upper body, yet the grip with your legs over his shoulders remained.

He heard you panting slightly as you hung below him. Your tank top rose, unveiling more of the warm smooth brown skin. Like magnets, his eyes took in the vulnerability of your position as you hung casually.

You're gonna pounce he thought, planting himself and engaging his core, his wound although padded and nearly healed (Ghost thought) throbbed dully.

Yet you lay still. Ghost peered down at you again, his eyes laid on your breasts, between them he quickly looked at your chin and then the edge of your round nose. For a moment, he let himself glance at your breasts and then trailed up from your ribs to the protruding skin, a bronze glow as a beam of light bathed that region... Within his chest a ripple formed that gave him ease. His eyes wandered back up to the legs wrapped around his shoulders.

Taking your vulnerability to his advantage; Ghost grabs you right arm with his left and pulls you up and then over him. He heard you yell in disbelief as you were flung over him.

His right hand was no longer securely on your waist but now grasping your right inner thigh, making you lose grip over his shoulder.

Falling on your back you groaned with growing agitation as he threw you down.

"Was that necessary?" You groaned

"I ain't a damn tree" He snapped back, surveying you as you sat crossed legged down on the mat. The black tank top was perfectly fitted, showing your toned arms as you leant back. Ghost looked away and turned his back slightly

"Built like one" You muttered to yourself quietly and get back up up, rubbing your sore back and shoulder.

"Look, come here" Ghost said, rubbing his the skin underneath his mask, then motioned with his hand.

You came closer, and he took hold of your right arm gently.

"Form a fist" He said still holding your arm as you tightened the muscles lying beneath the skin.

"Good" Ghost said, and you looked up at into eyes blue eyes. Simon's blue eyes. As your eyes meet you feel a sharp zing bolt across you, quickly glancing back down to your fist, the feeling spread down to where he held your arm.

"Now, hit me with your upper arm-" He began and proceeded to move that part closer to your body "close like this" he added, and look down at you, meeting your eyes once again.

"'Kay" You sighed, engaging your core.

"Use your arms this time" Ghost repeated and gave a nod for you to go ahead.

You aim for Ghost's chest, he dodges, you attempt again to hit him with your left hand and you hit his chiseled torso.

"Good" he said "Block and defen' now" he added, and he lunged forward suddenly, delivering quick and sharp punches.

You block two, and then grab his right arm, and attempt to hurl him over, but due to his large size he remained where stood.

Thrusting your backside into him to try and get a bit of momentum, but he stood still.

Ghost felt slightly awkward as you kept getting close to his front, he felt your back, especially your bum, hitting his cock. He took a step back and turned his waist to the side, yet you followed his move in attempt to try and bring him down. With his left hand, he wrapped around your waist and lifted you up over his head.

"Not again!" You yelled as Ghost you mid air. He chuckled slightly as he brought you down but you swung your left leg around the back of his waist to try and swivel yourself out of his hold.

"Stop!" He yelled as he lost his balance and you let go of his waist with your leg, but still held onto his right arm. The sudden change in weight and momentum made Ghost fall right on top of you. Your face slammed into the mat, and lips making contact with the grit on the mat, saliva sputtered out as you groaned with annoyance and tiredness.

Ghost lifted himself off of you, he noticed your bare shoulders, as your tank top had a strap in the middle, exposing the tattoo he saw briefly one time on your left shoulder.

As you panted on the mat, Ghost stood on one knee over you and examined the different four flowers coming out of what looked like a skull. He gazed at the black monochromatic skull; an odd reflection of the skull he wore over his own.

He moved back and up, watching as your back muscles flexing as you pushed yourself up from the mat.

"Last round?" You say, wiping your hands together to get rid of the grit from the mats.

"Until you knock me over then it'll be the last roun'" He said, standing in the centre of the mat. Stretching his arms over his head and gazing back at you.

You meet his blue eyes again. Part of you so badly wanted to run up, jump and take his mask off and be huzzah! But that would be a total invasion of personal space and you figured he'd just toss you back to the ground as soon as you made any move.

Best bet is to keep on the defensive mode... Wait for him to strike

After about a minute of circling one another, Ghost struck first, punches that struck you on the side, yet you began to dodge them, delivering punches in return.

"Finally" Ghost said aloud, as he looked at your delivery of punches, few which he blocked and few a he took. He looked deep into your brown eyes, full of focus and determination.

Throwing more punches, blocking and then attacking.

"Good" Ghost said again and he swung out his right leg, doing a high kick and you block it and try to toss him over. It didn't work. Instead you let go his leg, and he swiveled trying to kick you again, you blocked and then remembered a move... A sudden rush of adrenaline charged through your blood.

With his back turned, it was then with your right leg that as you quickly crouched, hooking it around Ghost's left leg causing him to stumble, allowing you the edge to push his back with your left hand.

As Ghost fell forward he felt your hand grip his right ankle flipping him over like a pancake onto his back. Before he could fight back, you lunged on top of him, pinning his left arm with your right leg and your right hand near his throat. Your left knee was placed just on his hip, just the right amount of pressure to prevent him from getting up.

It was one of his signature moves. The surprise attack he would often use from behind.

How could you.. But then he remembered... Simon...

Him

You learnt it from him.

You kept him pinned down in the same position, forcing your entire weight on the points you held him down by. Boring your eyes into his. You could see the remaining black painting creased as he squinted his eyes at you.

"Gonna get off me?" He growled, hoping that would intimidate you.

Yet you persisted. Keeping the same stern look you stared at him. Tightening the grip you had on his right arm.

Annoyance began to grow in Ghost. But then he figured if you knew, then this was the consequences of his own making.

Your fingers were splayed against his throat covered by his skull balaclava. There was a terrible temptation to how badly you wanted to slide your fingers underneath, revealing the mole on his skin that covered his jugular.

