#simon Riley x you

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon likes when you manspread | SUGGESTIVE

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Simon lives for the way you man spread— whether it’s on the heli ride back from a grueling mission, in the mess hall after training, or slouched in your chair during a painfully boring briefing.

Whenever he can, he sits next to you, reveling in the way your thigh presses against his like you don’t even care.

And when some rookie has the audacity to comment on it, telling you it’s not “ladylike”. Simon dares him to say it again with just a look. The kind that makes men straighten up and rethink their choices. Later, in training, he makes sure the idiot regrets opening his mouth, pushing him harder than necessary, watching with satisfaction as he struggles to keep up.

Then it’s back to you. Back to his bed, where you’re stretched out, lazy and smirking because you know him too well.

“Y’know, it was just some stupid comment,” you hum, voice teasing, like you weren’t just watching him get all worked up over it.

Simon huffs, settling between your legs, hands already gripping your thighs. “Can’t have anyone tellin’ my bird how to sit, mm?”

His fingers slip beneath your panties, tugging them to the side as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“Besides,” he rasps, nuzzling closer, “I like when you man spread. Gives me room for m’ head.”

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Wrote this during a long ass plane ride

[bi-writes]

Ex husband!Ghost that just shows back up in your house (no matter how many times you've moved without saying a word) anytime he's on leave.

"what the fuck are you doing here?" (18+)

he's standing outside your new flat. he's still wearing his gear and that god-awful mask that you hate so much. if his eyes could change color, they would be red—they're dark with something foul, something that is your fault, but you have no obligation to this man anymore.

that doesn't seem to register with him.

this is the fourth new flat you've moved into within the last year. you keep signing very short leases, picking up and leaving again, but he finds you—every time. he must have sewn a tracker into one of your things; maybe a beloved purse of yours or inside some valued heirloom that he knows you'd never part with. he's such a sick bastard, you don't know what you ever saw in him, you don't know what ever made you feel like you could stand in front of him and God and make factitious vows about a future that never would be.

he's disgusting. he smells like the desert, and his boots are caked with mud. his clothes smell like they've been worn for days, coated with dried sweat and grime, and he reeks like the cigarettes you see peeking out from his jacket pocket. he walks into your flat anyways, not bothering to take anything off, and he sits himself down on your couch and spreads his legs like he's been here before, numerous times, like this is where he lives.

you threw away all his things. you burned the papers that remained. you tossed the rest of his shit that didn't fit in trash bags out the window of the last place you lived, so why the fuck is he in your flat, and why does he seem so fine with it?

"get your dirty ass off my couch, and get out."

ghost is like a fixture there. he picks his head up from where it was laying against the cushions, and he glares at you as he lays his palms against his thighs. he clicks his tongue, sucking on his teeth, and he just stares at you.

the audacity.

but you can't help it. when he thinks you're not looking, he looks at that photo in his wallet—the one with people who aren't here anymore, the worn, scratchy picture that's fading with age and use, and you get that pit in your stomach all over again, the same one you got when you served him the papers for the first time.

ghost is all alone.

he's all alone.

that's why he's at your table. eating your food. that's why he's in your bathroom, having a hot shower, that's why his clothes are in your washing machine (the only ones he owns anymore), and that's why he's laying in your bed, on his side, masked face against a silk pillow as he pumps his cock lazily.

he has no shame. he groans audibly, he says your name, and he hums with delight when you shriek with anger at his cum on your fresh cotton sheets.

but he's all alone.

it feels like way when you hike your sleep shirt up and sit down on him. it feels that way when he pushes you to sit up on his lap, chin against his chest so he can watch your hips shift and your tits bounce as you hold it up with your teeth and whine. it feels like he's lonely when he thumbs at your clit and comes too fast, making a mess between your thighs as his thick cum coats his unkempt hair.

when you try to pull off, he digs his thick fingers into your ass and holds you there.

he's lonely. so he's not done yet.

it's a nasty sight. ghost keeps you there, fixed on his cock, and even when you whimper from overstimulation, he holds you down and tugs at your pebbled nipples as he mumbles about how warm it is here. ghost can't waste another minute, especially not with his name attached to you anymore—he needs to make every orgasm count, so he doesn't have time to hear you whine, he needs to keep you there, and he needs to keep you fat and pleasured and sticky.

he likes missionary the most. he likes feeling your thighs tense up around his hips, and he likes being able to pin you down and keep you underneath him. but most of all, he likes pressing against your tummy, and he likes closing his eyes and grunting, feeling the tip of his cock just underneath his palm. it gives him a sick sense of satisfaction knowing he's so deep inside of you, branding you like he knows only he can. there's a shape inside of your cunt that he fills better than anyone else, and your wobbly legs and curled toes and open-mouth moans only encourage his disgusting sense of ownership.

you can sign whatever fucking papers you want to sign, he's carved his name in your pussy, and that's for life.

[iixch]

☆ iixch production

Ex Husband Simon

ex husband simon who signed the divorce papers without a fuss yet still wears the wedding ring even though you dont wear yours

ex husband simon who still spends weekends with his kids, treating them luxuriously and still pays the mortgage on your once shared home

ex husband simon who accidentally got you pregnant for the third time after spending “one last night” together

ex husband simon who refuses to take no for an answer now hes moving back into your home while youre four months pregnant

[maskedbyghost]

You and Simon aren’t together. Never have been. Never talked about it, never even thought about it.

You just click. You always have. It started as a mission thing—paired up for some op because Price figured you worked well together, and then it just… stuck. You got each other in ways that didn’t need explaining. You liked the same things, moved the same way, anticipated each other’s actions before they happened. You didn’t have to tell him what you needed in the field, and he never had to ask you to cover him. It was easy. Comfortable. The kind of thing that felt natural before you even noticed it happening.

And then it bled into everything else. Eating together. Training together. Sitting next to each other on long flights, in debriefs, in the rare downtime you got between missions. It was never planned, never discussed. Just a thing that happened, like muscle memory. If you were in a room, Simon was there too, and if he wasn’t, he was on his way.

The others noticed, of course. Soap especially. He was the loudest about it, but even Gaz had taken to shooting you both pointed looks when you showed up somewhere at the same time, or when you answered Simon’s half-formed thoughts like you knew what he was going to say before he said it.

Which, honestly, you usually did.

It all comes to a head one evening, the lot of you gathered in one of the common rooms, half-done with the day but not quite ready to call it a night. You and Simon are on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, idly watching something on the TV while Soap, sitting across from you both, groans into his hands.

“You two make me sick.”

You blink at him. “We’re literally just sitting here.”

“That’s the problem!” Soap gestures wildly. “You do everything together. You finish each other’s bloody sentences. You know what the other is thinking. And you’re just—what? Friends?” He scoffs. “Aye, and I’m the Queen of England.”

Simon leans back, tilting his head slightly. “Don’t think you’ve got the legs for a crown, mate.”

Gaz snorts. Price, watching from his spot near the door, only shakes his head like he’s seen this conversation play out a hundred times before. (He has.)

Soap ignores them, pointing a finger between you and Simon like he’s solving some grand mystery. “There’s only one thing you haven’t done,” he declares. “You just need to kiss. That’s it. Only thing missing.”

Silence.

You turn your head. Simon is already looking at you.

There’s nothing in his expression that gives anything away—no smirk, no challenge, no humor in his eyes. He’s just watching you, waiting. And then, with a tiny shrug, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s short, unhurried. Just a press of his lips against yours, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When he pulls back, his eyes are still on you, searching.

