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writersdrug · 11 days

Note

no thoughts just waitress!reader showing up for shifts like nothings wrong after the date situation

just keeping it calm and professional. working her shifts efficiently and no longer bantering/flirting with ghost, who would rather reader melt down and tear into him than putting up the walls around herself hehe

Ok I'm combining some asks here that had some different ideas - I got so many of you guys demanding reparation for making reader cry 😭 here's the comfort chapter! (Still a tad angsty at the beginning)

Ghost had finished your tips for you that night. He had half a mind to slide a hundred in your payout folder as an apology for ruining your date... but what good would that do? That would make you quit for good, if you hadn't already.

He lays in his bed, eyes stuck to the ceiling, still in his jeans and black shirt. He wishes he could snuff out the guilt that sits heavily in his gut. He wonders what you're doing - probably crying, possibly making a half-assed voodoo doll of himself and stabbing his chest with a dull steak knife, because that's all he feels right now.

He gets up early the next day after a rough three hours of sleep. He lumbers down the stairs to the office - Price is there, sorting out cash and working on the next supply order. He looks at Simon, who's rubbing his eyes and looking worse for wear.

"Mornin'." Price says, turning back to the monitor. Ghost grunts in response, dropping himself onto the couch behind Price. His head aches from the lack of sleep, thoughts circling in his mind about how to apologize to you. He can imagine you won't want to talk to him - or, if you do, it'll most likely be profanities wedged between insults. He'd love for you to berate him right now, and make him feel like he got what he deserved.

Price sighs. "You sleep alright?"

"I've had better."

"Nightmare?"

"... yea, somethin' like that."

Price huffs. "I'm workin' front of house today." He says, grabbing the bag of tips and standing up. "Goin' down to drop these in the safe, then I'll help you stock up."

Simon opens his eyes, looking at Price with confusion. "You?"

Price nods. "Dove called out sick. Sounded like she's got the lurgy."

That delivers the final blow to Simon. He knows you're not sick - you're avoiding him now. All plans to apologize are now out the window, and the more time passes, the harder it'll be to do it.

"You've only got yourself to blame, Simon." Price says, heading down to the restaurant floor.

He curses under his breath as Price leaves. How he heard about what happened - he could only assume it had been from Soap. He drops his arm over his face and groans. He wants to call out himself, but then they might as well shut down the entire pub for the day.

Should he try phoning you? Would you answer, let alone allow him to get more than five words out? What would he say? "Sorry I ruined your date, I was jealous tha' ya got a life outside of the pub." There is no variation of an apology that feels like it would be enough. He made you cry, for fucks sake. That was a punishment in and of itself, but he still had to own up to what he'd done.

He sighs loudly; his body feels heavy as he drags himself off the couch, trudging down the stairs. He still has a bar to run.

It had to have been the longest shift of Simon's life, and he even wrapped things up a bit earlier than usual. He didn't have the gift of your incessant chatting or being able to tease you to make the time pass. Price was a solid companion in front of house, but there was hardly a conversation to be held - even with the usual bar crowd. The patrons had a look of confusion for the majority of the night, wondering why Soap wasn't popping his head out of the kitchen to chat every once in a while - and why the hell the owner was serving tables, and not the chipper, spunky waitress.

When Simon had locked up for the night, he noticed your bike was no longer in the alley. Johnny must have dropped it off on the way back to his place.

Today isn't much different - at least, not for Simon. He's still suffering from a lack of sleep, he's irritable (he had a spat with Johnny in the morning, over something he can't even remember), and his work ethic is suffering. He's not worried about slicing bar fruit; it'll give him something to do later, when he needs it. Maybe the rush will kick him back into shape.

He stares at the dishes on the edge of the bar - they're all in need of a good polish, but he finds himself stuck on staring at the bar fridge. There's nothing else he needs to stock up on - it's packed completely full with wine, champagne, and cans of beer. He gently kicks the side of it with his boot. He should be checking the to-go boxes, helping Soap with setting up the condiments and soups, making sure the tables all had full salt and pepper shakers. That's what you would be doing. But, you're not here, and neither is Price. He can only hope tonight isn't as busy as the previous night, otherwise he'll have to close some tables. Which would make customers mad. Which would make Price mad. Which would-

Suddenly, he hears three loud bangs against the back door. He freezes, the sound triggering a Pavlovian response. He immediately looks up to the kitchen window - Soap opens the door, and you come jogging inside. You greet him with a smile. He asks how you're feeling, and you say "much better".