What colour was it?

Smooth and circular or rough like potato. What shape is the mole?

As you thought of the mole, your grip began to tighten slightly on Ghost's throat.

Ghost felt his anxiety building inside as she tightened her grip on his throat.

How could I be so fuckin' stupid Ghost thought to himself, he pushed himself up but you were exerting all your strength into keeping him where he is.

"Do you know?" he croaked

"I know a lot of things, to which are you referring to?" You retorted

"Hmm" Ghost groaned, he shifted again under you, yet you remained.

"The day we first met.." You started, thinking carefully of the way you were wording your thoughts. Ghost eyes widened, becoming more attentive.

"Go on.." He said

"You said my old name, how did you know?" You asked, eyes narrowing at Ghost, hoping to catch him

"Looked through a file" Ghost lied quickly. Unable to bring himself to tell the truth.

You smirked, eyes narrowing further.

"Nah, pretty sure the Captain redacted my name"

Ghost drew all of his strength, he managed to get his right leg up and with his knee shifted his weight so that you stumbled off of him as he turned over.

"What you gettin' at?" He said getting up off the mat, lending out his right hand to help you up. You take it, and Ghost helps pull you up.

You know.. Ghost thought to himself as he watched you study his face

"I think I know who you are.." You whispered

Ghost felt a cold tinge begin within him, he crossed his arms over his chest, partly to stop his shaking hands being in view.

"Who am I?" He asked, stepping a bit closer to you

You take a deep breath.

"Simon Riley"

At the moment, Ghost's entire body went cold. What felt like an electric shock bolted in his body.

He was lost for words.

"What makes you think that?" He asked

"You have a mole on your neck, and Simon also had a mole" You stated, wanting to be done with the mind games and for him to take his mask off.

"Had?" Simon asked "Must mean he's dead"

"Supposedly dead" You said slyly.

"How'd you know this Simon had a mole?" Ghost asked, fully relishing in the moment of teasing you. He could sense the gears working overtime in your brain.

"I have a photo" You snapped "And I'll show it to you" You said, walking off the mats.

You were tired of the running around the questions. Answers were needed. As you looked behind you, Ghost began to follow your footsteps as you lead the way.

...

Ghost followed you into your room and closed the door behind you.

You pulled out the gold from that had the photo of the five soldiers, staring at it one last time before handing it over to Ghost.

Looking down at the image in the frame, Ghost recognised the Captain, you and a younger version of himself.

There he was. Simon Riley, before the betrayal, before the chaos and when he had a family. When he had a life outside the military.

Ghost looked up at you, your face still had the same stern look, he could tell that you wished it was the same Simon under this mask, the same Simon that was in the framed photo.

Standing in front of Ghost, he was leant back against the wall. The foreboding skull face whose eyes still protruded glared at you. Every now and then those blue eyes blink, replenishing the moisture of his lense covered in black paint ridden skin.

"I thought you were bacon"

"Bacon?" Ghost said in surprise

You tilt your head up, and watch as Ghost - no Simon - cock his head to the side, taking in an inhale as he shifts his weight about.

"Fried to a crisp" You muttered

"That ain't bacon love" He retaliated

You mouth curved when he said love... A cold pleasant feeling rippled through you.

"Is it you?" You ask, voice-breaking slightly, you could feel your eyes beginning ot sting as tears formed.

Ghost sighed, he placed the golden frame upright onto the set of drawers near him. He reached with his slightly trembling fingers, grasping the edge of his mask and took it off.

Your heart skipped a bit, mouth opening wide as the person finally revealed was alive.

"Simon" You murmured, stepping closer to him. It wasn't the same Simon in the photo. His blonde hair was not so blonde, dirtier blond-brown, and was messy and long on the sides. His jaw was covered in stubble, and as you stepped closer your could see scars scattered over his face; one over his nose that ran near his left eye, another across his cheek. His eyes looked tired, but the black paint didn't help.

Taking in every detail, you scan his face. Your mouth curved as you savoured this precious moment. Unable to stop the tears and the tightness in your chest as you got close to him. Simon.

Simon watched as the tears that fell from your eyes finally trickled down your cheek, dropping down to the floor that held them both in this moment of silence. He reached out for your hand and pulled you closer to him.

He took in your sorrow, guilt riddled him like an aching virus. He brought his hands up, his fingers tracing the bronze skin that glowed in the candlelight, trailing his forefinger and thumb against your skin, taking in the softness. Simon sighed and bowed his head slightly, he looked up and saw more tears coming from your eyes, wiping them away with his thumb. The rough palms grasped the nape of your neck, lulling your head back as he weaved his fingers through your brown hair. Simon gazed back, and closed his eyes placing his forehead against yours, his cold sharp nose tip pressing into your round nose.

"Ru" He whispered finally, his eyes still closed, yet he felt your wet lashes flicker against his.

"Simon" You croaked, and sighed deeply into him, Simon felt you relax and pulled in close to him, wrapping his warm strong arms tighter around you. Taking in the comfort as you melted into him.

Each inhale brought in a mix of cinnamon, musk, cigarettes and sweat. A perfect elixir that soothed your melancholy.

"Didn't mean to take so long" Simon gruffed

"I knew something was up" You said, sniffling as you pulled away, wiping the tears away with your wrist. Looking up at Simon, who still held you close to him.

"I just needed time" Simon said, his forehead touched yours has he took another inhale, a weight finally lifted off him.

Reaching around his waist, you wrap your arms tight.

"You took your time, then I took the shot" You said chuckling slightly into him. His grip on you tightened and you could feel him laugh a little too.

As Simon held you in his embrace, thankful that you were not mad, he finally felt his inner demons quell within the darkness that had put a hold on him for far too long.