#cod ghost smut

[lvrsrequ3st]

mdni – minors be gone.

cw: mentions of stomach bulge.

big dick simon 'ghost' riley who is obsessed with how cockdrunk you get easily.

simon finds it so fucking adorable how stupid you get from just a slightest bit of his cock. whether it's in your mouth, in your hand, inside of you, or even the bare sight of it gets you aboustely dripping. it's so pathetically cute.

right now, you are on your bed, sprawled out, simon on top of you, prying your thighs apart to see that delicious cunt of yours that he just knows is absolutely fucking soaked for him.

and he was right. it's so wet, pratically begging for his cock, and he was gonna answer those poor begs. he knows how big he is, so he eases himself inside of you. he pushed the tip in, and you were already a mess.

it was always like this, stupid before he even gets to fuck you probably. he smirks at the way your eyebrows furrow, and he takes it upon himself to slowly push himself into you a little further and, when he was only halfway there, then began your tears.

he was so used to this. this is when you became properly stupid, stage two he calls it in his head. it when you start blabbering about nonsense, sobbing about how he's too big and that it won't fit - even though you two know damn well it is. it always does.

however, during this part you tense up so he has to coo you and rub your clit to make your tight hole ease up a bit. he pushes himself into you while you were lost from the pleasure of his thumb swipes left and right against your clit.

he kept going until he was balls deep inside your sloppy cunt, balls pressed right against your ass. you gasp and your gaze averts to the obvious stomach bulge in stomach.

it was enough to get you both going and it always does. just seeing simon's cock shape imprinted in your stomach drives you both haywire.

simon starts moving his hips back and forth, taking in the way your pussy takes him so fucking well, moaning just as loud as you are. he moves his hand away from your clit to the stomach bulge in your stomach. he traces it and admires the way it disappears and reappears with each movement of his hips. it was like claiming you in the best way possible, that way being rearranging your poor guys.

the loud squelching of your pussy along with the smell of sex quickly filled the room. he grabs your hand and makes you reach your hand down to touch the bulge in your stomach.

"you feel that? yeah, that's me. buried inside of your filthy, wet pussy."

you moan at his words and the way his cock was ramming into you sends you into a tidal wave of pleasure. you grip onto the sheets and simon rubs your clit to help guide you through your bliss.

simon didn't slow down his thrusts though. his orgasm was close to approaching so no way was he stopping now. you whine from the overstimulation, tears staining your cheeks now as the pleasure slowly began to get overwhelming.

"s-si!! too much!! s-slow down!!" you managed to choke out the best you can through tears and mind-blanking pleasure.

"i know. m'close, you think you squirt this time? cmon... just one more..."

you wince as his thumb rubs your clit faster the pleasure making your mind numb. god, he loves it when you look like this. in your own little world of pleasure. he pushes his cock in and out of you and rubs your clit side to side until you both of your orgasms come crashing over you. simon's buried deep inside of you while yours drenched the bedsheets and his cock along with your thighs.

he pulls out of you over you and your pussy makes a lewd squelch along with a soft pop as his tip pull pulls out of you. he watches his seed drip out of you, leaking over your pussy and ass.

"made a mess. be right back with a towel."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

about me + rules.

omds this was so rushed i'm gonna cry and even the proofread is shitty.

[ink-n-shadow]

I have a little thought, virgin!reader getting her first hickey from Simon?👀 🫶

PRETTY BRUISES

𝜗𝜚 the one where simon gives you your first ever hickey

𝜗𝜚 pairing: simon "ghost" riley x virgin!gn!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: soft smut (minors—DNI), slight!dom!simon, biting, hickeys, slight dumbification? (if you squint hard enough)

the thought of being spread out across simon’s lap, one of his massive hands gripping at your hip and the other tilting your head up and to the side for him.

“still doin’ okay?” simon purrs softly as he trails his aquiline nose down the side of your throat, eyes fluttering closed at the way your scent hits him. the urge to rock his hips up, to grind his fattening cock up against your barely clothed cunt is maddening, near driving simon up the wall.

but he knows to take things slow. he doesn’t wanna scare you off, doesn’t want you fleeing too quickly—at least not until he sinks his canines into you.

you offer him a broken whine in response, fingers fisting at the fabric of the black henley hanging off of his muscled torso as a shuddered breath leaves your lungs. you’re sure you’ve never been this on edge, never felt like one sudden movement and you’d melt through the floorboards like ice cream in the sun, never felt so hot, so desperate.

“jus’ relax fer me, baby,” simon breathes softly against your throat before pressing soft kisses down its column, fingers trailing up your sides and dragging your body closer. “promise it won’t hurt—might leave a little bruise, but s’okay, yeah?”

and you find yourself nodding dumbly, nails scratching and pawing uselessly at the base of simon’s neck in an attempt to make him move faster, to make his teeth dig into your flesh quicker, to somehow will his cock out of his boxers and make him fit it all inside of you in one go. but all it does is make his jaw unhinge the slightest amount to suck part of your neck between his teeth slightly, groaning softly as he nibbled at the sucked flesh.

simon doesn’t expect the lewd noise that falls brokenly from your mouth, doesn’t expect the way your body is already nearly boneless in his lap, but it makes him chuckle softly against your throat nonetheless. his thumbs press gentle circles against your hips as he pulls his lips away with an audible and wet pop.

“see? wasn’t bad, was it? ‘nd you already have a pretty little red mark showin’ up. y’gonna let me add some more? yeah, ‘course you are. come ‘ere, then—i’ll even let ya grind against my fingers while i do it.”

©️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

[peppermint-toads]

simon riley knowing tea, soup, hot chocolate, etc. (anything warm) makes you super sleepy and pliant.

simon riley purposely feeding you soup in the late evening so you’re soft and agreeable and tired in his arms.

he sees how drowsy you are from your eyelids looking so heavy and droopy. he pulls you onto his lap and grinds your hips over his semi.

you mumble something into his shoulder, a satisfied sound humming in your throat.

he just wants to feel your warm cunt wrapped around him for a little while, he knows it relaxes the both of you.

you fall asleep with him inside of you after he slowly coaxed himself to orgasm.

simon just loves when you’re so sweet and soft like that.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

thinking of mermaids AGAIN sooooooooooooooo

Merman!Ghost x Mermaid!Reader (for Mermay 2024)

cw: dubcon elements, rough sex, SELF-INDULGENT and therefore weird mermaid biology, (suspend disbelief idk and idc about mermaid biology, i just wanted to write ghost fucking a mermaid.), forced?-ish breeding (both parties were aware of the risks)

Merman!Ghost who's actually a selkie... of sorts.

