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bambisworlds · 6 months ago

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bambi and her bodyguard

simon "ghost" riley is bambi's bodyguard, he worships the ground she walks on but fights his feelings for her. well, until he can't anymore (5,121 word count)

*bambi is my oc, click on my pinned 'about my blog' post to learn more about her :)

content warnings, mdni 18+

f!reader, bambi!oc, bodyguard!simon, unmasked!simon, gentledom!simon, innocent!reader, shy!reader, inexperienced!reader (but not a virgin), simon is down bad for reader, protective!simon, jealous!simon, oral (f. recieving), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), use of "Daddy" (2 times), use of "good girl", lottts of praise, not really a warning but frequent consent checks (consent is sexy), frequent usage of pet names, let me know if i missed anything x

my masterlist

Simon never expected to like his charge for his latest bodyguard gig. The contract would only last for a year, and then he'd likely move on to whatever spoiled brat he was assigned to next. He retired from special forces 5 years ago. He thought he'd enjoy it, but as it turns out he hates to sit still. So, he started working as a bodyguard 2 years ago. He's had 8 jobs so far, most of them were short-term gigs. Bambi was his latest assignment.

Her name wasn't actually Bambi, but the nickname fitted her well. She looked as if she belonged in some flower field where the sunlight could shine on her, making her hair glow in golden hues. Bambi was gentle and skittish like a deer with big doe eyes. The object of innocence and sweetness. He wanted nothing more than to taste the sweetness of her lips and her cunt, but he couldn't go there. He wouldn't.

Bambi was the daughter of the CEO of a luxurious company. He was a billionaire, and like most wealthy and famous people he had people who hated him. Her father was receiving threats on both himself and more importantly, Bambi. His words to Simon in the consultation before he was hired were; "She's too good for this world, too innocent. These thugs would squash her like a bug."

Her father was right, Bambi was too good for this world. And he would do whatever it took to keep her from its harsh realities.

Simon stood outside of her bedroom, he could hear pop music faintly playing inside. Probably Ariana Grande or SZA, which Bambi had been educating Simon on against his will. Bambi had plans to go out with her best friend, Florence. She and Florence have been friends since middle school. They were an unlikely pair. Florence was outgoing, raunchy, and bold. Bambi was not. Bambi was shy, polite, and kind. Florence, like Simon, knew Bambi was precious, so she often used her boldness to defend Bambi, which Simon greatly appreciated.

Simon had been staring at the wall across from him in a haze as he listened to Bambi's faint, melodic humming from inside her bedroom. He was practically in a trance. But, he was snapped out of it as Florence came strutting down the hall.

"Hey big stuff," she greets Simon with a wink as she walks into Bambi's room without knocking.

"Florence," Simon greets flatly. As if there was some magnetic pull between him and Bambi, he turned so he could look into her room. Florence had left the door open after she entered. Simon leaned on the doorway as he watched Florence try to coax Bambi to do bolder eye makeup. Simon didn't think it was necessary. She looked angelic with her usual soft, pink eyeshadow and the delicate highlighter on her nose that gave her a natural but ethereal glow.

Simon barely registered Florence's outfit, his gaze was hyper-focused on the silk, pink dress Bambi was wearing. It had fine flower designs on it with a low cut, giving a glimpse of her cleavage. Simon gulped and forced himself to look away, pretending to seem intrigued by the collection of romance novels on her bookshelf.

"Si's coming with us," Bambi says, her sweet voice calling Simon's attention back to her like a siren call. He blamed the flip in his stomach on the shitty Chinese food he had for lunch, not her calling him 'Si'. She was supposed to refer to him as Ghost, but Simon wanted to hear his name on her lips, so he asked her to call him Simon two weeks into his job.

"You won't even know I'm there," Simon says, his tone dull, as she tried to prevent Florence's unavoidable bitching about him accompanying them to the blues bar they were going to.

"Yeah, right," Florence scoffs, turning towards Simon, "What are you? 6'4, 6'5? I'm sure I won't even notice your sasquatch ass behind Bambi the entire night," she says with a roll of her eyes.

"He's just doing his job, be nice," Bambi coaxes Florence with a gentle touch on her arm.

Simon watched transfixed as Bambi adjusted her hair in the mirror. It was neatly curled with a lovely, pink bow on the back of her head to keep her hair out of her stunning eyes. Bambi adjusted her dress and turned to Simon, "Are you ready?" she asked gently.

Simon cleared his throat, he barely listened to the words she said, he was too focused on her otherwordly-like appearance. "Yeah, I'm ready," he says gruffly.

"Good, let's go," Florence says and takes her hand, pulling her along with her as she exits Bambi's bedroom.

The whole drive to the blues bar was torture for Simon. He tried to stay focused on the road, but his eyes kept involuntarily drifting to the rearview mirror to get a glimpse of Bambi.

"I need to find you a man," Florence says to Bambi and Simon snaps out of his daze. His eyes fly to the rearview mirror again at almost inhuman speed. Florence was perceptive, or at least more perceptive than Bambi, so she had picked up on Simon's feelings for Bambi. And damn, did she love torturing him with it.

"I don't know, no guys seem to be the kind that I want," Bambi sighs, fidgeting with her purse, "I've tried dating apps, but they all just want hookups or they ghost you once things start to get serious. I want someone to understand me, to want to understand me."

I understand you. Simon wanted to say but bit his tongue.

"Maybe we'll find your Prince Charming tonight," Florence says to Bambi with a gentle smile, before turning to look at Simon in the rearview mirror with a mischievous smirk. Simon scoffs under his breath and focuses back on the road, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

Simon was two seconds away from punching something, someone, in the face. He never had the desire to hit a woman before, but damn was he itching to as he watched Florence introduce Bambi to a group of frat guys. Simon was positioned at the opposite end of the bar so he wasn't breathing down their neck, but could still see them clearly.

Simon wasn't supposed to drink on the job, but he went against protocol and downed a shot of bourbon after one of the frat guys rested his hand on Bambi's lower back.

His grip tightens on the now empty glass as Bambi smiles at the guy shyly, her cheeks tinted pink. Simon was practically seething when Florence looked at him over her shoulder with a smirk, clearly enjoying his struggle. She wanted him to man up and tell Bambi how he feels and she was gonna make him, one way or another.

After another grueling half an hour of watching the string bean of a human flirt with Bambi, Simon stood, the bar stool scuffing from his abrupt movement. He practically stomped over to them, stopping when he was positioned behind Bambi. The frat guy slowly looked up at Simon, who stood nearly a foot taller than him, he could see the unease in his eyes. Simon reveled in it.