You don’t react. Not outwardly, anyway. You can feel Soap’s disbelief burning into the side of your face, hear the noise he makes—the strangled mix between a gasp and an outraged protest—but you don’t acknowledge it. Instead, you look back at Simon, forcing yourself to stay still even as your heart does something stupid in your chest.

Because, sure, maybe this was just to mess with Soap. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was a joke.

But it didn’t feel like one.

Simon smirks and leans back, turning his attention back to the TV like nothing happened. “Happy now?”

Soap looks like he’s reconsidering every life decision that led him to this moment. “What the fuck?”

—

Later, when Simon walks you back to your room, he’s quieter than usual. His hands are in his pockets, his head tilted down slightly like he’s working through something in his mind.

“I wasn’t trying to make things weird,” he says after a beat. “Didn’t mean—well, didn’t want you to think it was—”

He stops, exhales sharply through his nose. “Just don’t want you to be mad.”

You glance at him. “I’m not mad.”

He nods, but his mouth pulls into something uncertain, like he doesn’t believe you. “Good. That’s—good.”

You reach your door and turn to face him fully. He’s still looking at you, his usual easy confidence nowhere to be found. And it’s funny, really, how the thought of kissing you in front of everyone hadn’t made him hesitate, but now? Now, he’s hesitating. Now, he’s thinking too hard about it. About you.

So before he can say anything else, you push up onto your toes and kiss him.

It’s quick, barely a breath between you before you pull back, but the impact is immediate. Simon’s lips part slightly, his brows drawing together like he can’t quite process what just happened.

You step back, hand on your door handle, and give him a small nod. “Goodnight, Simon.”

Then you slip inside, shutting the door behind you, leaving him standing there in the hallway, staring at the empty space where you just were.

And for once, Simon doesn’t have a single thing to say.

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@daydreamerwoah @ghostslollipop @kylies-love-letter

[ebodebo]

calling simon when you realize a creep is following you…

(a little darker? so be mindful of that! also, not proofread!)

-

You can feel your heart palpitating.

Practically beating out of your chest.

This is the shit you see on the television.

It, it just doesn't happen to you.

How naive of you to think that.

You had decided to grab some items to make homemade pasta for dinner tonight.

Just make a quick trip; the store was only a couple blocks away.

Gave you a chance to get your steps in.

You had gathered all the essential items and awkwardly carried them to the checkout, mentally kicking yourself for not grabbing a basket.

As you made your way, you tried to ignore the man wandering back and forth through the aisles nearby.

Maybe he was making pasta too?

The older man behind the counter started scanning your items.

He was a little slow, but you didn’t mind.

Well, until the man from before stood behind you in line with only a pack of spearmint gum in his possession.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Everything’s fine.

Maybe he just gave up on making the pasta?

Yeah, checks out.

You quickly grabbed the bag from the counter and dropped two fifty-dollar bills on the counter, which was much more than needed, but you couldn’t wait for the older man to give you change.

You had this sinking feeling in your gut.

Call it intuition, if you will.

The door swings open as you make your way out.

Your breath clouded around you in the cold.

You have a nice stride, and when you turn your head over your shoulder, that man with the gum has started following you.

He isn't running; instead, he is strolling leisurely.

Which almost pisses you off more.

Just a quiet coward.

You try to calm your breathing.

Maybe he just has to go this way?

Exactly.

You aren’t the only person that has to walk this way.

It’s only until you split through an alleyway because you still feel uncomfortable, and that motherfucker cuts with you.

Now you know.

Without a shadow of a doubt.

You were being followed.

He still hasn’t picked up his pace, and neither have you.

You’re scared that if you start sprinting, he’ll match your movement twofold.

So, you try and remain oblivious.

Only two more blocks.

You carefully grip your cell phone, open the screen, and call the only person on your emergency contact list.

You held the phone to your ear, and it rang once before he spoke.

“Sweetheart,” Simon, your boyfriend, greets, his voice the same familiar rasp you have become accustomed to.

“Hey,” you try to keep your voice steady, hoping Simon doesn't get alarmed immediately.

“What’re you up to?” He asks, his voice calm.

Good.

He’s none the wiser.

“What are you—what are you doing?” You stutter out, your eyes lingering behind you to see the man still walking along.

“Uh, work?” His voice is noticeably confused; you had kissed him goodbye to go to work hours ago.

“Cool, cool,” you breathe out. “Having fun?” You blurt out randomly, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Uh…are you alright?” He asks, and you can easily picture the confusion on his face.

“Yeah. I’ll be home soon,” you say, hands slightly wet with perspiration.

“Alright…” His voice shows clear confusion.

“Shadow misses me, huh?” You manage to sneak in the code word Simon made you come up with.

You hear the sound of his chair scraping against the floor and the rattle of keys. “Where are you?” He says with urgency.

“I’m, yeah, I just got the supplies from the grocery store down the block,” you say, trying to not sound frightened.

“Go to Johnny’s house. It’s closer,” his voice is low.

“Okay, yeah. I’ll be sure to do that,” you casually say, even adding a small laugh so as not to cause the man to think you’re on to him.

“Don’t hang up,” he commands, and you can hear the roar of his engine turning on.

You make it to Johnny’s house unscathed, and as Johnny promptly opens the door upon your arrival, the man pivots to turn the opposite way.

Go figure.

“I, uh, I made it to Johnny’s house,” you whisper into the phone as Johnny closes the door behind you.

“She’s safe, Lt,” Johnny shouts so Simon can hear.

“You did good, sweetheart. I’ll come pick you up in a minute. Need to do a quick detour,” Simon gruffly says.

“Where are you going?” You ask curiously.

“Eh, just need to pick something up. You’re good with Johnny, okay?” He assures his voice is laced with care.

“Yeah, okay,” you affirm.

“Baby, could you give the phone to Johnny real quick?” He asks kindly.

“Yeah,” you begin, hanging the phone over to Johnny. “It’s for you.”

“Ghost,” he greets.

“Found his address.” Simon doesn’t bother with a greeting; he gets straight to the point.

“How did ye’ do that?” Johnny asks with a straight face, trying to make the conversation sound boring.

“Don’t worry about it,” Simon says roughly.

“Where are ye’ off to?” Johnny prods, though he doesn’t even have to ask.

“Gonna go visit him. Tell her I’m getting something for work,” Simon directs.

“Alright. Yer’ gonna go get somethin’ for work,” Johnny repeats, giving you a thumbs up.

You quip your brow before Johnny’s voice lowers just a little. “And Simon, if ye’ need help with that…work,” his eyes drift to yours, trying to sound less conspicuous. “Call me.”

“Won’t be necessary,” he mutters, Johnny can hear him cocking a gun. “I’ll take care of it.”

-

author’s note: all it takes is ONE edit and i’m scrambling to my drafts😭

[superhoeva]

simon riley who manages shifts at a pharmacy and nearly bites a hole through his tongue as he helps you–an embarrassed, shaky-voiced, pretty-eyed thing–try to pick out the right brand of knock-off viagra for your boyfriend who suddenly can't get it up after three years of dating.