Merman!Ghost who took the coat of a GREAT Greenland shark over three centuries ago and has lived as a shark ever since...

Merman!Ghost who's a deep dweller and has become quite the hunter, using the darkness of the depths to attract dumb prey so he can kill them.

Merman!Ghost who's not above mauling humans, in fact he despises them, especially when he finds them hurting animals. Sure, he kills them, but he's an animal himself.

Merman!Ghost who when he's bored causes issues on purpose, including scaring fish and other underwater life, and finds great humour in it.

Merman!Ghost who constantly gives trouble to fishing boats by trying to sink them, slamming his tail on the side of them to send them rocking side to side... and by ripping their nets with his teeth...

Merman!Ghost who has had horror stories and cautionary tales told of him by many navigators, pirate captains, sailor crews... who has become somewhat of a legend, a myth, and gets referred to as "The Creature".

Merman!Ghost who's not immune to mermaid song, surprisingly enough, but who can resist it plenty well.

Merman!Ghost who hears the lilting of your voice through the dark water but doesn't seek you out.

Merman!Ghost who succeeds in resisting... for days, weeks, months...

Merman!Ghost who awakes to the endless sound of your singing bubbling into his ears, and gets lulled to sleep by it as well.

Merman!Ghost who finds himself going insane by your voice, that follows him like a backdrop for every waking moment of his life, and cannot tune it out.

Merman!Ghost who eventually bites the bait and allows himself to rise from his domain.

Merman!Ghost follows your voice as it carries for miles upon miles.

Merman!Ghost who comes across a natural cave by the beach. Way too close to the beach. Close enough for him to know he'll end up washing up and getting stuck.

Merman!Ghost who checks both sides, making sure the beach is empty before he tentatively strips off his coat for the first time in years.

Merman!Ghost who stashes his coat between the rocks, covering it with algae before he dares venture into the cave.

Merman!Ghost who can't see as easily without the shark eyes, who can't swim as well without the shark fins, who can barely walk because all his human muscles are atrophied.

Merman!Ghost who wades in waist deep water into the darkness of the cave, looking around for you, his burly, calloused hands using the rocks as crutches to seek you out.

Merman!Ghost who only notices you when it's too late... when your song suddenly stops and the water splashes as you dive back in.

Merman!Ghost who watches you zoom past him in the water, a slippery fishtail propelling you in a zigzag amidst the rocks before you emerge out of the cave.

Merman!Ghost who watches you grab his shark coat and try to make off with it...

Merman!Ghost who takes his sweet time returning back to the mouth of the cave, watching you bob on the water with a mischievous smirk on your lips.

Merman!Ghost who demands "Give it back."

Merman!Ghost who scowls when you tell him "No." and "If you want it back, you have to marry me."

Merman!Ghost who crosses his arms and glares at you, shaking his head and refusing.

Merman!Ghost who scowls even more when you tell him "Then I guess it's bye bye to your skin.".

Merman!Ghost who despises being a human more than he despises the prank you're pulling on him.

Merman!Ghost who tries to negotiate and offers you something in exchange for his coat.

Merman!Ghost who pushes you against the rocks at the entrance of the cave as the cold water and seafoam wash over you both while he kisses you, pressing his tongue, the only warm part of his body, into your mouth, toying with yours.

Merman!Ghost who licks at the salty sea water glistening on your skin and the scales adorning your pretty neck, an arm wrapped around the small of your back.

Merman!Ghost whose human fingers, pale and wrinkled from the salt water, wrap around your exposed breast, softly tugging on the pert nipple while his mouth kisses and sucks at the patches of skin amidst your scales.

Merman!Ghost who tsk's at you for having been singing for so long to attract him, and scolds you for getting him so riled up for weeks on end with your song.

Merman!Ghost whose hands push you up onto the rocks so he can dip his head down your chest, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, sucking it slowly and watching you mewl and cry so beautifully.

Merman!Ghost who gets a reminder of the one positive side of being a human, as his human cock rises up suddenly and stiffly, large and thick, already oozing precum against your tail scales.

Merman!Ghost who carefully grinds his leaking cock against your slick cunt, right before the spot your thighs meet and blend into a tail.

Merman!Ghost who turns you over, bending you over the rocks, one hand on the back of your neck, the other steadying you around the bones of your hip...

Merman!Ghost who plunges his hooded cock deep into your cunt, causing you both to cry out in delight, eyes rolling and jaws going slack as he bottoms out.

Merman!Ghost who bullies his cock deep into your cunny, feeling how your warm, gummy walls contract and squeeze around him while he groans loudly.

Merman!Ghost who pounds away at you again and again, hearing your voice go high-pitched and squeaky with each snap of his hips, finally shattering the mind-numbing and intoxicating mermaid song he's had stuck in his head for weeks.

Merman!Ghost who watches you squirm and whine as you cum around his thick cock, nearly choking it with how tight you get, before he slams his hips against the back of your tail a few more times, and shoots his cum deep inside you.

Merman!Ghost who watches smugly how blissful, quiet and calm you are after he's done, breathing heavily and your body buzzing.

Merman!Ghost who snatches his shark coat from your hands as you're too fucked out to remember you're meant to keep it out of his reach.

Merman!Ghost who puts his shark coat back on and morphs back to the shape he's comfortable in, then wraps his maw around your tired body, beginning to drag you underwater with him.

Merman!Ghost whose body rumbles with a laugh when you try to get free and loosen his grip on you, demanding he let you go.

Merman!Ghost who tells you "I thought you wanted me to be your husband? Well, I made you my broodmare too... Now I have to take care of you."