"Your dad wants you to go home, said he got a new threat in the mail," Simon says flatly, his eyes bearing into the man's face. Bambi flinched at the sound of his deep voice, unaware he had been behind her. Simon grabbed her wrist, but with a gentleness that contrasted his rough exterior, and started to lead Bambi out of the bar. Florence followed after them with a slight smile.

Simon led Bambi to the car, he offered her his hand as she got in and closed the door behind her before getting in the driver's seat.

“Thanks for the help,” Florence mumbles as she gets in the car as well without any special treatment from Simon.

“I’ll drop you off on the way,” Simon says flatly to Florence. His eyes were dark, situated on the road ahead of him as he spoke. Florence knew she had pissed him off tonight, and she couldn’t be happier about it, which Simon knew, pissing him off further.

Simon pulled in front of Florence’s apartment. Bambi bid her goodnight.

Florence stopped at the driver's side window, “You better not fuck this up.” She says to Simon, a quiet warning before she heads up to her apartment.

Her words rang in Simon’s ears the whole way home, he really didn’t want to fuck things up with Bambi. But he needed to taste her, to be surrounded and engulfed by her sweet, addictive, scent.

After pulling up to the Bambi's father's mansion, he killed the engine. His heart pounded in his chest at the knowledge that her father was away on business. He fell into the usual routine of helping her out of the car and walking her to the door with a protective hand on her lower back.

Simon held open the door for her, and once she entered he did as well, closing the door behind them and locking it. Simon stood, utterly motionless and silent, as she took off her Mary Jane shoes. When she straightened back up Simon spoke, "What do you want in a boyfriend? What traits, what behaviors?" Bambi turned to look at Simon, her delicate features furrowing slightly from the question. "I'll be any of it, anything you want," Simon says, hating the slight desperation in his tone.

Bambi's big eyes scanned over his face with a mix of confusion and understanding.

"What do you want?" Simon asks again.

"I want them to be like you," Bambi says softly.

Simon swallowed roughly, his hand twitching with the effort of keeping still. "Like me?" Simon asks, his tone flat.

"Not like you," she says, her voice soft and airy, "I want you."

Simon could hear his heart pounding in his ears as the entire world seemed to get smaller and smaller until only Bambi remained. Before he could think twice about it, he walked over to her in two long strides and captured her lips with his. The softness of her lips made his head spin. His large hands moved to span across her waist, pulling her closer to him.

"You want me?" Simon asks, his lips a breath away from hers, "You can have me." he says, his voice gruff. "Whenever you want. However you want."

Bambi let out a shaky breath and kissed him again, her soft hands moving up to rest on the back of his neck. Simon's legs nearly gave out from the eagerness of her kiss, but he forced himself to pull away again, "How do you want me baby?" Her eyes flicker between his, a silent storm behind her eyes as she tried to get the courage to say what she wanted, "It's okay, you can tell me. No need to be an embarrassed sweetheart." he says, his large hand lifting to rest on the side of her face. Bambi looked down at her legs briefly then back up at him. Simon smirked, "You want me down there?" his head nodding towards her thighs. Bambi nods timidly, nibbling on her bottom lip anxiously. "Good girl," Simon praises before leaning down again to kiss her.

His hands slip down to underneath her thighs, lifting her up until her legs wrapped around his waist. Simon managed to make his way up two flights of stairs and down a hallway without looking as he kissed Bambi like she was his only supply of oxygen.

He kicked open the door to her bedroom, then kicked it shut behind him before carrying her over to her plush bed. He laid her smaller form on the pink comforter. "Can I move these?" he asks gently, motioning to the four squishmallows propped up against her pillows. Bambi nods and Simon smiles slightly, moving them over to the bay window before returning over to her. He stands over her, his fingers softly tracing along her thighs that were on either side of his legs.

"Now, I need you to do something for me, okay sweetheart?" he asks and Bambi nods. "Whatever we end up doing, if you want me to stop, or it doesn't feel good, you gotta tell me. Sound good?" he asks and she nods again. "Good," he says softly and leans over her body, his hands braced on either side of her head as he kisses her once more. Simon moans against her lips and braces one arm beside her head, the other sliding down to rub her side soothingly. His hand progressively moves down to her thigh, bunching up her dress slightly. He slowly eases the skirt of her dress up higher until her panties nearly peek out from beneath it, "This okay angel?" he asks and Bambi nods, her hands resting on his broad shoulders.

Simon pushes up her dress to her belly button, exposing her cotton panties to his eager gaze, "Cute." he mutters with a small smile as he looks at her panties. Simon leans down to place a kiss on her covered mound before standing straight again. "Can I see these pretty tits too?" he asks, gripping the fabric of her dress again as he prepared to lift it up higher. Bambi nods, "I need words sweetheart." he says with a gentle smile.

"You can take it off," Bambi says, her voice breathy with a slight tremble.

Simon leans down and gives her a gentle kiss, "Good girl." he mumbles against her lips before straightening up to take off her dress completely, “I’m gonna treat you like a princess tonight, sweetheart.” Simon says huskily as he lifts the dress up over her head. Bambi lifts her arms to help him, then rests them at her sides once the dress is off. Simon lets out a shaky breath at the sight of the delicate, lace bra that hid her breasts from view. "Such a pretty little thing," he breathes as he leans back over her body to plant kisses over the swell of her breasts. Bambi shivered, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. "Nervous baby?" Simon asks, lifting his head slightly from between her breasts to look up at her.

"A little," she says softly.

"Then let even the playing field a bit then," Simon smiles and pulls off his own shirt so perhaps she'd feel less exposed. "How's that?" Simon asks, tossing his shirt on the floor without a second glance.

Bambi gulps, her eyes flickering over his chiseled chest and abdomen, "Good." she says shakily. Simon chuckles in amusement.

"Now, we'll take this as far as you want, or do as little as you want, okay?" he asks and Bambi nods. "Can I take this off too?" Simon asks, his fingers ghosting over the straps of her bra. Bambi nods, "Use your words, baby." he reminds her gently.

"You can take it off," she says, arching off the bed slightly so he could unclasp her bra. Simon reaches behind her and unclasps her bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps down her arms until her breasts are exposed. He folds her bra and sets it on the floor with a carefulness he didn't express with his own clothing. As Simon looks back down at Bambi, her chest heaving from anticipation and nerves, he felt his cock twitch. This little creature had the most perfect tits he's ever seen.

"Damn, little one," Simon says with a dramatic exhale as he drinks in her exposed chest. "Is it okay if I taste 'em?" Simon asks.

"Yes," Bambi asks, remembering to answer verbally this time.

"Such a good girl," Simon praises as he leans down to take her left nipple between his lips. He moans in satisfaction, his right hand coming up to squeeze its twin. "How's that feel baby?" he mumbles against her breast.