He doesn't know what to do with himself, but he just stands there like an idiot as you hang your bag and jacket on a hook. Stands there as you push your way into the restaurant, barely sparing him a glance as you scurry by him. Stands there as you run up the stairs, two at a time, diving nose-first into your chores so you can avoid Simon.

He can't speak. Should he? What can he say? "I'm sorry," for starters, but it isn't that simple. He thought you might have quit, and was preparing his heart for the worst. But now, here you are, running back and forth through the pub and setting up your tables - and it feels like you've never been farther away from him.

In all honesty, you can't bring yourself to talk to him either. You're feeling just as ashamed with your behavior two nights ago as he is about his own. Why the fuck would you expect someone - let alone your boss - to do your chores so that you could run off and have fun on a date? Not only that, but you'd made a scene; you felt like you had half-assed the ice bins in your scramble to get them cleaned, and then you sobbed in the middle of the restaurant. The cherry on top, however, was when you called Price yesterday and told him you had a cold, calling out of your shift. It was a cowardly thing to do, and you could tell he wasn't buying your story.

But: bills need to be paid, rent is due, and you can't lose this job. So you sucked it up and came in today - Simon is easy enough to ignore, separated from you by the bar.

At first, the quiet bartender was relieved that you had showed up for your shift - he wouldn't have searched for a new waitress if you had quit, instead choosing to deal with the consequences of his actions. But he's quickly getting more and more irritated with the silent treatment you're serving. You only talk to him when necessary: a simple "thanks" when you grab your drinks and run them to your tables. You busy yourself between rolling silverware, (over)stocking napkins and condiments, and even going so far as to spray the menus down and scrub them with a rag. You spend more time in the kitchen with Soap; each peal of laughter shared between the two of you is another arrow in Simon's chest. He's stuck behind the bar, listening to woes spilling from drunken lips, forced to watch you flit around and pretend he doesn't exist.

You can't keep this up forever.

Still, you do for most of the night. Even when your shift is coming to an end, the kitchen closed while you close the tabs for your remaining tables, you don't cave and sit at the bar with Simon. You sit at the farthest table from him, the farthest chair, in fact, skimming over your tip receipts - and talking to Soap (who was only able to sit with you since you had helped him knock out his tasks).

Simon's never been as angry with Soap as he is now - and the worst part is he knows it's not justified. He's watching from behind the bar, polishing glasses so hard they might wane into cups. He wants to talk to you. He will talk to you before the night is over. He doesn't expect forgiveness, but he expects that you'll at least let him offer an apology.

One of the regulars at the bar looks to whatever Simon is glaring at, chuckling quietly when he sees you. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Stuff it, Mike." Simon grumbles.

Meanwhile, you walk back from closing out your last table, plopping back in the booth with Soap. "What are you doing after this?"

"Sleepin'." he replies instantly, tossing back an onion ring. "Been dealin' with a grumpy bawbag since early this mornin', and I'm beat."

You glance over at the bar; Simon's back is facing you as he organizes the beer glasses. You really should apologize to him... you just couldn't figure out when the right time would be. He'd still be working by the time your shift ends, and you don't even know if he wants to speak to you at this point.

"Is he mad at me?" you ask, tapping your pen on the table.

Soap sighs. "I'm not goin' t' be the middle man, Bonnie." he says, looking at you intently. "If ye feel like somethin' needs to be said, go talk to 'im."

You groan, leaning back against the seat. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't! He's already pissed at me, and he probably thinks I'm a slacker. What good is an apology?"

"Ye won't know 'til ye talk to 'im, hmm?"

"What if he fires me?"

Johnny barks with laughter, and you frown. "I'm being serious."

"He'd never fire ye." he says, getting up out of the booth. He stretches both arms above his head and lets out a grunt. "In fact, he was throwin' a fit yesterday n' today 'fore ye came in. Bitch took it out on me."

You winced. "I'm sorry-"

"Save it fer 'im." Soap interjected. He left you at the booth with the onion rings and your tips, disappearing into the kitchen. You huff, hunching back over your tips and scribbling through them.

Deep down, you know Soap is right. If anything, you could just apologize to Simon. If he chooses to be grumpy about it, so be it. You've got tough skin... still, you can't stand the thought of him being upset with you - not because of your work ethic, but because you liked him. A lot. And you wanted him to like you back, even if it was in the most platonic way.

But that didn't change anything. An apology was due, and you were going to give him one before you left tonight.