[poisonedprose]

I humbly request trying on Ghost’s shirts and realizing that they’re too big- and then he comes home and fucks you in one ig, idk my brain is scrambled egg for this man

-⚕️

₊˚✧ XXL — in which ghost's shirts are good for sleeping and getting fucked in

simon 'ghost' riley x afab!reader

warnings: 0.7k words, smut, with help from my pookie @dizzyntrr, pet names (little doll), curse words, p in v, pwp, size kink, mirror sex, nipple play, clit play, light choking

masterlists

You looked in the full-length mirror, admiring how oversized Simon's shirt looked on you. You couldn't even see the white cotton of your underwear. It stopped just a little above your mid-thigh. Your clit throbbed at the mere sight of the large t-shirt, it was laughable how needy you were. 

You bunch the shirt around your waist, admiring your underwear and running your fingers gently over your covered cunt. It was a bad habit to tease yourself, you'd picked it up from Simon. You shuffled the underwear down your legs, stepping out of them gracefully. You looked at your naked bottom half in the mirror, arousal gushing out of your tight hole, wetting your thighs for proof.

Just as you were about to rub your aching clit, the door opened behind you, Simon walked in. You quickly unbunch the shirt, letting it fall back to your mid-thigh and kicking your underwear away from Simon's view. He starts grumbling about something before pausing when he realizes you are in his shirt. "Is that my shirt?" He asks almost with no detectable tone in his voice. If you didn't know any better, you'd think you were in trouble.

"Yeah, y'like?" You were still looking in the mirror. He walks up behind you, cupping your pussy. He chuckles as you gasp, your arousal coating his hand. "No underwear? Thought you knew better than this, lovie." You can't see it, but you know he's smirking under his skull mask. He pulls the shirt up above your tits. He takes one of your nipples in his pointer finger and thumb, rubbing gently. With his other hand, he rubs your clit, slow as slow can be.

You immediately melt into his touch. It was borderline terrifying how much power this man had over you. You wrap your hand around the wrist of the hand playing with your clit, trying to make him go faster. But all that does is make him go slower. You watch in the mirror, the teasing combined with the mirror was making you needier than ever before. 

Before you knew it, you were whining out a string of pleas and begs. "Please, Simon. I'll do anythin'. Need your pretty cock in me s'bad.." You pout, tears brimming your eyes as you beg. He was already growing hard just from the sight of you in his shirt but hearing you say that his cock was pretty. He was done for. 

He sits back on the bed, sitting you on his lap. Your clit brushes against the fabric of his pants causing you to whimper. "Be patient, yah?" He groans as he hurriedly pulls his cock out, not even bothering to pull his pants down. He puts his hand in front of your mouth and you don't need to be told what to do. You spit on his hand and he happily accepts it, bringing his hand to his stiff cock and jerking himself softly. He groans, eyes rolling back just a bit.

Once he feels like he lubricated himself enough, he's lining himself up with your entrance, poking you with his leaky tip. He ruts into you, you cry out with a whimper. "Keep your pretty mouth shut and watch." He grips your chin and forces you to look at yourself in the mirror. You clench around him at the sight, making him groan. "Of course you like this." He chuckles condescendingly, but you can't bring yourself to mind.

He holds the shirt up to your waist, keeping it from covering your cunt. You can't wait any longer. You start squirming in his lap, trying to get him to start fucking into you and of course, he gives his sweet angel what you want. He snaps his hips into the backside of your ass, thrusting into you. The pace is brutal and each thrust hit so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach. 

"Such a small thing in my shirt, aren't ya? Makes ya look like my little doll." Simon groans in your ear, watching your dazed look as he pounds into you. His hand slides up your body, stopping at your neck. His grip was tight but he was careful not to hurt you. "Gonna fuck you in all my shirts from now on."

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[konigslilcumslut]

Ghost and sexual tension. (Fem version)

It started off as just one night together in that stupid safe house, both in need of something to take their minds away from the mass amount of shit going on.

But then came the passing glances.

The hitches of breath whenever they stood too close together.

The heat in the air whenever their gazes met for longer than necessary.

It was only a week or so before he had you in his office, pinned against the desk with his hands on either side of the wood around you as the heat between you grew just too hot for him to handle, staring you down with those dark eyes as his chest would rise shakily with each breath, holding himself back from just taking what he wanted

“You’re becoming a problem soldier.” His rough voice would ring out as his grip on the desk grew tighter in frustration.

“I can’t fucking think. Can’t breathe around you.” He growls out as his masked face would inch closer to yours, eyes narrowing and pupils dilating with a very obvious lust.

“All I can fucking think about is having your legs around me and ruining this pussy all over again.” His words would come out with a venom, almost angry at the fact he could barely concentrate on his job.

His hand would inch closer to your hips, his arms tense with a heavy level of self restraint.

“God I just wanna bend you over this desk and fuck you till you can’t walk.” He sighs, one hand reaching for his mask, pulling it over his nose just to let his mouth be visible.

There’d be a beat of heated silence, air thick with want and his gaze so dark his eyes were bordering on black.

And then he wouldn’t be able to hold back anymore, so overwhelmed with lust for you that he’s kissing you like a wild animal, all teeth and tongue as his hands tear at your clothes.

He’d have you bent over, one hand in your hair to keep your face buried amongst the pile of paperwork he’d been too distracted to complete as he roughly snaps his hips into yours, a low growl of pleasure escaping him.

And trust when I say it was going to become a regular occurrence.

He’s addicted to you and he’s not afraid to show you just how much.

[random-thot-generator]

Try a Little Tenderness

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem Reader

Summary: Simon has just returned home in the middle of the night from a mission in less than stellar condition. Understanding that he was in desperate need of some TLC, you put aside the ‘frenemy’ dynamic the two of you usually operate within to take care of him, instead. Your gentle ministrations elicit a reaction that neither of you expect, but perhaps have been yearning for all along.

Warnings: Language, explicit sexual content, touching of naughty bits - Simon gets a helping hand in the bath, fluff and feelings, no Y/N

(A/N: This is a thot connected to an idea I had for a series. Still not sure about the series, but what ev. 

This is just me exploring the intimate relationship between the characters. It is minor smut compared to what I usually write, meant to be a vulnerable moment for Simon, and for reader as well. I dunno, I feel like a certain amount of trust needs to be established before Simon allows himself to be with someone in an intimate way. 