"G-Good," she says, her hands gripping the comforter beneath her. Simon smirks against her breast, moving over to her right breast to give it the same attention. He suckles the bud gently before pulling back to admire her tits again. Simon moans at the sight, his hands cupping and squeezing the soft mounds.

"Perfect fuckin' tits," he mumbles under his breath. His distraction from her breasts breaks as he looks down at her panties. "How about these, baby? Can I take these off?" he asks, nodding down towards her panties.

"Yeah," she answers, her grip on the comforter relaxing as he lets go of her breasts. He slips his fingers beneath the delicate fabric, "Lift your hips for a second sweetheart," he says and Bambi complies. He slides them down her thighs until they dangle from her ankles. Simon leans down to place a gentle kiss on her right ankle as he removes her panties, setting them on the floor with equal care he did with her bra.

Simon's focus returns to Bambi momentarily and his head falls back with a dramatic groan at the sight of her bare mound. He lifts his head again, sighing heavily as he rests his hands on her thighs. "Remind me what I want you to do angel," Simon says, looking back up at her face.

"Ask you to stop if I don't like something," she says softly.

"That's right, good girl," he says as he slowly pries her thighs open. Simon's mouth waters as he spreads her thighs, his eyes drinking in the sight of her pink, glistening folds. "Fuck," he whispers to himself, taking a moment to admire her bare sex. Bambi's cheeks turn pink and she looks away, growing flustered by his heated gaze. Simon smirks, "Don't get all shy now baby, you've got a pretty little pussy, might as well show it off." Simon leans forward, kneeling between her thighs and he plants a gentle kiss on her clit and Bambi jerks slightly.

"Have you ever had sex baby girl?" Simon asks Bambi. He knew she had a boyfriend before he was hired as her bodyguard, but he wasn't sure if they went all the way or not.

"Yeah, a few times," she says shakily. Simon nods in acknowledgment and kisses her clit again. He places a kitten lick on her clit before sucking it between his lips. He lets out a low moan at her taste, gently sucking on the sensitive bud. Bambi exhales shakily, her thighs twitching slightly. Simon keeps a gentle hold on her thighs to keep her spread open for him as he ravishes her pussy. Simon's technique was slow and unhurried, wanting to drag this out for not only her but for himself. He wanted to savor her taste and the sounds she made.

Simon's eyes flickered up to her face as he slid his tongue inside her. She gasped and her back arched slightly, a good sign. He began to pump his tongue in and out, lifting one of her thighs onto his shoulder so he could move his tongue deeper. Bambi let out a sweet moan, her face scrunching up slightly as his tongue slid deeper inside her. Her delicate hands gripped the pink comforter beneath her as Simon continued his ministrations. He watched her reactions closely, trying to see what she liked best. When she made a particularly appetizing noise, he repeated the action until her thighs trembled. He cycled through the favored motions, wanting to make sure she enjoyed every second.

Bambi panted softly, gripping the comforter tightly, her body growing tense as the familiar signs of an orgasm built within her. "Cum whenever you're ready, baby. There's no rush." Simon mumbles against her pussy, alternating between lavishing attention on her clit and fucking his tongue into her. Bambi gasps sharply and keens as she reaches her peak, her body trembling and spasming. She tilts her head to the side, trying to muffle her cries of ecstasy with the comforter. Simon smirked against her sex at her attempt to stay quiet.

He continued to lap at her clit until she jerked with each stroke of his tongue on her overly sensitive bud. Once satisfied that she was spent, he pulled away and licked his lips clean. "Good girl," Simon praises as his eyes drift over her limp form appreciatively. "Still not quite ready for me, though." he smiles and stands up to sit on the edge of the bed beside where Bambi's legs dangled off the edge.

"You're gonna do more?" Bambi asks, still slightly breathless.

"Baby, we can keep the foreplay going all night long if you want, I don't mind." he smiles, his fingers tracing over her mound. "I wanna make sure you're ready for me. But, if you don't want to have sex tonight we can just stick to this stuff." Simon says and Bambi shakes her head quickly.

"No, I want to," she says eagerly and Simon chuckles from her eagerness.

"Don't worry baby, we will if you want to." he smiles as he slides his fingers down to slip one of his thick fingers inside her, "Gotta get this pretty pussy nice and prepped first," he says with a breathy moan as he begins to slowly pump his finger in and out. Bambi lets out a slight moan, her thighs beginning to fidget, but Simon's free hand holds one open for his ministrations. "So fucking tight," he grits out as he continues to thrust his finger in and out of her sopping cunt. He relished the wet squelch from his finger moving inside her.

Bambi's eyes flutter shut as she moans sweetly, clearly enjoying herself. Seeing that she's relaxed, Simon adds a second finger. Bambi gasps and her back arches momentarily before she melts back against the bed. "Good girl, just relax and enjoy it," Simon encourages, picking up the speed of his fingers slightly. Bambi's lips part with a shaky moan as he picks up the pace. Simon smirks and crooks his fingers to find her sweet spot, he knows he found it when she arches off the bed and a high-pitched moan slips past her plump lips. Simon focuses on hitting that spot with each thrust of his fingers.

Bambi begins to squirm on the bed, her hips involuntarily rocking against his hand. "That's it, take what you need," Simon practically moans as she rolls her hips to meet his movements. He clenched his jaw, trying to stifle his own desire as he focused on making Bambi cum. But, there was a visible patch of precum on the crotch of his pants. He ignored it, focusing on the little angel he was pleasuring.

Simon smiles to himself triumphantly as her pussy begins to squeeze around his fingers and she white knuckles the comforter. Simon adjusts his hand so he could circle her clit without pausing his ministrations. Bambi gasps, her face scrunching up in pleasure. She tilts her head again, trying to hide her moans with the comforter. Simon's free hand moves to tilt her head straight again, "None of that little one, let me hear you." he says gently but firmly, and she complies.

Simon watches her face intently, drinking in every micro-expression as she cums. She lets out a desperate wail, her body convulsing and thighs squeezing around his hand as she cums. Simon's free hand quickly moves to grip one of her thighs, forcing her legs apart again. He slows the pace of his fingers, prolonging her orgasm. Once her inner muscles begin to relax and her breathing slows he withdraws his fingers, bringing them up to his lips to suck them clean.

"How are you feeling baby? Still good?" he asks and Bambi nods mindlessly, her eyes shut in bliss. Simon chuckles, amused by her blissed-out expression. He rubs her thighs soothingly as she comes back to herself. When she finally opens her eyes again Simon smiles down at her, "Do you want more? Or was that enough for tonight?"