"i've done everything i can think of. fuck, i've even taken him to the doctors and they say nothing's going on with him, like, internally, you know? we just–i don't know what else to do..."

the bastard's cheating. simon can smell it, even without the fucker being here, and it burns him somewhere deep. what kind of faithful man could have you in front of him and not chub up like he' is right this second.'s trying not to do right this second.

you're too sad to care about holding your tongue. you're also too sad to flinch away when his thumb grows a mind of its own and wipes away one of your tears. it takes him all of three seconds to realize what he's done. he rips away his hand so quick that he knocks the recommended box of pills from your grasp.

simon reddens with embarrassment as he bends to pick up the box with a name he can't bother to pronounce. grunting out an apology, he trudges out of the aisle and to the front counter.

when john, the owner of the store, asks him about the pinched look on his face simon just slaps the pills in front of the older man and tells him "'ere. these 're for the sad bird with th' pretty shirt and shite boyfriend. m' goin' for a smoke."

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[hiraethvita]

Thinking about !Butcher Simon Riley with his sweet regular customer..

Simon Riley who doesn’t believe in starting over. Not really. Retired from the military, he’d traded one kind of blood for another. The butcher shop wasn’t much—small place tucked in the corner of Manchester, no fancy signage, no bright lights—but the regulars came. You came. Twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays like clockwork.

Simon Riley—your butcher—moves with a kind of brutal grace behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms cut from marble and hard labor. You watch him work the cleaver like it’s an extension of his body. Focused. Calm. Every slice is deliberate, clean, respectful. There’s no waste in his motion, no hesitation in his hands.

You tell yourself it’s just the way he works—but your heart tells you otherwise. It stutters every time he glances up and catches you staring. You always look away too fast.

He’s seen things, you can tell. Something in the set of his shoulders, in the way he carries silence like a second skin. They say he was military once, but no one in the neighborhood asks. They just buy their lamb chops and brisket, nod respectfully, and leave him be.

But not you.

Sometimes you don’t even need anything. You come into his shop just to linger by the display case, pretend to think hard when he asks what you’re in the mood for, and always end up letting him choose. You like the way he speaks when he’s talking about cuts—like meat is an art form and he’s the only one who understands it. Like there’s a language in bone and fat and sinew, and he knows how to read it all.

He knows you’re into him.

You think he doesn’t notice—how your eyes linger on the flex of his forearms, how your breath catches when he tightens his grip on the knife. But he does. He knew from the first time you smiled at him over a pound of sirloin, all nervous and bright-eyed.

And he liked—more than he should’ve—how you smelled faintly of sugar and coffee when you leaned in to hand him cash.

It wasn’t anything serious. Not at first. Just a little dance. A tilt of your head, a brush of your fingers when he passed you the package. He told himself it was nothing.

But he starts saving the best cuts for you. Packs a little extra into your order. Keeps the shop open late on days when you run behind, just in case. It’s nothing. And it’s everything.

The day you tell him about your promotion, you’re practically vibrating. He can see it before you even speak. You ask—halting, hopeful—if he’d like to come over for dinner. Just dinner. Maybe.

He says yes.

Later, in your tiny kitchen, you cook with meat he cut for you himself. he watches you handle the meat. Sees the way your hands move, careful, precise, even if you’re nervous. You ask him how thin the slices should be. You ask him if he likes garlic. Ask if he likes bourbon. Fuck—darlin’, are you trying to get yourself a ring?

He’s still all knives and scars and quiet edges—but with you, he doesn’t have to be just that. So when you ask him if he wants to stay a little longer after dinner. With that soft, bright smile like you’re not afraid of what’s under his skin, something in him loosens. Maybe even heals, just a little. And he finds he doesn’t mind saying yes to that either.

═════════════════════════

[succubusvalentine]

Hunter Simon Riley hunting Witch Reader. CW : Hate sex, biting, tit play, unprotected sex, slightly mean Simon, brief fight but nothing graphic.

He'd been tracking you for months, every time he thought he'd cornered you, you would slip out of his grasp at every turn.

Simon had tracked you down to a small town in Kansas, watching you stalk into the woods, presumably to perform one of your rituals.

He followed you silently, being careful not to tread on anything that would alert you to his presence.

As you knelt down and began pulling out the items for your ritual, you heard a twig snap directly behind you. Before you could even turn to face what was behind you, there was a thick arm around your waist and a blade against your throat.

"Riley" you muttered with an eye roll.

"Couldn't let you slip away this time, baby" Simon growled against your ear.

Immediately you threw your head back, grinning in satisfaction as you heard Simon hiss in pain from your head meeting his nose.

He stumbled back and you turned around, only for Simon to lunge at you.

The scuffle was intense. There were a few moments you believed you may lose, but you always managed to pull through.

You pant heavily as Simon pinned you to a tree with the blade against your throat once more. Simon also out of breath but refusing to seem vulnerable.

Your eyes met Simons. The same eyes that multiple supernatural beings saw before meeting their ends. And yet strangely, you didn't feel fear. You just felt desire.

You acted fast. Grabbing Simons hair and tugging him to meet your lips.

You were surprised that Simon didn't immediately try and push you away, or hurt you. But instead bit your bottom lip and kissed you deeply. Groaning into your mouth.

Simons hands went under your thighs, lifting you up against the tree, growling as he bit down on your neck.

You scrambled to pull at the string of your bust, the fabric falling away and Simon leaned down, lifting you slightly higher so he could latch his mouth to your left breast at a comfortable angle.

You moaned as Simons tongue flicked against your hardened nipple, gripping his hair tight when he bit down, soothing the pleasurable sting with his tongue.

Eventually, Simon got impatient. He shoved your skirt up and ripped your panties, pulling your legs slightly tighter around his hips so he could unbuckle his belt without the worry of you falling.

You whined as Simon ran the fat tip of his cock through your folds. Your head tipping back against the tree as a drawled out moan fell from your lips, Simon finally sliding into you.

He barely gave you time to adjust. His thrusts angry and hard. Each one making you moan louder than the last.

"Fucking shut up, witch. Don't need the town knowing I'm fucking you" Simon growled against your neck.

"Thought you'd want everyone to know that you fuck good" you pout mockingly between moans. Making Simon snap his hips at just the right angle.

Simons rough fingers came down to rub at your clit. The combined stimulation making you gasp and grab at his hair.

Your mouth fell into a silent scream as you came on his cock. Simon thrusting a few more times before spilling into you. A small groan of satisfaction coming from him.

Once you had recovered from your powerful orgasm, you assumed that Simon would just drop you and leave. But he didn't. He merely made sure you were decent before throwing you over his shoulder and stalking back to his truck.

"Not letting go of this pussy, now, swee'eart. Even if you're a witch"

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N: How's your drink? Simon: Y/N: Simon: Have you poisoned me? Y/N: Don't be so dramatic. It's a mild sedative, enjoy your rest

[amaranthinespirit]

wife!reader who keeps killing, and husband!simon riley who sees no wrong in it. prev

the first time was purely accidental. a mere mishapt that ended in manslaughter. that's not to say the man didn't deserve it because of course he did—at least that's what simon said. but the bodies that followed? those were no accident.

simon didn't think you—his sweet missus—were capable of such crime. not because he thought less of you and your abilities, of course, but because you were just so sweet and pretty, it was jaw dropping. downright deceiving.

you kept luring men back to your precious home, steering clear of the new, pretty rug simon bought you after he had to burn the last one. and after you stabbed them, or axed them, or poisoned them—simon kept your options open after the first few—you'd clean up. yourself, anyway.

simon grumbled that one time when you tried to help, swatting you on the rear with his large hand before groping you and sending you off. so you learned to just leave the body for him to come home to and pretty yourself up for him to ravage you later.

it was a fair deal, after all. he cleans your messes, you pretty yourself and then he makes a mess of his own with you.

your own version of bonnie and clyde.

he never questioned you either. "can't do anythin' wrong in m'eyes." he would shrug whenever you asked, going back to shrugging the floorboards free of the metallic substance once again.

like he said, if you wanted someone dead, they were dead. sure, he'd twist his neck and nearly break it trying to get a good look at the poor bloke who dare crossed you—never a woman—but again, he'd shrug it off every time, muttering gruffly, "wot'vr the missus wants."

his lips are sealed when the police come by. killing is stressful enough, yeah?