You grabbed an onion ring and popped it in your mouth, grimacing when you realized they were cold. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Simon making his was across the floor to your booth.

Great. Guess the apology is coming now.

He stops at the edge of the table, wiping his hands in a rag. You pretend to punch numbers into your phone's calculator, but they're all random - you just want to look like you're busy.

"May I sit?" he asks, tucking the rag into his back pocket.

You mumble out a "sure", still not looking at him. You hear his large frame slide into the seat across from you, polyester squeaking underneath his weight. You continue to do random equations on your calculator, letting a thick blanket of tension settle between the two of you. You can feel his stare burning into your head, his arms folded over his chest... and you notice that his mask is in his hand. You finally look up at him.

It's not the first time you've seen his face - you've caught glimpses of it when he smokes in the alley, or when he eats whatever Soap throws under the warmer for you and Simon. But this time, he's not taking it off to be convenient. And, dear god, you're just now paying attention to how scarred, rugged, and handsome he is - but now's not the time for those kinds of thoughts. You feel like he's reaching out an olive branch, showing a possible vulnerable side to himself. So, you place your pen on the table and lean back.

He stays quiet for a moment longer, trying to figure out how to start this. He wants to make sure that you know he's here to apologize, not to ask for forgiveness. From his silence, you assume he's waiting for you to go first.

"I'm sorry about Tuesday night." you say, eyes dropping to the table. Simon's astounded that you're the one apologizing, but you continue. "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, and I'm sorry for trying to dump my job on you."

He feels worse, now. Was that even possible? He was expecting anger, insults - a detailed, frustrated explanation of what you did last night since you did not go on that date. But you're the one saying sorry? You think you're to blame for all of this unspoken aggression? Oh, you really do confuse him, sometimes...

"You don't need t' be sorry, luv." he says, gazing at you with a softness you'd never seen before, not in his brown eyes, at least.

"No, I do." you say, nearly pleading with him to let you be apologetic. "I was being a brat, and whether you usually do the ice bins or not, I shouldn't have expected you would do them without asking." You push your pen on the table, doing your best to convey your feelings. "And yeah, I was late for my date, but... well, he sounded like a dick, anyways."

Simon chuckles, watching you stare at the table. "Well, I owe you an apology, too. I jus'..." he sighed heavily, running a hand down his jaw. "I don' even know. Guess I was bein' lazy, or... I got jealous tha' you've got a life outside of this pub. Feels like you belong here."

He immediately regrets saying that - it sounds way too possessive and... just straight up weird. But you smile, taking comfort in the fact that he still wants you here. That this was the whole reason behind the mess.

"Soap called you a bitch. Said you were an asshole all day."

Simon scoffs. "Yea... 'm pretty sure Price would tell ya the same. And he wants ya back, too. Couldn't stand waitin' on tables, he was tryin' t' trade places with me all night."

You laugh. The world seems alright again - not perfect, but good enough. It might take a night of sleeping the tension away before you're fully back to your normal self, but this is a leap in the right direction. You look at Simon, into his brown, steady eyes, as they stare right back at you.

He breaks the silence. "I really am sorry for ruinin' your date."

You smile softly. "Thank you, Simon. I forgive you."

And just like that, the weight of his guilt is lifted away. The lingering sourness remains, a reminder that he had made you cry. But you had forgiven him, which was more than he was hoping to get tonight.

"Are we better?" you ask timidly.

He nods once. "Better."

You smile - you slowly slide your stack of receipts to him, biting your lip. "Cool - can I have my money?"

Just like that, his smirk drops - but you know it's all in good humor. He huffs, snatching the stack from the table and scoots his way out of the booth. "Always got money on the mind, eh?"

"I've always got rent on my mind." you retort, following after him with the bowl of onion rings. You plant yourself at your usual spot on the end of the bar, right near the POS where Simon cashes out your tips. He tries to hurry up, assuming you want to dip and go home after such an intense conversation. He slides the mask back over his face and punches his code in, trying to edit your tips into the system as quickly as he can.

"Simon?"

"Hm?" his response is instant, turning around to look back at you. You've got your phone on the bartop, and your back and jacket on the unoccupied seat next to you.

"Can I stay for a drink?"

He's melting on the inside, only held together by his own skin. He sets your receipts down and opts to do them later, right before whenever you decide to leave. He won't miss on an opportunity to have you stay longer.

"Course, luv. What's it gonna be?"

"You know how to make a cosmo?"

He chuckles, grabbing a glass from the shelf behind him. "Sure do."