"I want more," Bambi says quickly and Simon laughs at her speedy response.

"Okay, sweetheart," he chuckles and reaches down to work on his belt buckle. He pulls off his belt, tossing it on the floor before moving to unbutton his pants. Bambi watches his every movement, her body buzzing in anticipation. She had been dying to see what he was hiding beneath those cargo pants.

Simon unzips his pants and pulls them down, then his briefs. Bambi's eyes widen slightly as his large cock springs free and bobs against his stomach. The tip was red and angry, dripping precum. After Simon tosses his pants on his forming pile of clothing he looks over at Bambi, he chuckles at the look on her face. "Feeling a bit giddy are we?" Bambi's eyes flicker up to his face and she looks away shyly, feeling caught. "Don't be shy baby," he smiles gently, grasping her chin to turn her face back to his, "You can look at it as much as you want. It's all yours for the night, and as many nights as you want after."

Bambi timidly peeks down again before looking back up at Simon. Simon smiles to himself but doesn't comment on her quick glance as he moves to stand between her spread legs. He grabs her thighs in his large hands, guiding them to wrap around his torso as he stands before her. Bambi complies, locking her ankles together behind his back. Simon gives his cock a few slow strokes, spreading the precum over his shaft.

"Still want to do this baby?" Simon checks and Bambi nods, "What did I say?" Simon asks, his voice growing firm.

"To use my words," she says timidly. Simon raises an eyebrow, "I still want to." she says and he nods in approval.

"Good girl," he says and drags the head of his cock through her slick folds, coating himself in her juices. Bambi shivers each time his cock slides over her clit. His free hand rests on her belly as he positions himself at her entrance. He inches the head of his cock in first and Bambi tenses, panting softly. Simon moans lowly from the tightness of her pussy. He starts with shallow thrusts, stretching her open. Bambi responds eagerly to his movements, her eyes fluttering shut and lips parting. Taking it as a good sign, Simon pushes deeper until half of his cock is inside her, repeating the slow thrusts to ease her open for him.

Bambi's hands grip the comforter for the nth time tonight. She bites her bottom lip, stifling her moans.

"What did I say, baby?" Simon asks, halting his movements. Bambi's eyes fly open, "Don't be quiet, I want to hear you." he says firmly and she nods in response. Seemingly satisfied with her response, Simon resumes the slow roll of his hips until he bottoms out inside her. He groans in satisfaction as his balls press against her ass, "Fucking hell," he moans, remaining still for a moment to savor the sensation of her warm walls gripping him. Lost in his own euphoria, Simon snaps out of his cloudy haze as Bambi begins to squirm. "S'okay baby, I'll give you what you need," he says as he begins to thrust slow and deep, pulling out until only the tip remains before pushing back in.

Simon's eyes roll into his head as he begins to thrust again, letting out a gravelly moan. "Such a perfect little cunt," he breathes, "Gonna get addicted to you sweetheart," he pants as he picks up speed slightly. Bambi responds beautifully, her mouth dropping open as she lets out sounds of delight with each snap of his hips, "That's it, make all the noise you want," Simon encourages breathlessly, his hips smacking against the underside of her thighs with each thrust.

Bambi’s tits jiggled enticingly with each thrust, only adding to Simon's arousal. Simon lays over her, his arms braced on either side of his head as he ruts into her. Simon let out a shaky moan, tucking his face into the crook of her neck. She lifted her hands to rest them on the back of his neck, spreading her thighs wider to give him easier access.

“Good girl,” he grunts out as she spreads her legs wider. He leans back again slightly to get better momentum as he fucks her. Bambi’s eyes drank in the sight of him. His mouth was dropped open, his forehead beaded with sweat as he grunted and moaned with each movement he made. She couldn’t tell who was enjoying this more, him or her. His abs rippled with each snap of his hips, and Bambi couldn’t resist the urge to trace her fingers over the muscles.

Simon let out a low loan as her fingers danced over his hard abdomen and he increased his pace, fucking her with renewed vigor. “That’s it, touch Daddy wherever you want.” He grunts out. Bambi whimpers from the dominant title, surprised by how much she enjoyed it. Simon smirked, “Yeah? You like that?” He asks and she nods mindlessly. Simon chuckled and smacks her hip lightly, “Be a good girl and cum for Daddy. Make me proud.” Simon lets out something that resembles a whimper as Bambi’s pussy began to tighten around him. “Fuck,” he gasps, “Sweetheart, you gotta cum now before I blow my load inside you.” He warns, a slight tremble in his voice.

As if on cue, Bambi’s cunt clamps around his cock and she convulses wildly on the bed. “Oh shit,” Simon moans, his eyes rolling back at her already tight cunt becoming impossibly tighter, “T-That’s it, good girl,” he praises, his voice trembling as he fucks her through her orgasm. Bambi mewled and whined, her hands clawing at his arms as she rode out the waves of pleasure crashing through her. “Oh, fuck,” Simon gasps, “Gonna cum,” he pants, quickly pulling out of her messy cunt and stroking his cock rapidly. He lets out a low groan as he cums, thick ropes of his seed coating her stomach. Simon shudders and moans, bracing himself on one arm as he falls forward so he doesn't collapse on her as he rides out his high.

Simon pants, letting go of his cock as his orgasm subsides, “Holy fucking shit sweetheart,” he says, his chest heaving. Simon sighs shakily and tilts his head down to give Bambi a slow, almost thankful kiss, “That was damn good.” he sighs contently. “How about you? You still feelin’ good?” he asks breathily.

Bambi nods, “Yeah, really good.” she says, equally winded.

Simon gives Bambi another lingering kiss, “Let's get you cleaned up sweet girl.”

if you have any requests including the people on my masterlist please comment them below any of my posts or in my submissions!! (check here: about my blog to see what things i'm not comfortable with in regards to requests <3)

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost x oc #simon ghost riley x original character #bodyguard simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley smut #call of duty #bambisworlds #simon ghost riley x bambi

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lxvethermore · 27 days ago

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Switch!Ghost x Fem!Reader Headcannons

Imagine dom!Ghost who forces you to sit on his face after you behaved like a brat on todays mission. Imagine how his tongue would explore the deepest crevices of your pretty pussy as you cry out in overstimulation.

Imagine sub!Ghost, who begrudgingly eats you out after you win a bet. Imagine how the embarrassment would fill him, making him bulge in both anger and anticipation.

Imagine dom!ghost, who forces you into cowgirl—telling you to get off yourself, or not cum at all. He’s mean, but isn’t that what you love about him? He loves hearing your little moans as you struggle to ride and please him.