"who keeps coming by?" your voice spoke softly from behind him. he had just shut the door after the police thanked him again and moved to the neighbor's house.

he grunts. "just salesmen."

"oh." you paused before frowning. "do I need to kill them too?"

simon's eyes twinkled, the corners of his eyes creasing with a smile under his mask—he hadn't got a chance to take it off yet—as he stood and stared at you with what you think is the most lovestruck expression you've ever seen. warring with the look he gave you on your wedding day.

"if tha's wot y'want."

he swears he's never been more in love with you.

if you guys have any ideas for this pairing, please send it in my inbox. more fics of these two are a must, and I love sharing ideas with you guys <3 much love

[bi-writes]

deranged ex husband!ghost thoughts:

he lives up to his nickname. he's not ex husband price who simply Does Not Stop and shows up all the time to demonstrate to your new partners that he is fundamental anatomy to your life.

he haunts you. tampered amazon packages, a room slightly altered when you return from work, he's in your phone, he's in your inbox, he fixes things while you're away just as often as he breaks them.

is there someone in the other room? you bought a travel door lock and replaced every piece of home security tech with something new but you can swear you can hear a window shimmied open, a door lock whirring. you think you're losing your mind. who do you call when you think you're being stalked? when security is your greatest fear? your ex? his friends?

a wriggling and primal part of your mind warns you this is a bad idea. but you unblock his number, you text simon to see if he's still in the area. how are you doing? i know it's been a while, but i need a favor.

oh my goodness............................. (18+)

he says nothing as he does a walkthrough of your new divorcee flat. one bedroom in a nice-enough neighborhood, but you saw the twitch of his eye when he noticed the front lobby doors could be jimmyed open with the edge of a credit card.

the cat greets him like she always does. slender, grey thing that slithers between his thick legs as he moves through your space. you notice his gloved hands ghosting over divots in entryways that he made, flicking the useless lock of your window that he's already broken himself twice. you follow him like a puppy into every room he studies, rocking back and forth, wet eyes and trembling lips realizing as he moves just how unsafe you are.

he says nothing when he stands in your foyer again after doing his thorough once-over, turning to face you silently, where you're already crying. he just stands, not touching you, tilting his head to the side as he watches those glassy, salty tears fall down your puffed cheeks as you sputter through soft breaths that you don't know what to do.

ghost just kisses his teeth and stands there. he's an asshole—he's not going to do anything unless you ask him to. he's mean like that, likes to be wanted. he wants you to open your pretty, wet mouth and ask for it like a good girl. he's not going to assume you want his help; he wants you to put your hands on his thick chest and ask him all pathetic that you need him to do something about the thing that's been breaking into your house.

ghost is not your husband anymore though. when he was, he would've gladly fixed all your things for you. he would've gladly spent the entire day installing cameras, fixing your locks, getting you proper deadbolts, but he's just some man to you now, and his labor isn't for free.

he wants to feel nasty about it, but he can't. you don't even have to ask what he wants—you know what it is. you sniffle, blubbery and whiny, as you put your thumbs into the gusset of your sleep shorts and pull them to the side as you bend over the kitchen counter.

he keeps a big hand tangled in your hair as he fucks you. he yanks your neck back, bending you at the hip, an angle so sharp that your back arches uncomfortably as the edge of the counter digs into your tummy sharply. he barely makes a sound himself, but the slick between your bodies makes up for it.

slap, slap, slap—you're soaked between the thighs, all wound up and hot and breathless after watching ghost be so capable and confident and smart. he's so intelligent. he's so big and brawny and brave. you'd trade anything to feel safe again after living on your own after so long, and honestly, paying for fixed locks for a wet shag with your ex-husband isn't the worst price at all.

the problem between you two was never the sex, that's for sure. in fact, you think the connection alone kept you around longer than you meant to be. ghost would light a cigarette and stick a thick hand down his trousers, and you'd all but fall onto his dick just to placate the heat of attraction that always wound you like crazy.

your eyes roll back in your head when he cups your pussy with a big, hot hand. you grip the counter and grind against his palm, sticking your tongue out as he pounds into you deeper, more forcefully. he's close, you know it by the falter in his breaths, and you can't help yourself.

you just can't.

"inside—" you whine. "don't pull out—"

ghost laughs—why the fuck would he ever pull out?

maybe if he breaks a window next, you'll let him try for a baby.

[simonz-angel]

riding simon riley’s thigh 😎😎

your nerve endings sting, singing hot till they fray up and your heart hammers, beating and bruising your ribs. beating so hard your cheeks flush and your head spins, rolling back on your shoulders loose.

but his hands steady you, grounding you to get back to work. and you do, letting your hips roll, roll over the meaty, tensing surface of his thigh. it’s fucked that he lets you, lets you make a mess of yourself, embarrass yourself on top of him. but you can’t seem to slow, chasing and gasping so desperate to reach that impending edge of euphoria.

“that feel good, hmm?” it’s comical to simon, his thick accent dripping in heed but tainted in humor. but when you slow, head dropping till your staring at him with these low, blown eyes, he sobers.

his nails dig before he’s laying a striking slap against your ass, one that has you shuffling and yelping. “get back to it, baby, we both know yr’not embarrassed of shit.”

he’s right, you give no fucks to the wet spot you’re leaving on his jeans, no fucks to the way you press so desperate to find that just prefect friction.

n you abide, folding yourself over him, gasping hot over his ear as you press his face to your breasts. they jump with every grind, jiggle and swell over his cheeks. honey brown eyes, peer up in batting lashes at your pretty face from where he suffocates.

“that all it takes to shut you up?”

ugh wtv this sucks, can’t write for shitttt. give me song recs plsss plsss

[maskedbyghost]

you were being a brat, but Simon knew just how to handle you. smut, mdni, +18

You’re sprawled out on your bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at Simon. He stands by the door, arms folded, completely unmoved by your ranting.

You don’t even remember what set you off—something about him ignoring you earlier, or maybe it was the way he refused to admit you were right about something dumb. Either way, you’re heated, and he’s standing there like a statue, letting you run your mouth.

"Are you even listening to me?" you snap, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Simon tilts his head, unimpressed. "Mmhmm."

That pisses you off even more. "You’re such an ass—"

He moves before you can finish, climbing onto the bed like he’s got all the time in the world. His weight sinks into the mattress, and before you can scoot away, his hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. You stiffen.

"Simon, I’m talking to you."

He doesn’t answer. He just hooks his fingers into your panties, drags them down your legs, and tosses them somewhere behind him. His gloved hands press against your thighs again, keeping them wide open. Then he looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since you started mouthing off.

"I’m done talking to you," he murmurs, lowering himself between your legs. "Wanna talk to this sweet little cunt instead."

Your brain stutters. "Simon—"

He doesn’t wait for permission; he doesn’t give you the chance to keep arguing. His tongue is on you, slow, licking through your folds like he’s savoring every second. A gasp escapes you before you can bite it back, but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is when he starts talking.

"Look at you," he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled, lips brushing over your clit. "Acting all tough, mouthing off, but you’re drippin’ for me."