#bartender ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost cod #cod x reader #call of duty

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ceilidho · 7 months

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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 2; ghoap x reader) part 1

The hard part is admitting to himself that he doesn’t know how to function on leave without Ghost’s voice in his ear.

Johnny’s two days into his annual leave when that stray thought crosses his brain. Out with chums even, packed into the booth of an old pub in his hometown, the leather well-worn and a match on the telly that he half watches while one of his mates goes up to the bar to order another round for them. In between his third and fourth pint of lukewarm mild, he thinks something like, wonder what Simon’s up to.

The thought comes and then keeps coming. Keeps cropping up when he least expects. At the pub (wonder what Simon’s up to), in line at the grocery store (wonder how Ghost takes his steak), drowsily puttering around the kitchen while making breakfast (no way he wears the mask at home), listening to some guy in front of him hack up a lung at the dry cleaner (Lt’d do his fuckin’ head in if he was here), and even in the shower with his head tipped back, rinsing out the suds (wonder if he’s got a girl tucked away at home).

Is it so unusual? Johnny can’t remember a time in his life when someone lived in his head night and day, but Ghost’s presence feels like an extension of his own these days. He’s cycled through girlfriends without a care in the world, without contemplating their existence for half as long, but they never cradled his life like a small bird in the palm of their hands and returned it safe and sound, did they?

Still, he feels it like a knot in his chest. Dreams about Ghost even; wakes up hot and hard, and scrubs his hand down the side of his face when he sits up in bed. Phantom memories of a body heavier than his weighing him down (just the duvet) and a thick hand curling around his dick (his own hand wrapped around his shaft, rubbing one out in his sleep).

He shakes it off, but it follows him out into the real world. Looking at the door of a coffee shop and thinking absentmindedly, Ghost would have to duck under that.

Johnny puts it out of his mind. As much as he’s able to, that is. Chalks it up to some kind of hero worship. He’s worked with superior officers before—plenty of times, hundreds of times—but there are few men of Ghost’s calibre, both in skillset and mystique. Not to mention the sheer size of the guy. And what is Johnny if not a moth to a flame?

Better not to ruminate. He casts the memory of seeing Ghost’s dick in the showers after their last mission (monstrous thing, uncut, pubes darker than the hair on his head, more than a mouthful—it’d give him lockjaw) out of his head. Doesn’t think about it. Laughs at a mate’s joke at the pub when he didn’t catch a word of it to mask the way he perked up at the sight of a wide-shoulder man until he turned around, giving Johnny a proper look at his face.

He’s not ready to think about it. Might never be able to really look at why he eats it up, why he struts around with his chin cocked just a bit higher than usual because he knows everyone else is watching him with equal parts envy and curiosity for being Ghost’s favourite.

Then, one day, he meets a girl.

Johnny’s not winning an award any time soon for world’s best son, but he knows a thing or two. The first thing being chocolates and the second being flowers. His sisters handle the rest; they fuss about the party, get a gift certificate to the spa, send out the invites—all that fun stuff. He’s sent off for the bare essentials. Practically kicked out of the house by his oldest sister—nearly brains himself on the asphalt and tugs his windbreaker on when it’s thrown out the door after him a second later, grumbling about being the errand boy.

He picks up a box of chocolates from the corner shop (not fancy enough, his sisters will probably bitch, but that’s a problem for later) before heading down the road to the florist. There’s a bench out front stacked with tin flower vases, the only spot of colour on a dreary spring morning. He spends a couple minutes chatting with the cashier and flirting a bit halfheartedly (he thinks maybe it’ll be worth it if it gets him a discount, even five percent off) until the florist comes out from the back.

“Jesus, who gave ye the right?” Johnny breathes, horse blinders on, vision narrowing on the object of desire coming out of the back in a linen apron and simple t-shirt underneath, scissors poking out of the front pocket.

“The right?” she repeats back, blinking.

“To leave the house lookin’ so fuckin’ gorgeous. Glad I wasn’t driving when I passed you by—woulda been in a twenty car pile up.”

She’s not impressed in the slightest. It’s thrilling. By that point, the cashier is long forgotten. Probably not the best impression he’s ever made, but he’s made worse ones. It’s not every day he comes across an angel. Hard to be polite in front of a real life miracle.

He wears her down over the week though, showing up each day for a new bouquet. His mam’s never liked him more, so at least there’s that. His sisters side-eye him whenever he ducks out of the house to head down the road to the florist’s, but even they know better than to bring it up and risk pissing off their mam. He interrogates her about flowers and her job, makes his presence unavoidable, a week long siege that ends with Johnny taking her out to dinner and then letting her take him to bed.