For a little backstory, Reader is Simon’s housekeeper/roommate/frenemy. It’s been platonic up to this point, but there have been some charged moments leading up to this. This is the turning point in the relationship, the first time Simon allows himself to really indulge in reader’s attention and care. Reader and Simon have been living together for about a year by this point but have known each other for almost two. Simon’s pet name for reader is ‘Doll’; reader’s pet name for Simon is ‘Grumpy’.)

Word Count: 2777

It was almost midnight by the time Simon shuffled through his front door. He was dead on his feet, still wearing the same clothes he put on three days ago, covered in filth and stinking to high hell. He would normally have stayed on base, cleaned up, ate and retired to his quarters to rest, but for some reason, he’d texted you mid-flight to tell you he was on his way back. He hadn’t been expecting an immediate answer, but he got one.

[DOLL]: What’s ur ETA? I’ll wait up 4 u. Have u eaten? 

Simon had hovered over his phone, glancing about the plane, not sure how to respond. He supposed he didn’t have to stay on base. He’d just never had a reason to return home before. He knew he should tell you not to wait up, to go to bed, that he would see you tomorrow, but instead he found himself tapping out a different message.

[GRUMPY]: Landing in twenty. Be home approx 2hrs.

[DOLL]: I’ll be waiting. C u soon.

He re-read the message several times. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ This was new for him, having someone to go home to, having someone there expecting him, waiting up to see him. Sure, he had come home to you before, but not like this. This was... premeditated.

As he closed the door behind him and locked it, he heard your feet padding through the sitting room and turned. He couldn’t help the smile that spread under the balaclava when he saw you. You were dressed in one of his old T-shirts, a pair of flannel sleep shorts peeking out beneath the hem, and a pair of those ugly fuzzy socks on your feet. Your hair was loose and hanging down your back, not quite dry yet from an earlier shower, and your face was free of makeup. He liked seeing you like this better than any other way.

You were looking at him in that direct way that always got to him, assessing him, checking him over. He waited for one of your customary snarky greetings, but instead your brows furrowed.

“You look exhausted, Si. C’mere. Sit down,” you instructed, pointing at the entryway bench. Simon didn’t even hesitate, just did as he was told. He watched you kneel before him and start unlacing his boots.

“Ya don’t got t’do that, Doll. I can―“

“Si, hush,” you murmured, your voice soft and gentle. “I got this, okay? You’re home. Relax.”

He didn’t have it in him to argue, so let you have your way. You removed his boots and stuck them under the bench by his trainers, then stood and held your hand out. “C’mon. You need a bath.”

He let you lead him up the stairs, but instead of taking him to his ensuite bathroom, you led him down the hallway to the bathroom that you used. You motioned for him to sit down on the toilet while you stoppered the tub and turned on the taps. He watched with curiosity as you opened the cabinet below the sink, taking out a glass jar filled with some sort of pinkish granules, sprinkling a generous portion of it into the filling tub.

“Wha’s that?”

“Epsom salts with lavender and eucalyptus. It’ll help ease your sore muscles,” you told him, replacing the jar in the cabinet. You turned to look him over again. “Let’s get you out of those dirty clothes. I’ll get you some clean ones once you’re in the bath. C’mon. Arms up.”

Simon thought about objecting. He was a grown man, he could undress himself, but as soon as he felt your hands on him, all complaints went right out the window. He held his arms out so you could pull the tail of his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans, shivering when he felt your fingers graze his lats as you peeled it up and over his head.

“I smell like shite,” he grumbled, embarrassed for you to be this close to him when he was in such a disgusting state.

You huffed, the sound low and amused. “You smell like a soldier who just got back from deployment. Believe me, I’ve smelled worse.” You motioned for him to stand again. Once he regained his feet, your hands went to his waist, undoing the belt and pulling it free, then you undid the button and fly of his jeans. You pushed them down until they bunched around his knees, then instructed him to lean on you while you tugged them off his legs.

And he just... let you. He had not had anyone care for him like this since his last stint in the medical bay, and that had been a male nurse with hands rougher than his own. He’d not had a woman care for him like this since he was a small boy, when his mother would get him ready for his bath. He felt his chest constrict, almost told you to stop, but your hand on the back of his calf silenced him.

“Foot up,” you said, letting him lean on you again as you stripped off first one sock and then the other. Once you straightened, you placed a hand at the small of his back and gave him a gentle push towards the tub. “I’ll go get you some clean clothes while you get in,” you said, then stooped to gather up his dirty things. “Be back in a minute.”

You left him staring after you, disappearing down the hallway. He turned back to the tub, eyeing the hot water lapping at the sides. Aromatic steam rose from its surface, too tempting to ignore. Pushing his underwear off his hips, he let them drop on the floor and stepped out of them, then climbed into the tub.

He groaned long and low as the hot water enveloped him, certain he had never felt anything better in his whole life. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head back on the edge, only then realizing that he still had on his balaclava. He hesitated for a moment, then reached up and pulled it off as well, dropping the dirty hood on top of his underwear. Fuck it. You’d seen his face before and hadn’t made a big deal out of it, didn’t even comment on it, really, just took it in stride like you did everything else.

He cracked an eye open when you re-entered the room, watching as you placed his clean clothes on the counter next to the sink. You opened another cabinet and removed some towels and a washcloth, glanced over at him, then opened a drawer and took out what looked like a pack of wipes and a squat, plastic jar with a pink lid. You brought it all to the tub with you and knelt by the side, near his head. You held up the pack of wipes and pointed at the black paint around his eyes.

“Figured these would help take that gunk off. I’ve got some cold cream, too. Can I...”

You wanted to touch his face. His mouth dropped open to say no, but then he closed it and swallowed. You were looking right at him, a normal expression on your face, not flinching away or averting your eyes. If it didn’t bother you, then he would allow it. For now. He gave a slow nod of assent.

You opened the pack of wipes and set them beside you, then opened the cold cream. “Lean your head back and close your eyes for me.”

Simon did as he was told, though his brain was sounding a klaxon alarm in his head. He was exposing his throat to someone, was closing his eyes and leaving himself vulnerable to your mercy. Did you see how tense he was? Could you see the muscles spasming as he fought not to move, to push you away, to fend you off like an enemy? Did you understand what this was doing to him right now?