Your face burns. "Shut up—"

"Not talkin’ to you, love." His grip tightens on your thighs as he moves lower, pressing a kiss right against your entrance. "M’ talkin’ to her."

You swear you’ll kill him. If you could think straight, if your legs weren’t shaking already, if he wasn’t so fucking good at this—

"She’s so much sweeter than you," he continues, dragging his tongue up your slit. "Doesn’t fight me like you do. She likes me, don’t you, sweetheart?" Another kiss, another slow, teasing lick that has your toes curling. "Bet she’ll be real good for me, won’t she? So soft, so warm—can tell she likes the attention. Not like you, all mouth and attitude. She’s good for me. She listens."

You make a frustrated noise, but it dissolves into a whimper when he flicks his tongue against your clit again.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought." His breath is hot against you as he presses another kiss to your entrance, hands firm on your thighs to keep you still. "Y’spent all that time complainin’, but she was down here waitin’ for me. She knew better, didn’t she? Bet she’s been achin’ for me this whole time."

You hate how much it gets to you, how much his words make the heat in your belly coil tighter. But he’s not done.

"Poor thing," he murmurs, his tongue teasing your entrance. "Must be lonely, yeah? Bein’ attached to such a brat? No wonder she’s so needy." His voice is full of mock sympathy, lips brushing against you between every word. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. Y’don’t have to be a pain in the ass like she is. You just have to be good for me."

You’re shaking now, fingers twisted in the sheets, your breath uneven as he keeps talking, keeps licking at you like he has all the time in the world.

"Bet you’ll let me do whatever I want to you, won’t you? Unlike her—she’s always runnin’ her mouth, always fightin’ me. But you’re soft, aren’t you? You just wanna be taken care of."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out his words, but the way he talks, the way he mouths at you between sentences, has your stomach twisting with need. You’re embarrassingly close, your body arching into him despite your frustration.

And then, just as you’re teetering on the edge, just as your body starts to tense, Simon pulls away.

"But bad girls don’t get to cum."

He sits back like he’s got all the time in the world, like he isn’t leaving you a mess between his hands. You can see the smirk in his eyes. Smug bastard.

Oh, fuck that.

You don’t even think—you move. You push him back, grab him by the collar and flip him onto the mattress before he can react. His back hits the bed, and for once, he doesn’t resist. He just watches, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt, as you swing a leg over him and settle right where he belongs.

You grip his wrists, pinning them down, and glare at him through your haze of frustration and arousal. "Finish what you started."

Simon huffs a laugh, his fingers flexing beneath yours. "Bossy little thing."

You grind down against his mouth. "Now."

And for once, Simon doesn’t argue.

But he doesn’t let you have it easy, either.

The second you settle over him, his hands move, big and rough as they grab onto your hips. He drags you forward, forcing you to grind against his mouth, and fuck—

The first swipe of his tongue makes your back arch, makes your hands clench around his wrists as you try to keep some kind of control. But he’s got none of your patience, none of your hesitation—he devours you like he’s been waiting for this, tongue flicking against your clit, sucking, then dragging down to fuck into you.

It’s overwhelming. Too much, too fast, and you try to lift your hips, to slow down, but Simon just growls, tightening his grip, forcing you to take every bit of his attention. He’s relentless, murmuring filth against your skin, still talking to you, but not to you.

"Knew you’d be sweet like this," he mutters, tongue flicking against your clit again, making you jolt. "Just needed to get you to shut up first."

Your nails dig into his wrists, but you’re trembling now, moans spilling out no matter how much you try to bite them back. You feel him smirk beneath you, feel the pleased rumble in his chest when you roll your hips against his mouth.

"That’s it," he praises, voice rough. "Finally got you listenin’. ‘Bout time you learned your place."

You can’t even find it in you to be mad. You’re too close, too wound up from the teasing, from the way he’s got you writhing on his tongue. You try to grind down harder, to get yourself there, but Simon pulls back, just enough to leave you gasping.

"Gonna cum for me, sweetheart?" he murmurs, lips brushing against your thigh. "Y’gonna beg for it?"

You don’t want to. You really don’t. But you need it. "Please," you breathe, barely above a whisper.

Simon hums, pretending to consider, then licks into you again, groaning when your hips jolt. "That’s my girl."

And when he finally lets you have it, when he sucks your clit into his mouth and fucks you with his tongue until you break apart, he doesn’t stop until he’s sure you feel every last second of it.

----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah

[sojela]

😩🙏

“my fuckin’ pussy” simon says as he’s pounding you in a mating press. your heel-clad feet are hung over his burly shoulders, flopping with every thrust.

“mmmn, yer fuckin” pussy” you slurred back.

“oh my, we’ve gotta talker, doing a little repeat after me? fuckin’ simon says, huh?”

he’s such a tease.

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

Ghost vs. The Grocery List

Simon had faced enemies in the field, survived impossible missions, and lived through hell itself - but nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for standing in the middle of a grocery store, staring at a list he did not understand.

Your handwriting was fine, it wasn’t that. But the sheer number of abbreviations, shorthand, and vaguely cryptic descriptions had him gripping the paper like it was a classified document.

-“Milk (normal, not weird!)” - What the hell is weird milk?

- “Tomatoes (but the good ones, you know)” - No. No, I don’t know.

- “That one bread we like (NOT the dry one)” - They all look the bloody same.

- “Cheese (the fancy one)” - …Fancy how? Expensive? Funky-smelling?

- “Pasta (NOT the wrong kind again!!!)” - Oh, for fuck’s sake…

Simon exhaled slowly, standing completely still in the middle of the aisle, dressed in his usual black hoodie and tactical boots, looking every bit like a man who belonged on a most-wanted list rather than picking between *normal* and *weird* milk.

He had options. He could call you, admit defeat. But that was a last resort. Instead, he did what any sane man would do.

Ghost: [Picture sent: Confused selfie in front of the bread aisle]

Ghost: What’s the not-dry one?

You responded instantly.

You: Babe, it’s the one we always get.

Ghost: That does not help me.

You: *he rye one. But not the dark rye. The medium one.

Ghost: The hell is medium rye?

You: The one in the paper bag, not plastic.

Simon scanned the shelves, narrowing his eyes. There were at least three different bags that matched that description. He sighed.

Ghost: If I pick the wrong one, you’ll never let me live it down, will you?

You: Correct.

Muttering a curse, he grabbed the probably correct bread and continued, methodically eliminating items from the list - until he got to the pasta.

- “Pasta (NOT the wrong kind again!!!)”

He stared at the shelves. There were too many. Short ones, long ones, curly ones, weirdly shaped ones. He had already been yelled at once for coming home with the "wrong" pasta. He wasn’t making the same mistake again.

Simon took a deep breath, then did what no one had ever expected from the infamous Ghost - he video-called you.

“Alright,” he grumbled when you picked up, your amused smile already making him regret this. “Which one is not the wrong kind?”

You giggled, and that sound alone made this whole disaster worth it. “Oh, you’re adorable.”

“Just tell me before I abandon the mission and order takeout.”

You guided him, teasing him relentlessly, until he finally got everything you needed. When he reached the checkout, he muttered, “Never again,” to which the cashier, who had been observing his misery, just chuckled.

When he got home, dropping the bags on the counter with a scowl, you wrapped your arms around him. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

He huffed. “Next time, you’re writing a proper list.”

You smirked. “Next time, I’m sending you with Soap.”