Imagine sub!Ghost, whom you force onto the bed as you willingly ride him. He’s trying his best not to let out the little grunts and groans of pleasure you desperately crave.

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ltash · 23 days ago

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"I walked on your footsteps, it put me through a lot, I fell and I failed numerous times, I got injured and I got hurt. I got the scar on my face too and finally, I found you."

"Didn't know the journey will put me through hell, but I lived what you lived through."

"I couldn't, lose you."

"I chose this life to get my way to you. I knew if I didn't chose this path, I would never find you."

"I wanted to live through your pain, see the world you saw everyday, see the world through your eyes, live through wars and in the end get scarred on my face. Finally, we are One."

"Finally we are not different, finally..."

Ghost: "One"

Pic credits: @skylovesducks

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

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Man-Sized

7/9 Shadowplay

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

Christmas came and went, and all she knew was that Simon wasn't working. She still didn't know where he lived – whether he had a home in Manchester or if he resided elsewhere. He could live in London for all she knew. He could live down the street, and she wouldn't have a clue about it.

She sent him pictures of her family and the Christmas tree, of the cute pajamas her parents had got her – they still got her cozy sleepwear as a gift, like she was a child. She sent her a photo of herself later with that thing on. Or most of it on, anyway. She even added a few hearts to her texts, knowing he wouldn't return them. Simon was born at a time before emojis were even invented.

She didn't know if he spent the holidays with his family. It was odd to even imagine Simon in a happy, domestic setting, sipping grog or decorating a tree. His father was dead, and he rarely talked about his brother or mother. All the details he had given her of his life were from a pre-military time.

True to his habits, he only sent a short reply on Boxing Day that said: "See you soon."

And she waited. She went back home the next day and sat in her lonely apartment watching historical dramas and eating chocolate until she felt sick, and he never came. She stayed there the day after, didn't leave the house even for the store. On the third day, she started to get anxious, on the fourth, rather angry. No one turned that extra key on the lock of her front door, and she felt like an idiot.

On New Year's Eve, she decided she would get the fuck out. She would not stay at home like a whimpering, lovesick puppy, waiting for its master to come home.

The long-distance relationship was getting on her nerves, and his occasional unavailability didn't feel exciting anymore. It was just vexing. Sometimes it felt like a paranoid exaggeration that he couldn't tell her when they would meet again. She didn't need much: just a fixed date would have sufficed. Her other life was stupidly on hold because she was always on high alert for him. This had been going on for months, and it was high time she did something else. Just for the shits and giggles. To hell with his soon.

So she went to see her friends and drank herself into an impressive stupor.

It wasn't her usual approach to dealing with anxiety and frustration and a yearning heart, and it didn't work as well as she had hoped. But at least she got out of that stupid flat and saw some people who actually had time for her. She had been invited to a party before the holidays with the knowledge that she would not attend – just like she never attended any student shenanigans and was rather curious as to why people kept inviting her.

But right now, an evening full of alcohol and uni people who had normal problems, problems she should've been thinking about too instead of her supersoldier, sounded better than binge-watching Outlander for the fifth day in a row.

And it was actually loads of fun. She decided right then and there, while having her fifth or sixth drink, that she should leave the house more often. Connect a little, get acquainted with new people who did normal shit. Even if they were a bit boring compared to a certain brooding giant who made love to her like she was a goddess.

She laughed so much that night that her stomach hurt, and a few boys from school were really after her at the party, quenching her need for validation and attention just a tiny bit. The whole crew went to see the fireworks to the city, and they all shared some bubbly in the frigid night, and even if she wanted Simon to somehow teleport himself behind her at the turn of the year, to grab her from behind and raise her in the air and whisper something naughty in her ear, the longing wasn't enough to rob all the fun from that night.

When she walked home, feeling a bit wobbly and more than a bit guilty for having flirted with not one but two guys, she reached for the pocket that held the push dagger Simon had given her. It received loving attention every time she walked to school or to the club, the excitement of doing something forbidden soon having turned to a feeling of security and a promise of prowess, all granted by Simon. It was almost like a comfort object, the way it instantly carried her thoughts to him.

Home felt dark and shabby and even more lonely after having a few good laughs with cheerful people her age, who studied the same subject and had big plans for the future. Her plans for the near future were another day alone, but this time, with a hideous hangover. That future felt so dreary that she didn't quite catch the familiar dark shoes in the hallway as she barged in and fought herself out of her heels all but suavely.

She went straight to the bathroom for a late-night shower, and the men's shower gel bottle – the one Simon had brought to her apartment because he didn't want to smell of "girl shampoo" – stared at her like a reminder of what she couldn't have. She then brushed her teeth and went to get a glass of water before crashing into bed.

Even in the dark, she could see a man sitting on her couch as she stepped into the living room that extended to an open kitchen.

She didn't panic this time. Her reaction was a simple, annoyed sigh upon seeing that he was yet again trying to gauge a reaction out of her.

"You really need to stop doing that."

She could see him tilt his head a little at her bitter tone. They had never fought, but right now, feeling emboldened by the booze, she had a feeling that an explosion was about to happen. Returning to a dark home filled with a dark man was such a contrast to the spirited, youthful gang she had spent her evening with that all the laughter left her for a moment.

How long had he even been here? It was nearly 3 AM. She had gone to the party as early as she deemed acceptable, wanting to get some fresh air and fresh vibes as soon as possible. If Simon had come to surprise her in the evening, he had had a long night.

"Where were you?"

The raspy voice was demanding, and she fought back a jolt of irritation just from hearing that dominant tone. It was just a simple question, but it felt like an interrogation.

And she wanted to scream.

Where were you?

How many times have I waited for you to bless me with your presence?

She had been away just this once, and he hadn't called, hadn't sent a text, had chosen to wait here for her to return from her all nighter, and then accused her of not being home.

"At a friend," she said.

"Which one?"

"Marc."

She heard him draw air upon hearing that she had been to some other guy's apartment.

"A new friend," he noted.

"He had a party," she explained, then tested her luck like an idiot. "It was fun. I made lots of new friends."

She turned to get that glass of water and noticed Simon had done her dishes while she was away. There were flowers in a vase on the counter, too. He had wanted to surprise her on New Year's Eve, probably hoped to spend another peaceful evening at home together.

A tiny needle pushed into her heart at the sight of the pink tulips. Simon didn't know it, but they were her favourite flowers. She wondered whether he had been to the club to see if she was there, only to come back when he noticed she wasn't up tonight. If he had sat on that couch as hours passed by, with dread sinking in from the thought that she might be out somewhere, cheating him with another guy. The needle inside her heart burst into flames.

"Where were you?" She whispered. He finally rose and walked to her, much in the same way he had done when she had been upset in this exact same spot when morning light had filled the room.