He wakes up nestled in her cozy apartment above the flower shop, stretching out and making himself right at home. When she trades in her linen apron for a terry cloth robe and stands expectantly by the door, Johnny just grins. Shows all of his teeth.

“Are ye just gonna use me and kick me out?” he pouts. Folds his hands behind his head and digs a foot into the sheets, trying to sink into the mattress. Little king in his castle.

“You know, you don’t have to pussyfoot around with me. Weren’t you just trying to get laid?” she asks, brow arched. The disbelief thick in her voice makes it clear what she thinks of him.

“No’ just some playboy, hen,” he scoffs. “I have feelings too.”

Her other eyebrow lifts. He’s tickled pink.

He plays the part well, he supposes. Lounges in bed and eats grapes all morning while she stares at him from the kitchen like he might dissipate at any moment. He’s used to leaving a false impression, like a lake that someone builds their house next to until years go by and someone says I think this was once a meteor.

When she comes back to bed around mid morning, Johnny wastes no time pulling her up onto the bed until she plants her cunt over his mouth and sinks down onto his waiting tongue.

Candy sweet pussy, he thinks blissfully, then says it out loud because he can never keep his mouth shut. It must tickle because she yelps and nearly pulls away from his face altogether, but he wrenches her back down, fingers digging into her ass cheeks a bit too forcefully. He’ll pay for that later.

In the aftermath, when she collapses beside him in bed and rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, he itches in his skin to message Ghost. It perplexes him. They never text, he and Ghost; they don’t call, they don’t write, they don’t email. For all intents and purposes, their relationship ends at the perimeter around base, dissolves to nothing. It’s not Ghost’s fault he trickles into Johnny’s dreams sometimes.

A week goes by. Calm the mind. He thinks of Ghost and his fingers tremble and the phone stays silent and he lets the thought go. Steady. Breathe in and out. His caryatid girl slips in and out of his sheets, hesitant always like he might leave. Johnny doesn’t know if she wants him to, wants to feel vindicated in her assumption, but of all her wants, that ranks the lowest in his mind.

He spirals deeper into it, infatuated. She’s sweet but snippy, candy sweet with a sour kick—everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. Ever unimpressed, watching him with a small, hidden smile, amused despite herself.

Johnny wonders if this is the universe waving its hand in front of his face. Yoohoo, missing something?

He looks pointedly away.

It’s new, but maybe he’s like every other military man in the world, unable to go with the flow, dissatisfied with seeing where things go. He needs instant gratification, everything now-now-now, the certainty of commitment—he spills blood with everyone he knows, so why would his girl be any different?

Returning back to base is harder this time around. The last day of his leave is an exercise in restraint, tempered only by her smile when he sees her off at the door to her apartment, reluctant to leave.

“C’mon, promise me you’ll call, hen,” Johnny mumbles into her mouth, catching her answer with a languid swipe of his tongue. His arms press her tight to his chest, digging his hands into her back pockets and giving a good squeeze, relishing in the way she squeaks. “How’m I gonna survive without ye, huh? They’re gonna have to jumpstart my heart after it gives out from missing ye so bad.”

“So dramatic. You have my number,” she says when he finally pulls back enough to let her speak.

“No, please, baby, please—promise me—”

“Oh my god, alright, fine—I’ll call. Now get going already.”

The drive back to base leaves him feeling bedraggled, lost. When he gets in, it’s straight to the barracks, an hour long nap before reporting to Price, dragging his feet the whole way over. Moping, for lack of a better word, until he rounds a corner and nearly collides with someone that stops him with a single hand on his shoulder.

When he looks up to eyes rimmed in black paint, the world lightens. His shoulders lift.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Johnny.”

It takes Johnny awhile to bring her up with Ghost. Something keeps holding him back, choking him when he tries to say it outloud. He blames it on uncertainty (had to be sure she was the one, Lt, ye ken?) but he feels the truth at the core of him. When he does finally muster up the nerve to pass his phone to Ghost where her photo is front and centre, no mistaking his intentions, he waits on tenterhooks for a reaction.

Only breathes out when Ghost asks to meet her. He can do that.

“Aye, Lt. Just for you.”