Simon groaned, burying his face in your neck. “I’ll take a bullet instead.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, abduction, forced proximity

Word Count: 4.4k

The skull-faced lieutenant takes you back to base. The two of you are forced to spend the night in the same space.

Chapter One // Chapter Three

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

The scream is a gunshot.

You flinch. Turn away. Cover your mouth with your hand.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

“You fucking motherfucker! I’m gonna fucking kill you! You—”

The man’s words are swallowed up by the echoing pop of a pistol unloading. Ghost yanks on your arm, but you’re frozen like a rabbit sensing a predator. Even after the world fell apart, you witnessed so much, but seeing such brutal execution twists your insides like tangled barbed wire.

“Walk,” Ghost commands, but your legs are unmovable like Redwood trees.

You’re sinking. The ground is opening up.

Danger. Danger.

“Hey.”

Another crack, followed by begging.

“Look at me.” There are large hands on your shoulders. Squeezing. Urging. “Look at me.”

Ghost’s voice is a firm directive, and you snap to attention. Your gaze, once distant, locks with his. Behind the mask are his eyes—a whiskey brown with gold flecks crowned by long, pale eyelashes.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he soothes, hands sliding away from your shoulders to rest against your ears.

He presses, silencing the world. When the next gunshot goes off, you hardly hear it. Just a muffled blip amongst the quiet. With every inhale and subsequent exhale, the buzzing rush of adrenaline softens, then crashes. It’s just a shiver of release. A dismissive wave of the hand.

And Ghost never looks away. Not once.

Focused and sharp, you’re unable to look away from Ghost’s intensity. Like a roiling river, his eye contact swallows you up, drowning you in its chaos. It allows you a moment to simply observe the man before you, to study what you can of his face. It isn’t much, just blackish smudges around the eyes and a prominent brow.

A curiosity blooms where there was no soil.

You’re so focused on him that you don’t realize the gunshots have stopped until Ghost drops his hands.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you gasp, unsure of why you’ve just apologized to him.

Ghost is impassive. Unresponsive. He simply stares, arms at his sides, and that attention is almost worse than the gunshots. It is unnerving—but not in the creeping sense of nefarious interest. He may be silent, but in his silence, there is a question.

A curiosity. Blooming.

But whatever you’ve witnessed quickly passes.

Ghost is grabbing hold of your upper arm, tugging you forward. This time your legs surrender, moving with him but struggling to keep up with his long strides.

You pass one armored truck. Then another.

“Wait,” you say, but it’s a whisper lost to the breeze.

We’re taking her with us.

“Wait,” and this time it’s louder. It carries on the wind.

Survival. Survival is paramount. And this stranger is leading you to unknown places, likely to never return you to where you come from.

Digging your feet in, you attempt to come to a stop. Ghost hardly faulters. His strength overpowers, and you nearly topple forward to eat pavement.

“Wait!”

With a growl, Ghost whirls on you. “We’re on a tight schedule, love. Keep up.”

Another tug, this one not an annoyance but a brief bite of pain. Instinct flares, and you lash out, forming a fist. It lands against his chest, striking just to the right of his left shoulder.

It’s a dumb fucking move.

Ghost shoves you up against the side of one of the armored trucks, caging you between him and the metal exterior. “Want my attention that bad? Well, love. You’ve got it.” His chest heaves as if this one interaction is taking all his stamina.

“Take your fucking hands off me,” you growl, placing both hands flat on his chest and shoving with all your strength.

Ghost grunts, and shoves you right back, pinning you to the vehicle. “Behave,” he murmurs.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

You struggle against him, working your shoulders back and forth to shake off his hold. It’s fruitless. Pathetic. Lieutenant Skull Face is stronger—weight unyielding.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit at him, just because it feels good.

Ghost ignores your outburst. “You’re coming back with us. Stop your bloody fussing.”

He talks to you like you’re a small child in need of a good scolding. It’s infuriating. You might be weaponless and without leverage, but the first thing you learned when defending yourself in a world like this is to never allow anyone to take you to a secondary location. Fight like hell when you can, and survive.

But fighting doesn’t always mean physical.

“I mean nothing to you. Just leave me,” you reply, adding a slight quiver to your voice.

Negotiating. Begging. It might work with him.

“That’s not an option.”

From his tone, it’s clear that Ghost is over this conversation. Your window is closing. Soon, each of these men will turn their attention to the trucks, which means they’ll be focused on you. If you want to escape, you need to escape now.

Ghost eases his hold, drawing back to take you with him.

You give one final attempt before you start swinging.

Grasping the back of his neck, you drag him back to you. There is no mouth for you to kiss, so you press your lips to where you believe his might be. You aim for just above the skull teeth. The material of the mask is surprisingly smooth. With your leverage of your hand at the back of his neck, you lightly rock your hips in a provocative gesture, hooking your leg up slightly to imitate grinding.

Ghost stiffens, clearly confused and startled by your actions. It lasts only a few fleeting seconds, and then he softens, his hands falling to your hips.

Sweet victory sings in your veins.

Men are all the same.

All you have to do is convince him to go to one of these vehicles alone. Climb on top if you can, but make do if you’re under him. Allow him a few thrusts. Moan a bit to make him think you want this. Then go for the fucking throat.

Ghost’s hands squeeze your hips, but it’s not to pull you closer. He starts to push you away. Rejecting. He’s rejecting you.

“Tempting offer,” he murmurs. “But we’re on a schedule.”

No. Fucking no.

This is your chance. Your one chance.

The world tilts, and you switch gears.

With a quick upward motion, you drive your knee into Ghost’s groin, nailing him where his pelvis meets his thigh.

“Fucking hell,” he coughs, staggering to the side, bending over in pain.

You dip beneath his arm, dashing toward the connecting street. The Jeep keys are lost to you, and you have no gun, but if you run fast enough, and lose them amongst the houses, you might have a chance to sneak back to the Jeep undetected and hotwire it home.

Legs pumping, you dash past the armored truck.

Freedom is close. It is calling out to you. Reaching—

Large, muscled arms wrap around you, hauling you backward. They don’t throw you to ground, but restrain you, holding you firmly against a solid body.

Fuck it. Fuck this.

It’s time for fists and teeth and claws.

Kicking and screaming, you raise hell. An arm loosens. Bending it, you bring your elbow down into his shoulder.

Ghost grunts, grasps your wrist, and yanks. He twists you around, seizing both of your arms, pinning them behind your back.

You immediately go limp.

It almost works.

Ghost staggers but recovers enough to ease into the movement, using the momentum to lift you up and into his arms.

Arms now free, you snarl, swiping at him with an open palm. Ghost promptly drops you.

You hit the ground. Hard.

With a groan, you push up from the pavement with the intent to flee. A boot presses against your back, and forces you down until you’re flat on your stomach. Seconds later and you’re zip-tied.

“That’s better,” grumbles Ghost.

Grabbing you by your forearms, he lifts you back onto your feet.

A slurry of profanities leaves your lips. “Bastard! Fucking bastard! Motherfucker! Cock sucking motherfucking bastard!”

You throw your body weight around, too, but Ghost remains firm, dragging you along toward the cluster of vehicles.

“You—you—shit eating…tit zit!”

Ghost chuckles. “Creative,” he muses like he appreciates it.

His amused demeanor only deflates your hope, melting you down until you decide it’s best to beg, to see if this man will show even a hint of mercy.

“Please,” you exhale, and you hate how desperate you sound. “Please. Just—just let me go.”

Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. Keeping his gaze forward, Ghost hauls you over to a Humvee. He opens the rear passenger door.