Apparently, you did, at least to some extent. 

“Okay, Si. I’m going to put this cream around your eyes. It will feel cold, so don’t freak out. If you need to stop, just say the word. Alright?”

“Yeah,” he croaked out, waiting, steeling himself for the contact.

The first touch had him flinching, but he forced himself to remain still as you spread the cream around his eyes, working it in with your fingers in small circular motions. When you finished, you set the jar down and picked up the wipes. “I’m gonna clean all this off with these wipes. They’ll feel cold, too.”

This time, he only nodded, more relaxed now. Your touch had been soothing once he’d gotten used to it. It was... nice. He didn’t even twitch an eyelash when he felt the cool pressure of your fingers against his jaw, letting you tilt his head towards you. Your other hand began wiping gently at his face with one of the wipes. They smelled slightly floral, similar to the cold cream; he liked it.

It took several minutes to clean his face, neither of you saying anything. You were patient and methodical, cleaning away all the paint until none of it remained.

“Okay. Done with that,” you murmured, fingers moving from his face to his hair. “I’m going to wash your hair next, okay?”

“Hm,” he hummed in consent, not even bothering to open his eyes.

You wet his hair and then poured shampoo into your palm, working your hands together before placing them on his head. As your fingers curled and began to work his hair into a lather, Simon couldn’t help the low groan that rumbled out. It felt like heaven, the way your fingers massaged his scalp and neck. He could have whined when you stopped, but his breath hitched when he felt your fingertips under his chin, tilting his head back.

“Just need to rinse your hair, Grumpy. Keep your eyes closed.”

Again, he did as you instructed, not offering so much as a grunt of complaint when you rinsed his hair and then used the washcloth to dry his face. You raked your fingers through his hair, noting how choppy and uneven it was. Maybe he’d let you cut it some time, but for now, you would stick to what you knew he would allow.

“How ‘bout I wash your back for you and then I’ll go downstairs and make you something to eat while you finish your bath?”

He blinked his eyes open and stared at you. The steam and trapped heat from the bath were making you sweat, a light sheen making your skin gleam in the warm light. He had the sudden urge to run his thumb up your throat, collect the moisture beading there and taste it. He felt his cock give a twitch of interest below the water and brought his bent knees closer together. Grasping the edges of the tub, he pulled himself in to a sitting position, back bowed towards you.

Pleased to see him so cooperative, you dunked the washcloth in the water and grabbed your body wash, squirting out a couple of dollops. Working the cloth in your hands until you had a good lather, you rested one hand on his shoulder and used the other to slowly scrub the cloth over his back in large circles. You could feel the tension easing out of his shoulders, watched his head tip forward until he finally crossed his forearms on his knees and rested his forehead against them.

When you were done with his back, you didn’t stop, moving up to his shoulders and then down his arm. He leaned back, studying the way you washed each finger, working the cloth between them. You glanced up at him. “Other arm?”

He twisted around and held his arm out to you, resting his wrist on the edge of the tub. You washed it with as much care as you had the other, leaning over the tub to reach his underarm. When you went to slide the cloth away, he caught your wrist and pulled it to the center of his chest. He then closed his eyes and leaned back, letting his head rest against the edge again.

Slow circles worked the lathered cloth over his broad chest and collarbones, and you smiled when he tipped his chin up to let you wash his neck. A soft breath hissed between his lips as your hand dipped below the water’s surface to wash his sides and stomach, his brows ticking together when you brought the cloth back up. He shifted, his knees going wide to lean against the sides of the tub.

You were beginning to feel heat simmering in your lower belly that sent a blush creeping up your neck. “Do, uh... I can wash your legs next. If you like.”

He caught your hand in his, eyes still closed, and pushed it beneath the water again. “Wash here,” he replied, his voice like gravel in his throat.

You held your breath as he guided your hand down to his cock, let him wrap your fingers around its swollen girth and hold them there. His chest was rising and falling, chin tipping forward to rest on it when he felt you grip him tighter. Your lips parted as you gave him a tentative stroke, your breath puffing out in little pants as you watched him let out a shuddering breath, his eyes rolling open to reveal a lust-dazed expression before sliding closed again.

Your hand slid up and down his shaft in slow, even strokes, working him gradually, wanting him to enjoy what you were doing to him. His pleasure incited your own, and you could feel your panties grow damp with your arousal as you watched him slowly fall apart. He was panting now, head lolling back once more, hooded, hazy eyes staring up at the ceiling, his knuckles going white as they gripped the edge of the tub.

Your thighs squeezed together when a wrecked moan tore from his lips as you worked at him beneath the cloudy water, wishing it was clear enough for you to see him as well as feel him. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, the feel of his hot length pulsing in your hand almost too much to bear.

“Ah, fuck...” he huffed out, his back beginning to curl forward. He lifted his eyes to yours, mouth open and panting, a look of near desperation on his face. His hand came up to grip the nape of your neck, drawing you close until his forehead rested against yours, holding your gaze. His nose brushed against yours in an intimate caress, lips almost touching, the two of you sharing the same air. “Don’t stop,” he husked out.

The speed of your strokes increased, your hand slipping up to focus on the head, making his knees draw up as he tensed. You could feel him swelling in your hand, growing bigger and harder as he neared his release. His eyes grew wide, mouth falling open as his jaw went slack.

“It’s okay, Simon,” you whispered to him, “I got you,” and that was all the prompting he needed.

His grip turned into a vice on the nape of your neck as he erupted beneath the surface of the water, and he growled against your mouth, teeth gritting into a snarl as he pulsed in your hand. You didn’t stop stroking him until his eyes closed and grip loosened on your neck, his breaths puffing out in exerted gasps over your lips.

You let him rest against you, not bothering to move or say anything, wanting him to have this quiet moment, to just relax in the knowledge that he was home and safe, that you were here for him. You closed your eyes and let yourself enjoy the moment as well, relishing the quiet, the peace.

Simon’s eyes flickered open, not sure what to expect, only to find your eyes closed, lashes shadowing your cheeks, a gentle smile on your face. You looked so calm, so at peace. You looked... content.