#99% chance im gonna edit this to fuck before i post it on ao3 because im trying to properly balance the pov switch #also its not done yet #ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghoap x reader #ghost/soap/reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #ghost/reader #soap/reader

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johnnyprimecc · 2 years

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Olde City

First, check out my Ride and Review video of this joint. Aight, let’s get into it. Rumor has it, a former partner from Shorty’s struck out on his own after some creative differences. Behold, the birth of Olde City – in fact, Olde City has taken over this former Shorty’s space on Madison Avenue. While it may seem redundant, it isn’t. Shorty’s has gone downhill lately, and Olde City is better than…

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ghostssweetgirl · 1 year

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jealousy simon 'ghost' riley x reader (smut)

Pairing: fem reader x simon 'ghost' riley [smut]

CW: fem reader, fem pronouns used, slight dom ghost, jealousy, alcohol intake, possessive/jealous/makeup sex, p in v sex

nsfw under the cut ! minors , do not interact !! 18 ++ !!

alternate version here

word count: 2.6k~

Always being close to your Lieutenant Ghost, it wasn't ordinarily weird when you went out to pubs, bars, or the combined, such as where you'll be tonight - a busy bar/restaurant downtown. Except for this time, you had been in your feelings and discovered your own towards your superior. You contemplated telling him, but to be safe, you wanted to wait until you had a few drinks in, in case he doesn't accept it, you can blame it on the alcohol. (lmao blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a alcohol 🤪 I'm so funny guys... LAUGH OR ELSE😈)

You ordered your first drink and found a table to sit at while waiting for him. Of course, it would be hard not to notice him, as big of a man as he was. So, you busied yourself on your phone in the meantime.

15 minutes go by and you sigh, looking up to the entrance at the right time when he walked in. Your face instinctually lit up, waving at him. He returned the wave before gathering a bartender's attention and being handed a bottle of whiskey as he made his way over to you, grunting as he sat down.

"What's up, Lieutenant?" fuck you were already being awkward.

He tilted his head, noticing you acting strange but not pushing it. "Hello to you, too."

You grabbed the menus and handed him one before barely skimming through it, closing it, and setting it back. None of their entrees looked appetizing, so you're going with safe food.

"I don't know why you grab a menu. Y'always get the same thing," he joked. "Tenders and chips."

"And you always get a steak. Medium rare with scalloped potatoes and mac n' cheese," you played along. You knew him well, if not better than he knew you. Who were you kidding, he was a very observant man. You wouldn't be surprised if he knew more about you than you thought.

"Guess you do pay attention," he chuckled as he closed his menu. He lifted his mask and took a long swig of whiskey.

After you enjoy your meals, you drink about 6 [or however many cups/shots you want, idc] more cups while Ghost's on his second bottle, you're filled with laughter, and feel very giddy. Your body jolted as you remembered what you wanted to tell him tonight, and by gauging his mood, it really wouldn't be a bad idea, especially at this point.

"Need another one. Be back," he told you, getting up to the bar. It was pretty busy now, a bunch of women gathered at the front.

You tried to keep your eyes off of him, and you even picked up your phone to attempt to distract yourself, but it stayed in your hand, falling to the table as you watched what was happening. A woman, a very attractive one honestly, peeked at Ghost, checking him out and smiling ear to ear as she approached him. You figured of course he would look, she's showing off her whole body in that damn outfit she was wearing. You couldn't read her lips because of that damned big smile, but it was very obvious she was flirting.

You watched as her hand bravely snaked up his forearm. He turned his head slowly, and his eyes scanned over her body. Oh, how your heart sank. But you pursed your lips, nearly fighting back tears as you watched the interaction. He shifted in his step, still waiting for his bottle. His head bobbed as he spoke, and you only hoped he wasn't reciprocating her intentions.

And if that wasn't bad enough, soon as two barstools cleared up, they sat next to each other. Your breath fastened as you kept trying to pry your eyes away. His hand lay on the small of her back while she sat up on the stool. You're finally able to look away, rage filling your head as you pick up your wallet and pull enough cash to cover the bill and then some, with a hefty tip.

What the fuck was taking so long for the drinks, and why the fuck was he touching her? At this point, you didn't want to know. You were ready to confess your feelings, to hope that you could call him yours, but of course, some slut would pull him away - ruin your chance. You almost saw red as you huffed, picking up your stuff and storming out the door, walking a good while to where you parked, damn the busy city.

She'll keep him busy, y/n, don't worry. He won't notice you're gone, and sure as hell won't care - you told yourself.

You were about 10 feet from your car when you surprisingly heard a deep voice calling your name, getting closer every second.