"Covering my tracks."

She already knew that "covering tracks" meant he took extra precautions before coming to see her, whether there was a real, heightened risk or not. Christmas time might be a heightened risk: those who wanted him harm would probably want to know where he spent his holidays. Who his loved ones were.

It meant that he was devoted to her, an actual sign of care and deep affection. Simon had just made sure he wouldn't set her in danger.

She could feel his warmth behind her, could smell him, and felt distress spike in her chest when he wouldn't proceed to touch her but just stood there. She turned to face him with a quivering lip and wasn't sure whether she was about to burst into tears or a manic giggle.

He was wearing a black hoodie this time, but it didn't quite manage to make him look any more youthful or boyish. But it was snug, almost cute. The size of it probably double or triple XL to accommodate those shoulders and that chest. That hoodie told her he had definitely planned to stay home, cuddling and making love while the tulips slowly opened their blossoms in that vase.

She knew he came here for her softness. He would never admit it, but he craved the softness of her bed, her couch, her body, even the food she made for him with love. He had just wanted to spend the evening filled with some color, laughter, and affection, certainly not go and watch exploding fireworks that would only remind him of war and death and darkness.

Suddenly she felt guilty about getting so worked up. She felt shame for her condition: she was still drunk, like a sailor, wearing nothing but flushed cheeks and a towel.

"Are you angry?" She searched for judgment in his eyes. He watched her sternly, didn't betray any emotion other than that of guardedness.

"Why would I be angry?" He said in a Should I be? kind of way.

"Because I'm drunk?"

She must smell of booze, of a whole pubful of drunkards. Not ladylike at all. He had heard the state in which she had barged in — she had even sung a dirty song in the shower.

She felt like a child compared to him, felt like every guy she had talked to at that party tonight was like a child compared to him. The shyness never quite left her, even if they had known each other for months now.

What if he was angry? Or disappointed?

Or worse yet, disgusted?

"You said you didn't like women who drink."

She certainly wasn't a drinker, even if this night had been a bit rowdy. But trying to explain to a man who disapproved of drinking that she wasn't an alcoholic while smelling of booze was somehow too funny in her sleepy, partied, lovelorn state.

She couldn't hold it in any longer, and a stupid little chortle pushed through her lips. This time, he raised a hand and took hold of her shoulder, as if to ensure she was okay.

"I never said that," he said gently. The brown of his eyes was blown dark, and she vaguely remembered that dilated pupils meant drugs or darkness or love.

"One of the guys wanted to walk me home," she blurted out of nowhere. The alcohol in her system had apparently decided it was quite alright to tease him a bit for taking so long. His head pulled back, a subtle indication that he didn't like what he was hearing.

"Or actually, two. It was funny when they both came to give me my coat when I was leaving."

He was silent, the feeling of being reduced to a flustered child – or a drunken moron – in his presence only increasing by the minute. Either he was genuinely astounded by her behaviour, or then she was really pushing her luck with her drunken babble.

And fuck, she would never get over his eyes. Perfectly almond-shaped and so big that supermodels would kill for them. But it wasn't the warm, dark chocolate or the eternal exhaustion of hooded lids that made them so enticing. It was the look of having walked through hellfire… and having emerged undefeated, with scars and a sardonic, knowing smile. He was like Lucifer cast out from heaven, a fallen dark angel who had been thrown to Hell, who merely shrugged at his fate and then started to rule the whole goddamn place.

She opened the towel and let it drop to the floor, then took a step and wrapped her arms around his neck. He went rigid as she pressed her body flush against him, the amber eyes roaming her face while the rest of him was stiff. It was a new situation, her meeting his solemn stare with bold teasing while making it clear that she wanted him to rut her — on that counter if need be. Or better yet, she wanted to climb onto his lap and ride him, run her nails down his chest and sink them in, perhaps to the point of drawing blood.

It was usually he who ravished her…

"I've been a bad girl," she tried to imitate a seductive voice but it turned into another giggle.

Good God… She wished someone would come and put some duct tape on her mouth.

But then a hand was placed possessively on her hip, a thumb brushed over the side of her stomach. Those eyes were now looking at her much in the same way they always did when she was dancing for him. Hungry and dark. Proud… Pleased.

He had looked at her like that for months and months now. Like he owned her. In a stupefied recognition, she realized he had looked at her that way before they had even shared a word with each other.

He moved in a sharp flash, scooped her in his arms and started to walk toward the bedroom.

"Are you gonna punish me?" She whispered without even bothering to cover the heavy anticipation in her voice. He wouldn't say anything, but when they reached her bed, she was thrown on it. Gently and with care – but it was still more of a flung than setting down.

"It's not really a punishment if I enjoy it, right?" She laughed with excitement, all the remnants of her anger dissolving into a soft buzz that gave a nice edge to the upcoming retribution. "I guess the joke's on you."

He still wouldn't budge, still wouldn't speak…

"Are you sure you're not angry?"

She rose to lean on her elbows and watched him undress with a soldierly sharpness. Under the black hoodie was a black t-shirt — of course. But only now did she notice that he was wearing grey sweatpants. Fucking sweatpants.

Why did he have to be such a kissable, huggable cuddle muffin on this night of all nights? Those sweats were so far from the glitter and glamour she had surrounded herself this evening that she felt another burning sting beneath her sternum. The ample bulge against that soft, grey cotton was visible even in the darkness.

The muscles bunched as he pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. She would probably never tire of seeing those shoulders, not to talk of his divine forearms that were so different from the skinny little things she usually saw at school or even at the club she danced in. Even she had more muscle in her forearms due to pole dancing than some men – but Simon… God, he was an absolute specimen. And with that tattoo slapped on that bulky, veined muscle, she could verily fall on her knees and pray to this man.

Her earlier teasing felt stupid as hell. She wasn't interested in anyone else than him walking her home. That ship had long since sailed.

And how could anyone compare to him? Those boys she had talked to would shit themselves if they saw Simon, even without his gear. Would turn tail and run seeing him in those cozy sweats, even. She wanted to explain herself even if the cleverest thing would be to just shut up.

"Marc's just a friend from school. He was in this group project and then we started to talk about our plans for the New Year, and then I figured I should go to this party because I never go anywhere, you know, and -...mh."

His pants were off, all of them, and she could see his cock spring free, already hard, like he always was when she was lying down like this and he was about to descend upon her. The night swallowed most of him, but it wasn't enough to hide those forearms, that hungry, slightly amused glint in his eyes – or that heavy, obscenely thick erection that was jutting from between his equally massive thighs. It was veined like his forearms, surrounded by the palest, faint hair, similar to the almost invisible ones that coated his chest and back here and there. Everything in him was heavy and thick, except that pale breath of hair…

Her mouth shot full of water, and rich heat pooled between her thighs, which instinctively clamped together as if knowing that this man was too big for her, even if evidence already proved otherwise. He always told her how tight she was, but she felt like it was more the cause of his size than any asset of hers.