“Get in,” he nods. “Or I’ll toss you in.”

“Please,” you beg. “Please listen.”

“Wrong answer.”

With a quick bend of the knees, Ghost lifts you off the ground and fulfills his threat. You bounce on the seat and almost topple onto the floor.

This is it. There is no going back. You’re being taken elsewhere, and there is little you can do. Everything going forward has to be about you, and what you have to do to survive.

But then you remember Ben, and how his body is just…there. Discarded.

As Ghost starts to turn away, you lean forward, knowing that what you’re about to ask will likely be ignored.

“You have to bring him with us. Please.”

Ghost has no reason to speak to you—to entertain what you’ve just said. You expect him to slam the door in your face, to give you his back.

“Bring who?” replies Ghost. He sounds genuinely curious, and his body language isn’t hostile. He has one hand on the handle of the door and the other resting against the side of the Humvee.

“Ben. We can’t leave him here. It’s not right.”

Behind the balaclava, his gaze narrows. “Is that who you were with?” You nod. Ghost briefly glances over his shoulder and then turns his gaze back to you. “Were you his?”

Were you his? Is that jealously? Does Ghost feel threatened by a dead man?

“No,” you laugh softly. “No. But…”

“But what?” he prompts.

“He has—had a wife. Two daughters.” You pause, remembering how the two girls had cornered you during community movie night, listing all the books they wanted you to find. “People loved him. They’ll want closure.”

You hate these moments of silence, of Ghost simply staring at you before he answers.

“I can’t bring him with us,” he finally says.

“Then leave him somewhere where they’ll find him,” you urge. “Please.”

Ghost’s demeanor shifts. His hand falls away from the side of the vehicle. “You came from a bigger group?”

“Does that matter?”

Ghost shakes his head in annoyance. “It fucking bloody well matters.”

“They won’t come after you,” you insist. “They aren’t expecting us for hours. You’ll be long gone before they come looking.”

“You could be lying to me.”

Anger flares in your chest. You need him to understand. “I just want Ben to go home to his family. They deserve it!”

Ghost sighs, and shakes his head. “Watch your feet,” he mutters.

You turn your legs at the last second as the Humvee door slams shut.

Left alone in the vehicle, the reality of your situation starts to settle, to seep into your bloodstream. It shoots straight to your brain, slithering in the folds, sinking in until the anxiety becomes a roar. Your breath comes and goes in quick gasps.

Panic. You’re panicking.

You’re fucking panicking.

Sliding across the seat, you reach with wiggling fingers for the handle. With wrists bound and no way to truly see what you’re doing, you’re forced to seek with your hands, praying that you’ll find the handle before Ghost arrives.

Sweat forms, making it difficult to hang on to anything.

“Come on,” you sob, knowing that this is it.

You find the handle. Tug.

Nothing. It doesn’t budge.

“No,” you gasp, yanking and yanking and yanking again. “No.”

He’s locked you in.

Desperation fuels you, motivating you to try the other door, and then kicking with both feet until your knees hurt and your thighs burn.

When Ghost returns to the Humvee, he finds you on your back, staring blankly.

There are no tears. No panic. Only numbness.

“Sit up,” he says, voice flat.

You obediently comply, shifting until you’re sitting upright. Ghost hops in, forcing you to slide all the way to the other side of the bench seat. He settles in, nearly squishing you between him and the door. There’s no room to move. The two of you are thigh to thigh—touching.

“Ready to bloody go.” You glance to the left at the familiar Scottish voice.

“You and me both, Soap,” grumbles Ghost, shifting even further to the right to accommodate the new addition to the backseat.

The driver and front passenger doors open simultaneously, two soldiers sliding in.

“Back to base, Lieutenant Riley?” asks the driver.

He lifts his arm, pressing a few buttons on an overhead panel. Sewn into his uniform is that same azimuthal projection of the earth from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches. It’s so fucking familiar. It’s something from before—you know this, and yet you can’t place it. Beneath it is the flag of Mexico. Yet again, all in black. Leaning to the right, you peek over the seat. The soldier in the front passenger seat’s flag is three horizontal stripes but all in different shades of black or grey. There is no way for you to distinguish what country it belongs to.

“Affirmative,” answers Ghost.

Lieutenant Riley. That’s more of a name than Ghost. It’s a small piece, a fraction of information.

As you settle back against your seat, you don’t realize that Ghost has leaned toward you until he whispers in your ear. “It’s done.”

When you and Ben don’t show up, the rest of the convoy will come looking. They’ll find him, find the carnage, and wonder where you are. They’ll search, likely every building and street. Zac will certainly order it, and it’s entirely likely they’ll head back home only to return the next day, and perhaps even the next with the hope that you’ll show up.

But you’ll be long gone.

Elsewhere. Somewhere.

Ghost turns away from you, and doesn’t speak or even glance at you the rest of the trip, engaging in limited conversation with Soap.

You zone out. Stare at the landscape. Stomach turning sour.

The town disappears, giving way to trees and then highway.

It’s astounding how clear and uncongested the road is. You thought it strange when you and Ben were in the Jeep, how the roads themselves weren’t exactly maintained yet were somehow completely clear of cars. The few cars you did came across were pushed off to the side, allowing for a clear path. You dismissed it then, but you don’t dismiss it now as the Humvee carries you away from your life—your safety.

There is so little you know about the world as it currently exists.

After everything descended into chaos, you simply survived, weary of everyone, sometimes selling your body for food or shelter. Six years and you’ve been with the people are now, flourishing and unaware of everything happening beyond.

How much have Zac and the others kept from you? From the community? Or do they know about any of this at all?

These are the questions you ask yourself as time passes—as day becomes evenings becomes night.

The radio crackles. The soldier in the driver’s seat speaks.

“Base this is Bravo.”

A few seconds of silence. Then the radio comes alive.

“Received, Bravo. Go for Base.”

“Returning. Ten minutes.”

“Copy, Bravo. Returning.”

To the left of you, Soap groans. “Bloody fucking finally. Can stretch my damn legs. Take a piss.”

Ghost chuckles. “Eat a hot meal.”

Soap grunts in agreement. “Only thing missing is a warm cunt to stick my dick into.”

Ghost shakes his head as the two men up front laugh.

The soldier in the front passenger seat turns slightly, addressing Soap. “Might find a willing recruit,” he says, teasing.

“Bile yer heid,” laughs Soap, leaning forward to shove at him.

You remain still. Unmoving. Silent. They’re not thinking about you, and you don’t want to give them any reason to shift focus.

In the echoes of their laughter, the Humvee crests a hill. Through the windshield, bright spotlights appear, cutting through the dark. It’s difficult to see from where you sit. You lean to the left, brushing up against Ghost’s arm.

You draw back quickly, muttering an apology.

“You can look,” murmurs Ghost. His brow is soft as he leans towards Soap, giving you space to look out the windshield.

It’s a small gesture. A flicker of kindness.

Just like his hands over your ears. Or placing Ben in a place where someone will find him.

You fill the vacated space, gaze sweeping over the illuminated dark.

It’s a military base. Not makeshift or shuffled together, but a real one, like from the time before. Clean. Manufactured. Intimidating.

The Humvee rumbles up to the gates. The driver and guard exchange a few words before you hear a shout. A rattling reaches your ears, mimicking the stuttering of your heart. It’s enough to squash whatever hope you still cling to, smothering that ember until it’s snuffed out. Sinking back into your quiet, you turn inward, pressing yourself against the Humvee door until you feel smaller than dirt.