You blinked your eyes open, startled, when you felt the hesitant press of his lips against yours, but you didn’t shy away, instead letting him feel you smile against his lips before you tenderly kissed him back.

[jolalibrary]

had to see you

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%. word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here

simon ghost riley masterlist

You love the rain. 

Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit. 

But, at home, it’s refreshing. 

It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next. 

Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.

It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called. 

On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices. 

At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat. 

Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather. 

Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.

You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts. 

Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.

You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.

The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.

When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.

That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them. 

Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness. 

It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.

It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock. 

Short. Deliberate. 

Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door. 

When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them. 

Only to see him. 

“Ghost?” 

He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. 

His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.

You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.

Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.  

“You lettin’ me in?” 

Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it. 

Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks. 

He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second. 

Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“

“Someone broke into my place.” 

You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was. 

Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back. 

“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?” 

“Not sure.” 

Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?” 

He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain. 

“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper. 

As if it’s so rarely ever said. 

You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything. 

He’s Ghost. 

Silent. Quiet, Ghost. 

Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound. 

Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?” 

Silence. 

A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.” 

You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.” 

He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to. 

“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.” 

You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him. 

But you’re more nervous. 

Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is. 

Him being here. 

And yet, not that odd at all. 

“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.

He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him. 

His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit. 

“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add. 

Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show. 

And then, he says, “It’s nice.” 

“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”

“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly. 

“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.  

Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.” 

His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table. 

“It’s not what I expected.” 

“You’ve thought about my place?” 

Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down. 

You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward. 

“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”

You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement. 

“You were closer.” 

Oh. 

Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason. 

Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months… 

It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.

Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat. 

“I had to see if you were okay.” 

You don’t place the plates down, not immediately. 

Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat. 

He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue. 

Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you. 

“Well, I’m fine.” 

“Had to be sure.” 

You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.” 

His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.  

“Tea?” you ask. 

Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips. 

“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”

You make him snort. 

And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.

If anything, it adds to it. 

Shit. 

Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.

“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand. 

You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him. 

Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between. 

He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it. 

It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down. 

That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room. 

He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes. 

You cannot die.

Why?

But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again. 

Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost. 

Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm. 

“What?” 

Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’. 

You forget how good he is at reading people. 

Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle. 

Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart. 

Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat. 

Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.” 

Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk. 

But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you. 

Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.” 

“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.” 

“How then?” 

Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit. 

“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.” 

You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name. 

Your real name. 

Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier. 

“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”

“It?” 

You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense. 

“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?” 

Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you. 

He’s silent. 

So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it. 

Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.” 

You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.

For what you’re not sure. 

Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination. 

So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.” 

He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.” 

But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape. 

Go back. 

Go back to him. 

Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.

He came to check on you. You. 

Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak. 

It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.  

It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again. 

His hoodie is gone. 

Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.

Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin. 

“Tell me to go back to your living room.” 

Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side. 

You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again. 

As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined. 

“Words, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart.

Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you. 

“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.” 

Speechless, your lips part. 

Yes. Please, yes. 

Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—

His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality. 

“Simon…” you manage to whisper.

Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough. 

He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.

Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips. 

Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed. 

He smells different than usual.

Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough. 

“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?” 

His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for. 

“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up. 

His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.” 

If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it. 

All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.

And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do. 

“Wait.”

It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you. 

Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.

And he smirks.

The devious bastard smirks. 

Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him. 

“Fuck…”

“Part them, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back. 

The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.

You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big. 

Almost too big. 

The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans. 

He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers. 

You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him. 

The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side. 

“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours. 

Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you. 

“I want you.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”

“I hope you fucking don’t.”

His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.

You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds. 

You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.  

“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.” 

“Simon…” 

Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched. 

He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you. 

You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows. 

“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.” 

It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.

He does ruin you.

Not the first time, the second, but on the third.

Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom. 

You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.

A painting in colours of his own design. 

You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care. 

Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe. 

You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.

"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.

Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.

Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.

“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.” 

He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move. 

Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building. 

"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."

His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.

"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."

You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.

Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.

“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.” 

Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.” 

You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart? 

His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.

“The latter.” 

You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.

Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.

“You make shit tea, though.” 

read part two

a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!

[ghostlychief]

*riding ghost*

NSFW: MINORS DNI

warnings: riding; smut🥴 is that enough warning lol pls don’t read if you’re a minor 😭

this honestly just popped up into my head and I frantically started typing on my phone (bear with me bc I haven’t written anything smutty in so long and never have been good at it lol) anyways happy Friday!

--

You legs start to shake as you continuously lift yourself up then effortlessly slide back down on Ghost’s dick. The stretch is immaculate and you find yourself with your head tilted back with your eyes closed, soaking in his size and the euphoric current flowing through you right now.

In order to ground yourself, your hands move to hold onto Ghost’s that are grasping your waist. Although his grip is firm, it’s not too much for you and you love the pressure. As you move up and down, your breasts graze his sweaty chest, making your already overly sensitive nipples tingle.

You’re getting tired, and you’re about to reach your max. This will be your fourth climax and your poor body is reaching its limit. You let out a whimper and move one hand so it’s resting on his shoulder now. Ghost can tell you’re almost there.

“C’mon, baby. Just one more for me.” His grip tightens just a little so that he can help you move up and down, alleviating some of the stress on your legs. The slickness between your legs is getting more and more out of control as you get closer and closer to your demise.

With a shaky breath and a hint of a whine, you confess, “I don’t know if I can.” Your legs are exhausted, heart is pounding, but he just feels so good that even in your tired state, you still feel such a sense of blissfulness; you can’t stop.

“Yes you can.” His hands continue to help you move, which makes it easier to go at a faster pace.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” You let out a whine at his praise.

His hand moves where your two bodies meet and moves his fingers in slow agonizing circles. You’re at the precipice, ready to drop any moment. When you finally do, you feel a bright warmness spread through your entire body, and you can also feel Ghost shudder under you.

You collapse against his chest and wrap your arms around his neck. His hand gingerly comes up to stroke your spine and you’re trying your best not to fall asleep.

“See, I knew you could do it.” He has a teasing lilt to his tone, and even though you can’t see his face, you know a smirk is coating his lips. If your body wasn’t drained of energy, you would have slapped his shoulder.