"I thought it would be good to connect with people because you never know, right?" Her mouth kept yapping on while her eyes were glued to his massiveness. All of it.

He crawled to the bed between her legs, which opened by themselves for him as if this man was a whole VIP pass that granted access to the exclusive area of her.

"If you wanted to know where I am, you could've just called me. You never tell me where you are or when you come back. You know, "soon" could mean anything."

She expected him to insert himself to her opening, to push in with a full-blown ego because he must already know she was wet from just seeing him, the bastard. But instead, he dove face first to her folds while sweeping her thighs over his shoulders like they weighed nothing.

"But I get it, you need to–"

A pair of hot lips surrounded by a peak stubble hit her skin, and her head fell back with a moan. Her thighs drifted even further apart as his tongue traveled up her slit, parting the swollen lips with so much love that she knew he definitely wasn't angry with her.

Oh no.

She had only managed to amuse him again.

And of course she had. Her intoxicated state and desperate attempts to make him jealous must've told him that she was a bit of a mess because of him. He wasn't petty, even if he was possessive. It was crystal clear to everyone in this room that she had just tried to distract herself, and she was featherbrained if she thought she could fool him.

"I was mad at you," she confessed with a sigh. "I still am…"

She peeked a look down. The sight of a brawny, wide man on his knees between her legs made her more heady than all the punch she had had that night. The bulk of muscle on his back made her legs look sleek and slender and weak, the coarse stubble against her delicate, swollen folds made her head spin even when she was lying on her back. The faint scent of tobacco and his musk were like incense to her; she inhaled it like it was her only way to heaven, that haze of blazing masculinity, of fire and smoke that was thoroughly him enveloping her as she fell back on the mattress.

Her hand found his hair; it was cut shorter from the sides, but the top had generous amounts to grab hold of, and she curled her fingers there while pushing her cunt against him. She was tired of pretending that it didn't feel fucking best when he gave her head.

An exceptionally hungry kiss echoed through her body, making her spine arch and her legs slide up and down his back. How could it feel like he was kissing her instead of fucking her with his mouth? She had taken Simon as a man who didn't worship women like this, but like always, she had been wrong. Even the very thought of a commanding officer of some super special tactical unit having his face buried between her legs was enough to send her to the verge of orgasm. Not to talk of seeing and feeling him actually there.

She sighed as his hands drew her against his face by the thighs, then gasped as a firm, thick tongue – thick like the rest of him – thrust inside her.

"God… yes, just like that…"

If she was pulling his hair a little too hard, he didn't mind. Or at least he didn't say or do anything about it. At first, she had thought that perhaps he tried to make her shut her mouth this way. Speak with moans and sighs instead of words. But now she felt like she was his prisoner, about to make the confession of a lifetime.

"It drives me crazy, the waiting… I'm always waiting for you." It was a miserable sob, and she was arriving at the center, the numb, veiled core of this whole conundrum.

"You drive me crazy, Simon."

He let her monologue go on. If anything, he encouraged it with his tongue, with his lips that nibbed her swollen bud and sucked.

"You're so annoying." She felt him huff a brief chuckle against her, inside her even, as she was open and dripping and hurting, wholly at his mercy. "Like, no one comes even close. And, and, I…"

The darkness made it seem that she could spill any secret in such a lightless, safe cavity where there was suddenly no time, no past and no future to make her pay for what came out of her mouth next.

"...I love you."

But the laws of cause and effect still applied to this world, and Simon stopped, breathing into her pussy like a long-distance runner.

"What?"

His first words since forever hit her folds with a husky, tentative roughness. That voice was better than any dark rum or gooey chocolate cake or even a hot tub bubbling with maple sugar bath bomb. The heated knot in her stomach coiled and twisted, her eyes were brimming with tears.

"...Nothing."

He breathed into her tender folds, she could feel his lips draw into a smile. He kissed her right at the center, at the core of her, and she jerked a little, bit her lip, and waited.

"You sure?" The gruff, murky voice still talked to her pussy, like it was there where the confession of his prisoner was to be found.

"Yes..?"

A devastatingly languid lick stroked her folds, and the starved sigh was that of a happy, happy man. He had a winning hand, and he knew it.

"Are you absolutely positive?"

She swallowed, her lips trembled, and her heart rammed against her chest as her drunkard's brain thought of the terrible fate that awaited her if she yielded to him. What if they were still playing? She hated poker, especially when she was playing against Simon who always had a royal flush in his hand. She wanted to play together, not against each other.

"For fuck's sake, why do you always have to…" she started, then bit her lip again as he plunged his tongue inside, so deep that it made her chin shoot up toward the ceiling and her hips grind against his face.

"You always have to win," she sighed strenuously, on the brink of tears.

"Love you too," he rumbled against her, and her walls clenched around nothing, more moisture leaked to coat his chin.

"Wh-...What?"

He picked up where he had left, proceeding to kiss and lick and suck like it was just some small talk they had briefly shared while he was eating her out.

"Simon…"

"Shh."

She pursed her lips from happiness and allowed him to finish the job, which didn't take long in her state of bliss and drunken overstimulation. She came with a cry, leaked love in the air – leaked literally, on his lips.

He rose to sit after he was done, panting like it had been a while since he had tortured anyone like that.

"What took you so long?" She asked when he threw himself to lie on his back next to her.

"What took you so long?" He huffed, and she wasn't sure if they were talking about their mutual absence or the late confession. She turned to press against him, thrumming with love. He shifted too and took her in his arms, and her head was shoved against the plates of muscle that made his chest. He was still hard, and she wanted to take him in her mouth, to return the favor tenfold.

"You're so annoying," she chirped with a broad smile while crushed against the world's safest chest.

"Copy that."

"I love you."

His cock twitched between them when she said those words. It was his only reaction to her repeating that long-kept secret.

"You're drunk," he commented with sleepy, honeyed amusement.

"I'm drunk, and I love you."

He sighed and pulled her into an even heavier hug. "Come 'ere."

They cuddled sometimes, mostly after sex, but it was never this ardent. She ran a hand up and down his back while the other was squeezed somewhere between them. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and powerful underneath her cheek.

"Don't send me pictures of your family," he grumbled through half-sleep. "It's an unnecessary risk."