"Y/N!" he called.

You ignored him, booking it into your car, and fiddling with the keys to unlock it. Goddamn, if he wasn't as fast as he was, you barely got your key into the door when he took your keys away from the door, grabbed your wrist, turning you to face him.

"What the bloody hell has gotten into you, y/n?" he asked in a stern voice, concerned. "You've been acting weird all night, talk to me."

You rolled your eyes. You bit your tongue as you didn't want to say anything too mean, but fuck if you weren't livid with him. It wasn't his fault, you knew that. You know he didn't know and couldn't read your damn mind, but for some reason you expected him to. You huffed, not being able to help your venomous tone as you replied, "Nothing! Nothing is wrong! I'm going home!"

You once again try to open the door, hurriedly trying to escape.

He slammed the car door shut, towering over you, almost raising his voice. "What the fuck is your problem, y/n? Fuckin' tell me. I'm not going back and forth with you and I'm not fucking chasing you. Tell me what the fuck is wrong."

Tears pricked your eyes, finally falling as you stammered, trying to find the words. You gave up, looking at the ground. Very careful with his words, he gently cupped your chin. "Hey, hey. Come on," he sighed. "Don't give me a hard time. Just tell me."

"I-I just wish you would notice how I feel for you, Ghost! I've had a fucking crush on you for... I don't know how long now! And seeing you flirt with that... that bitch! I just... I got so mad, I was..." you sniffled, stopping yourself from going on a ramble and trying not to be disrespectful towards some random girl who honestly didn't deserve it as you knew it wasn't right to hate on people.

"Flirtin'? I was flirtin' with her? Sweetie, no..." He wiped your tears away with his thumbs, carefully not to smudge your eyeliner. "Fuckin' hell, I'm sorry. That was nothing, y/n. It meant nothing."

"Yeah, right," you scoff, finding it hard to believe him, remembering how he was looking at her. "I'm sorry. I should have never said anything. Please, just let me go home."

"Y/n... Let me get us an Uber... We've been drinkin' luv," his voice softened, showing genuine concern for you. While it was somehow convincing, you still felt anger. "Will you let me come home with you? Please."

You don't think you've ever heard him say 'please' like this before. You fought with yourself mentally, until of course, you caved in.

"Whatever," you replied.

You didn't talk to him on the drive home, making it obvious you were mad at him as you faced yourself against the window. He tried to touch your shoulder in comfort but you pushed him away. When the car finally came to a stop, you got out in a hurry, and for no reason, sped walk to your door even though you know full and damn well you invited him back here with you.

You locked yourself in the bathroom as you needed a moment to straighten up and change into pajamas.

Finally calming down, you walk to your hallway. Looking back and forth between your bedroom and the living room, your body moved on its own to where he was.

You both make eye contact as you come and sit down. You sit down, hugging your thighs to your chest. "So..."

"So. You have feelings for me, yeah?"

"Yeah... I guess I do, so now what? I ruined our friendship?" you shrugged, trying to find any bit of discomfort in his face - eyes - that damn mask.

"No," he shook his head, leaning into his knees, keeping eye contact. "Not at all."

"Well," you look down. "Now what, Lieutenant?"

"Quit callin' me that."

As you find his eyes again, they seem more relaxed as they look you up and down. "Simon."

"Okay... Simon," you repeated his name.

Awkward fucking silence. Fuck it, you were going to sleep.

"Since we're fine, I'm going to sleep."

"Not yet you are," he softly groaned, getting up, listening to his knees crack before he knelt before you, a sight you must admit was heavenly. Knees spread on the ground, still at face level. His hands rested on his thick, muscular thighs. "Y/n... I do like you. Have for a long time."

You have to shake your head to look away from his bottom half. "Do you mean that? Or are you just saying that?"

He looked at your hands, softly pulling them away. Your thighs spread as they fell on the couch. His thumbs rubbed the top of your hands. "Mean that, truly." He pulled away from one hand, lifting his mask above his soft, pink lips before he planted a loving kiss on your hand, before turning it over to kiss at your palm, letting you cradle his face.

You relaxed into his touch, a breath you've been holding for a while finally releasing. His soft eyes met yours for a moment, you saw the universe. Time stopped as you both leaned into a passionate kiss, he cups both sides of your face as he takes in all your mouth had to offer, every taste lingering from your fruity drinks mixed with his tobacco and whiskey combination.

It wasn't long before he hoisted you up, letting your legs wrap around his torso while he blindly walked in the direction where your bedroom would be. The kiss only broke when he asked you which door to go into.