You let out a grunt against his shoulder, “You owe me a massage.”

You feel him shrug under you, “Fair enough.”

—

IDK WHAT THIS IS BUT HOPE YOU ENJOYED <3 I haven’t written anything smutty in so long so this is probably trash 😶

[lady-boketto]

10.Slasher! Simon "Ghost" Riley (Call of Duty NSFW)

Summary: Ghost is a serial killer and during one of his sprees, he comes across an unsuspecting couple who are having fun in the woods.

A/n: For an easter egg I wanted this to be the unofficial part two of the Gaz one I wrote yesterday where you and Gaz are the couple in this one lol. But anyway enjoy!

The dark woods felt like home. The way the thick tree trunks groaned under the weight of the breeze. The rush of air cutting right down to the bone with its icy bite. This was where he belonged, stalking through the darkness, weaving through the forest like a shadow. With only the moon to bare witness to the sin of bloodlust.

Leaves crunched under his heavy boots, the soft plinks of blood flowing from the sickle he held tightly in hand, creating an eerie trail as he shifted through the woods aimlessly. Tonight was unlike any other, and he relished in the way the cold night embraced his masked face. He was still feeling the rush of adrenaline when he heard something unusual, in the distance he could make out a tent but that wasn't the part that caught his attention. It was the noises that could be heard coming from the tent.

Ghost made little to no sound as he stalked towards a large tree that was nearby, the roughness of the bark hitting the back of his jacket as he leaned against the oak tree. His breathing was calm as he made up his mind already to attack the unsuspecting couple in their most intimate moment, he was about to strike when was caught off guard by your voice.

“Just like that!~….M-more!”

Your voice cried out as your lover hit that special spot inside you that made your eyes roll to the back of your head. You couldn’t hold your voice back as it only spurred on your lover to grip your hips harder as they fucked you from behind. The sound of skin slapping against each other as Ghost was frozen in his place outside in the cold, he was enchanted by your moans. You sounded so desperate to be fucked, all the blood in his body rushed to his groin as something in him awoken upon hearing your pleas.

Ghost leaned his head back against the wood, letting out a deep sigh as he gently tossed his weapon to the side, letting it hit the ground with a soft thud before he started to fiddle with the zipper of his jeans. Sighing heavily as one his hands starts to rub his growing erection, while he continues to listen in on the sinful noises that were coming from a few feet away from him. His thoughts get the better of him as can’t help but fantasize that he’s the one fucking your brains out.

Instead Ghost is pushing his pants down just enough to free his cock from his boxers, shivering at the cold air that immediately hits his pale skin as he grips the base of his cock. He eagerly begins to stroke his cock to the sounds of your moans, biting his bottom lip under his mask as he uses his other hand to cup and gently squeeze his balls. His mind teases him as he pictures how you would look underneath him as he pounds into you or how good your lips would look wrapped around his cock.

“You feel so good! I-I’m close!”

His torture continues as he hears you beg for your release.

‘That’s it, take it’

His voice echoes in his mind, his movements becoming sloppier as he felt his body heat up from arousal. With a couple of final strokes Ghost cums with a groan, staining the ground with his seed. His chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath, taking a moment to recover and cleaning himself up the best he can before fixing his pants.

Just as Ghost leans down to pick up his weapon, he hears you cry out one last time as he figures that you’ve reached your climax. A smirk pulls at his lips under his mask, this was perfect timing as he feels his bloodlust from earlier return.

‘This is going to be fun.’

[shadow-riley]

What if, hypothetically, Simon got to hunt the reader down through the woods behind their cabin. (Consentually of course.) And once he caught them he takes them back to the house and fucks them like he's trying to get them pregnant.

TYSM for the idea Anon!!!!

RUN, LITTLE MOUSE SimonRiley x reader

MDNI

tw: consensual pr3y/pr3dat0r, r0ugh s3x, cussing, unpr0tect3d p in v, d3gr@ding, slight pr@ise, cre@mp!e, 0ral (f recieve)

f!reader x Simon Riley

You and Simon had taken a break from 141, to really form a life with him. One night, you decided to be a brat, then ran outside, Simon chasing you. Hunting you. This was consensual of coarse. something about the thrill of being hunted sent an exhilarating chill through you as you ran through the woods of your 5 acres.

"C'mere, ye brat" His voice is thick with his British accent

Simon soon catches you, slinging you over his shoulder and carrying you inside. The second the door is shut and locked, he's fucking you like he wants to be a father.

"SIMON!" you gasp.

He slams you down onto the kitchen floor, your back hitting it with a hard thud, Simon leaning down and kissing you hard.

"You don't get to run from me. Brat."

He flips you over into your stomach, bringing your hips up, and uses his knees to bring yours further apart.

You gasp, the change in position giving you a moments break to breath, but that was short lived until Simon rammed himself into you mercilessly, his dick hard and hitting your g spot everytime.

"Holy fuck simon!"

"Love, you will listen to me. You are mine. I will not stop until you understand that you are mine. I will not stop being possessive over you, and I will not stop making you submit to me"

You soon become a trembling mess, gripping at anything, hell, the kitchen tiles.

"Shh...my pretty little slut...."

He brings his hand around you, rubbing tight circles on your clit, his other hand on your neck, keeping your head up, forcing you to watch yourself in a full length mirror not far from where you lay on the cool tiles.

"that's my girl....fuck..."

He continued to fuck your brains out, only pulling out to see his white slick dripping out of you. The sight makes him feral, his tongue finding its way to your dripping hole.

You can't do anything but whimper and moan, an overstimulated mess.

He buries his face in your sex, not coming up for air.

"you're MINE....i own you...." He grunted.

After he cleaned you up he pick you up off the floor and carries you to your room, where he lay with you, marking your body.

Not too much softer, just less on edge after that.

XOXO tysm for reading!! not proof read!