You keep your gaze downward, staring at your feet as the Humvee rolls through the gates. You don’t look up again until it comes to a stop.

“Stay here,” instructs Ghost as he slides out of the vehicle.

He shuts the door, turning away from you completely as if you’re not there at all. At some point in the trip, Soap lowered the window, and you’re able to shimmy over to the other side, listening in.

“Soap! Ghost!”

“Captain!”

Two strangers approach. One is a bit older, addressed as “captain” by Soap. The other is younger, handsome. They all clasp hands, greeting each other with a warmness that can only come from closeness and familiarity.

“Successful?”

“Brought three back for interrogation.”

“Good. And the rest?”

“Dead.”

“Good lad.”

Their voices drop slightly. Of what you can pick out from their conversation, it isn’t much. It’s just the newcomers’ names, Price and Gaz, and a brief mention about a secondary raid. Little else reaches your ears, and straining does nothing.

Leaning back against the seat, you tilt your head backward, staring up at the ceiling of the Humvee. Your arms ache, wrists sore, and you have to fucking pee.

“Who is that?”

The question is spoken loudly, closer than you thought from where the group was standing.

Your eyes snap open, body jolting up in the seat as you seek out the new voice. Ghost yanks the door open, reaching in to grasp your elbow. He helps you out and onto your feet. There is no room for resistance.

Outside the Humvee, you’re able to see the base more clearly. The convoy you were apart of is lined up in front of several low buildings. It’s late, but the base is still active, soldiers moving about as if it’s the middle of the day.

Soap laughs. “Go on, Lt.”

Ghost rolls his shoulders. “Found her while we were out.” Soap snorts and Ghost glares at him. “Running from the rubbish we eliminated.”

“She not with them?” asks Captain Price.

“No, Captain. She’s not with them.”

“The lass put up a fight though,” says Soap. “Kissed Lt here.”

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Ghost.

“When he rejected her, she kneed him in the groin.”

“Fucking hell,” laughs Gaz. “Really?”

Price’s mouth is a grim, thin line. “Why did you bring her?”

“The mandate.”

All four men sigh, but you have no idea what they’re talking about.

Captain Price nods. “Will she be any trouble?”

Ghost turns his attention on you. “Are you going to cause problems?”

You shake your head. “No. I’ll behave.”

Price affirms your answer with a quick smile. “Then the restraints aren’t necessary.”

Ghost makes a “turn around” gesture with his finger. You comply. There’s a quick tug, the pressure around your wrists releasing. As you turn around, you gently rub at the spots that have gone raw.

“It’s too late to travel,” sighs Price. “She’ll have to stay here for the night. Turn her over to processing tomorrow.”

Processing. Processing?

“We have any empty bunks?” asks Ghost.

“You want her with the general population?” counters Price.

“No,” answers Ghost automatically.

Price glances away, his gaze on the four low buildings nearby. “Take her to a private bunk. Bring her home in the morning.” He turns his gaze back to Ghost. “We’ll follow after.”

“It’ll be good to go home. Been weeks,” murmurs Gaz.

There’s a mutual, silent agreement among them that you pick up on but don’t understand. Your home is behind you, waiting, and yet it is unlikely you will see it again any time soon.

Ghost’s hand on your arm tightens, pulling you against him.

“I’ll take her there now.”

Price nods. A dismissal.

The three men turn and stride off, leaving you and Ghost next to the Humvee. Ghost leans in, head bent slightly in your direction. “Did you mean it? That you’ll behave?”

You lick your lips. Swallow. “Yes,” you breathe.

“Come with me then.”

Ghost’s hand eases before releasing completely. It’s the first amount of freedom you’ve had in hours, and you suddenly dread what that might mean.

Walking beside him, you follow his long strides. Ghost walks right past the four low buildings, passing a larger, communal area, before heading for a squat row of cabin-like dwellings. Ghost heads for the furthest on the end.

Each step is harrowing, dragging you closer and closer to an unknown fate. Ghost is at the door, pushing it open, stepping aside to allow you entrance. You talk past him, enter, come to a stop a few steps inside.

The doors shuts. You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see solid wood.

“What are you doing?” you ask, shuffling backward.

Ghost engages the lock on the door. “Keeping an eye on you.”

“Are—are you staying with me? In the room?”

“That a problem?” counters Ghost, as if your concern is silly.

“I’m guessing my answer to that question won’t matter.”

“No,” replies Ghost. “It won’t.”

You nod weakly, turning away to take a deep, calming breath.

The room itself is just a room, no larger than your average bedroom. There is a single, full bed in the corner, a plain wood desk, a chair, a bedside table, and a lamp. It is free of all other decoration. The bathroom isn’t separate, but blocked off by a half-wall. The sink and shower are in full view, and the half-wall hides the toilet. There is no privacy to be had with Ghost in the room with you.

Ghost grabs the chair from the desk, dragging it over to the door. He pushes it up against the wood, and drops into the seat with a deep sigh. The urge to pee grows. You won’t be able to hold it much longer.

“I have to pee.”

“Then pee.”

“With you in the room?”

Ghost crosses his arms over his chest, settling into the small chair like it’s comfortable. “I can’t see.”

“But you can hear,” you protest. “Can’t you just…step outside?”

Ghost rests the back of his head against the door. “It locks from the inside. I step out and you lock me out.”

“Even if I did, you could easily get back in.”

“True.”

“Then step out!”

“No.”

You could be a child about this. Stomp your feet. Moan and complain. But Ghost won’t budge and your bladder is about to burst.

With an annoyed groan, you go for the toilet, dropping down onto it and letting it all go. It feels so goddamn good even though your pride has taken a blown. You turn your head to the right, and find Ghost watching you over the top of the half-wall.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp. “Creeping much?”

Ghost arches a singular eyebrow. “You really had to go.”

“Oh my God,” you breathe, reaching between your legs to wipe.

“Should shower,” mutters Ghost. “You’re covered in blood.”

You glance down at your top and the red that stains it. It’s not yours, and it thankfully isn’t Ben’s. It’s that fucker’s with the shitty teeth that knocked you to the ground. You want to be rid of him, rid of the grit and dirt and grime. But there is no curtain, and Ghost would see all of you.

“I’ll be fine,” you reply sharply, washing your hands.

Ghost leans forward. “There’s hot water here.”

“Just say you want to see me naked,” you retort, whirling on him.

With a sly swagger, Ghost drags his gaze up and down your body. “I could strip down. Join you.”

Your neck grows hot, and then your cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Then shower.”

“Do I even have an option here?” you ask, shaking your hands over the sink.

“What do you think, love?”

You stride toward him, suddenly frustrated. “Stop answering my questions with questions.”

“Shower,” insists Ghost. “You’ll feel better.”

“And then what? You’ll join me in bed?”

“Likely.”

“You—”

“Keep the attitude and I’ll give you something else to moan about.” You quickly glance away, nervously tugging on the bottom of your top. “What?” he chides. “You were eager earlier.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“There she is,” and you hear the smile in it.

Is he purposefully pushing your buttons? Teasing you because you have no way to wiggle your way out?

“Are you staying here all night, Lieutenant Riley?”

“All. Night,” he replies, slowly pushing up from the chair. Ghost stalks over, observing you like prey. You take a step back and Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t.”

You freeze, staying perfectly still.

Ghost’s gloved hand brushes along the side of your arm. It’s a soft caress, one that makes you shiver. This man is your captor. He has torn you from your home, from the future you imagined for yourself, and smashed it under his fist. There is no reason for you to respond to him like this.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

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