He hovered over you as he set you on your bed, the bed sinking in where his hands held himself up. He moved on from your lips to your jaw, sucking down into your neck, licking a stripe up your pulse. His knee maneuvered between your thighs, grinding into your heat, surely already sopping wet. Finally feeling how he touches you, kisses you, handles you - you could orgasm alone from just this.

He lifted his hands, brushing over your lips which greedily took his index finger in, sucking on it, swirling your tongue around it, earning a sinful groan from Simon. He fixed his position, hiking his knees up next to your hips as he took his fingers out of your mouth with a pop of your lips, switching to another pair.

His hand glides over your breast, sliding over your perked nipple, reaching underneath the band of your pajama pants, to the hem of your underwear. "You sure you want this, luv? Don't know that I can hold back if you say 'yes', doll..." he warned.

"Yes, yes, I want this," you breathed. With your consent, two thick, wet fingers found your throbbing clit, rubbing it in slow circles. Your body tensed as you gasped in pleasure, biting your lip as you looked into his dark, lustful eyes.

"So fuckin' wet f'me. All for me, right, lovie?" he cooed.

"All- Oh! Only for you, Simon~!" you back bowed off the bed as you swear you were already approaching your first orgasm. His fingers spread your folds before finding your clenched hole. The squelch nearly bounced off the walls of your pussy as he slowly and eagerly pushed two fingers in, carefully pistoning his fingers inside of your spongy walls.

"Fuck~, so fuckin' tight and wet. Can't wait to fuck you silly. Make you feel so damn good, baby..."

"Simon!" you whined as he hit that spot, your pussy clenched relentlessly, making it harder for him to thrust in and out as your orgasm washed over you, gushing all over his fingers, slick and thickly coating his fingers.

"What a good girl, yeah? You did so well, baby," he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your sweaty forehead as you caught your breath. He smirked as he cleaned off his fingers, and you embarrassingly watched, blushing as you saw his eyes roll back at the taste of you - your cum. "Ready for my cock, luv? Yeah?"

Oh, how you nodded before he even finished the sentence. He swiftly pulled your pants off before taking his off. He slapped your clothed pussy, watching your body shiver at the impact and chuckling at your state.

You look down to see his cock, and your eyes widened. How you were going to take him, you didn't know but you knew it would ruin you~.

He kissed at your naval before slowly pulling your underwear down. "Can you take all of me, lovie?"

"Mhm!" you were eager to please him, even though you were unsure if he would fit.

He teased his tip between your folds, gathering the remaining slick from your orgasm before pushing his thick head into you slowly.

"Fuck! S-so big, Simon..." Your legs quivered but readied to lock around his hips.

"Too tight, fuckin' hell..." he strained, having to physically hold back from slamming into you all at once.

As he inched in deeper, your back arched higher and higher, eager to fully take him into you. He stretched you out nicely until his tip kissed your cervix, and he bottomed out. Your eyes squeezed shut as you gripped his shoulders, he leaned down to suckle at your neck, deafening his groans into your skin.

"Don't stop, please... please," you begged. You needed more, needed him to ruin you and show you that he's yours and you his.

"Fuckin' hell..." his eyes rolled back at your pleas, obliging instantly as he picked up the pace. Your tightness was surely going to milk him of all that he had, but he didn't think he could last too much longer due to the sweet, sweet melody he was creating from your moans that echoed off the walls.

"Right there, Simon~! Oh my god!" your legs shook even as they were tightly locked around his waist. Your nails clutched at the back of his neck, so focused on the pleasure you didn't notice the wetness that was blood that was pooling around your nails from your scratches into him; he didn't care, he was getting off to pleasing you.

"Cum with me, lovie..." he demanded softly.

White heat licked the back of your eyes before you saw stars, nearly blacking out. He falls on top of you as he paints your insides white, the heavy weight of his body was in fact very comforting, and you found yourself slipping off to sleep.

He allowed you a moment before he woke you, wanting to help you clean yourself off before heading to bed.

"You with me, darlin'?" he chuckled as he rubbed your cheek, lovingly staring into your eyes, looking over each feature of your face.

You smile. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. That was... so good."

He smirked, deeply chuckling. "Right, let's get you washed up, babe."

He helped you up, leading you to the bathroom, and that's mostly all you remembered of this night.

As you lay in bed, you smile yourself to sleep with Simon next to you. Before dozing off, you wondered...

Why was I mad again?

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