[lvrsrequ3st]

simon ghost riley who eats pussy nastyyyy! (a munch!)

cw: reader squirts. mentions of drool if that puts someone off ig. minors go. there's a ghost behind you, shoo!

simon is the messiest eater you know, whether that's simply have dinner or having you sprawled out on the bed with his head in between your thighs. he's still messy, and you have scold him for it because you always end up having to clean up the messy plate or the messy bedsheets!

it gets even worse when he's come back from work. he hasn't seen you in six whole months. he misses you just as much as you miss him so as per usual, your legs are spread out on the bed and simon's head between them, eating you out like you're his favourite meal – you are. at this point it's a routine.

he holds your legs open while his tongue attends to your dripping cunt, licking up your juices, not wasting a single drop before his mouth attaches firmly against your nub, sucking on it. the sudden action causing a mewl to slip out of your mouth.

he pulls away from your clit before slipping his tongue into your quivering hole, thrusting his tongue in and out of you while his thumb toys with your clit. he's making a literal mess. mouth drooling from it being open for to long. he's quite literally drooling onto your pussy. messy fucking eater.

your thighs tighten around your head along with your grip in his hair, your moans are growing louder as well. simon knows your close. he picks up the pace of his tongue along with his fingers, rubbing your clit side to side until you crash down from your high. he rubs your clit, helping out with your high until you whimper from overstimulation. that's when he stops.

he pulls away and grins at the mess he made. you look down to see your mess along with his. spit on your pussy and a puddle on the sheets. you look up at simon about to cuss him out but when you were about to he cuts you off,

"ay, don't put the blame on me. this time it was you."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

about me + rules

lazy proof read again hehe...

[ink-n-shadow]

i’m back on my owner!ghost bullshit!!

𝜗𝜚 cw: slight smut (minors—DNI), pet play, owner!ghost, aftercare, collar/collaring, subspace, unedited

but instead of rough and tough owner!ghost, it’s after a particularly draining scene for you, and owner!ghost is all soft touches and gentle hands. he’s letting your tear-stained and red cheek rest against his sweat-slick thigh as his fingers begin gently undoing the tethers of your metal play collar.

“shh, shh—s’alright, pup. gonna put the soft one back on,” ghost murmurs soothingly when you start squirming in his hold, a slurred whine leaving your mouth as you try and prevent him from taking the play collar off. because in your still delirious and staticky brain, you see it as a sign of him untethering you from him forever.

his calloused fingertips are soothing the reddened skin beneath the metal before tying the soft silk collar you always wear back around your throat, making sure the small metal tag simply etched with a cursive ‘g’ isn’t resting on your irritated skin.

owner!ghost after a scene is lathering your sore body in shea butter, letting you remain a boneless, floaty mess in the ruined sheets as he tries to ease the aches before you come back down to earth.

it isn’t until your entire body is smooth as silk and the stars behind your eyelashes have dimmed to mere glimmers that he’s pulling you to sit up in his lap, head slumped into the curve of his muscled chest and his fingers carding through your tangled hair.

“where’s my baby, hm?” he hums affectionately under his breath as his crooked nose prods against your sticky temple, scarred lips trailing feathery kisses along your hairline amidst your slow decent from your submissive headspace. when he notices you peeking up at him from beneath your lashes still frosted with unshed tears (from the umpteenth orgasm he’d given you for the night), his lips curve into his typical crooked grin.

“there you are—there’s my good pup.”

[beamergirll11]

Do you like Ghost And Konig?

Well I have a treat for you! This man sounds just like Ghost. He even has audios that are actually meant to be Ghost, He has one audio that is Konig. NSFW.

[matcha-flavored-cake]

Look out

I think Motto Motto likes you

I like'em BIG

[poisonedprose]

I just got this thought but how do you think Simon would react if his gf had an only fans🤭🤭🤭

₊˚✧ cam girl — in which simon reacts to you filming for your only fans

simon 'ghost' riley x pornstar!fem!reader

warnings: 0.5k words, smut, pwp, f!mastubation, f!nipple piercings, voyeurism, exhibitionism,

masterlists

You had mentioned vaguely to Simon about your job. You never went in too much detail, only saying that it's an online, stay at home job. He never took your inexplicable answer to heart, he was the same way when you asked about his job. He enjoyed the simplicity of not stressing over telling each other every single thing and with him barely being home he'd never caught you doing your job.

Well, that was until today. He was laying in bed, reading a book that he's been meaning to read since however long ago when you asked if it was alright if you got some work done. He, of course, was blissfully unaware of what was about to happen and happily gave you permission, promising it wouldn't distract him. 

As he promised, he wasn't distracted by you. He didn't notice as you set up a camera, placed a few pillows on the floor, dug into the box he stored all of the toys he loved to use on you, and took your clothes off, being left in a matching lingerie set. Your cold. metal nipple piercings shining through the mesh of the lingerie. You felt nervous as you sat on the floor, in front of the camera. You'd never filmed any videos with a live audience before, especially with an audience as enticing as Simon was.

Ghost looked up from his book, shooting you a quick glance before returning to reading. His eyes widen and his head shoots up again, his pupils dilating when he sees you in front of the camera with barely anything on. He watched with intent eyes as you turned the camera on. He closed his book and put it on the bed. He slowly sat up, breaking his promise of not getting distracted.

You felt his eyes glaring into you, nervous butterflies bubbling in your stomach as you trail your hand down your body. You rub your clothed clit, exaggerating a moan. Simon's eyes practically bulge out of his head. He would have never guessed your online, stay at home job was porn. His face flashed with jealousy, he envied the men who sat at their computers and watched you perform for them. 

But another part of him was just totally and utterly aroused. The fact that these strangers on the internet got to see you pleasure yourself did something to him that he couldn't explain. He should hate the fact that anyone other than him got to see you in your most intimate moments, but for some reason, all it did was create a huge tent in his pants. 

He looked back at you and watched the plush of your thighs as you rode one of the pillows. The bulge in his pants and the look in his eyes only grew with lust with each passing moment. Your high-pitched, pornographic moans were symphonic. He groaned lowly and ran a hand over his erection, softly palming himself to release any of the tension you were giving him.

He didn't even have time to process what you were doing before you were pushing your panties to the side and pushing the vibrator against your swollen clit. Your nerves seem to calm when you see he finds pleasure in this. His intent eyes only urged you more. Your fake moans were becoming more and more real. He only wished he knew about this sooner, maybe your videos could keep him from becoming lonely when he was deployed. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎┊ㅤㅤ💋 ㅤㅤ ﾟㅤㅤ ┊‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