He had rigged her phone with schizophrenic detail so that their calls and messages couldn't be traced. He had even built a sort of a Faraday's cage out of a shoebox, wired mesh, aluminum foil and whatnot, where he put his phone when he came to her place. She didn't even know all the things he did to ensure no one knew about their relationship. Safety measures weren't doubled, they were tripled with Simon.

She gathered the photos she sent of herself were a weakness for him since he never forbade her from sending them. She didn't know if they got destroyed right after, though, or what kind of a headache it was for him to get rid of all the metadata.

"Whatever you say," she murmured while pressed flush against him. His erection wouldn't die, and in her opinion it was unfair, downright sinful, to leave him in such a state after he had given her so much love. She raised her leg and swept it up the side of his thigh until it came to rest on his hip so she could rub against him.

"You need to sleep," he said, but didn't stop her. He even allowed her some space to snake a hand between them to grab him and guide the tip to her folds, still soaked from his treatment. The notion that he prioritized her rest over his own pleasure only made her more wet. He responded with a shallow, hoarse exhale as she helped his cock against her slickness, coating it with moisture.

"You love me?" She was a lovesick puppy now, and he grunted at her neediness.

"How many times do I have to say it?"

"You only said it once."

"Once is enough."

She glided along his length with slick, moist sounds filling the darkness pulsating with love.

"No it's not."

"Insatiable woman," he muttered, slightly out of breath from what she was doing to him. And as if he had only now noticed that she was handling him and not the other way around, he switched their roles and rolled partially on top of her.

"Could you just say it?" She watched him with what must've looked like the most desperate, needy stare she had ever worn. He simply seized his cock and adjusted it to her entrance.

"Pretty please?" She whispered while he pushed in, only halfway, knowing she was more than ready to take him fully. She even grabbed his ass to force him, but he refused her.

He always had to win… Always.

"I love it when you beg."

The voice was harsh, rugged, but his eyes were soft, even softer than the double bed under her.

"I love your cunt," he continued, and a moan slipped from her as he teased her with a few shallow, unhurried thrusts. "Love the sounds you make when I fuck you hard."

"Mh-..."

"...or gentle. Fuck you real slow and deep. I know you like that."

He finally went completely in, finally gave her that sweet satisfaction that came from being filled. It felt so snug, so gratifying that it could only be compared to having a piece of your favourite cake after a shitty day or taking the first sip of coffee in the morning or easing into a hot jacuzzi when you were cold.

"I love it when you say you're a bad girl when you're the swee'est girl there is."

That one ended in a short, mocking laughter. As if she was absolutely shitty at trying to deceive him in anything.

He continued to tell her everything except the thing she wanted to hear. He told her he loved her bedhead, her cooking, the look of concentration when she was curled somewhere to read a book. He told her he loved her laugh, her sharp tongue, and how adorable she was when she was mad at him. The list went on and on, it even had the time when she had slapped him, on it. She was just about to plead again, beg for it if she must, when he finally relented.

"Yeah, sweetheart… I love you," he whispered in her neck with a burnt voice, burnt from tobacco or barking commands. "Should be bloody fuckin' obvious by now."

She dug her nails into his back, not worrying about the consequences, which were only delightful. The coarse stubble chafed her neck as he kissed and sucked her skin, surely leaving marks.

She was so wet for him that she was creaming around his shaft. Big as he was, he glided inside her with no effort at all, even when she felt herself tighten around him with another upcoming release. She was going to come a second time, a rarity, even with Simon.

He pressed her against the mattress with every thrust, the feeling of being crushed between the plush, soft bed and a bruisingly hard body absolutely glorious. Feeling weightless and completely open, she came while clinging to him, knowing it would send him on another ego trip for having worked her to a climax twice already.

The sound that left her, more like a helpless wail than a satisfied moan, meant she had lost all her chips in a bet against someone who had invented the whole game. Her cries painted the darkness as she throbbed and clenched around his cock like it was the sweetest thing in the world.

"Now what did I say? Insatiable." His voice turned into a wined and dined tone when he was pleased, almost braggingly so, and she wanted to dig her nails in his back again and make him grunt instead. But that voice also caressed her, much like his hips that gently rocked her through the waves of the orgasm.

He came shortly after, through gritted teeth and a feral edge to his peak. Her neck was burning from all the love it was getting, but the last roll of his hips was almost lazy, and he collapsed on top of her, trapping her under a blazing hot chest. A palm slid along the dip and swell of her waist, caressed the side of her thigh, and pulled her leg to rest on his back while he remained buried deep inside her. He turned from a savage, heated man into an affectionate lover so quickly that she could only hang onto him as best she could.

His back had broken into a sweat, but when he eventually pulled out, he didn't roll to the side like he usually did. Instead, he shifted to lay his head on her chest, and clutched her in a sideways hug, slack against the bed and partly on her. The ragged breathing was interrupted by an uneasy swallow.

"Life was easy before you came along. Didn't have to worry about gettin' killed."

More confessions were spoken in the fading night, and she raised a hand to stroke his hair. The light had slightly changed, the wintry night was easing into a break of dawn while they were finally about to get some sleep.

"Guess I have to stay alive now."

Only Simon could make something like that sound romantic, but his tone was somber, as if he was letting an essential part of himself go when he chose life and her. She wondered if she had brought Simon back to life like he had brought her. It wasn't what they had planned for themselves, but here they were: spent and alive, meshed together at the dawn of a new year.

"You're spooking me to death as it is. I don't want to know how you would be like as an actual ghost." She tried to lighten the mood that was slipping into something darker, something she didn't wish to think about after a night like this. But Simon had chosen to make her cry.

"Would haunt you still."

She couldn't say anything from the bittersweet pain that spread through her heart. It was hard to breathe when a choked sigh clawed at her throat and tears threatened to cause a whole flood.

"Did you like the flowers I got you?"

…And just like that, he changed the subject. She blinked back tears and tightened her hold of him, so snugly settled there over her heart.

"I love tulips. Thank you," she whispered in the crown of his head.

"Hm."

He was already on the verge of slipping into sleep, like men used to after a good fuck, especially when already exhausted from work. Or from loneliness. She hugged him so tight she could feel the flare of his ribs as his breath slowly evened out. She caressed his hair, the back of his neck, stroked his back and felt him rumble softly against her.

"Not your pet..."

His last note was more of a weary sigh that turned into soft snoring as he fell asleep on her chest. She was not far behind, drifting off to sleep too while cradling him — precisely like a pet, or a child, her last thought being how oddly beautiful it was that he finally allowed her to hold him like this.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x oc #ghost x oc #mw2 smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x female oc #cod fanfic #mw2 fanfic #ghost x female oc #ghost smut #simon ghost riley x original character #simon riley smut

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saint-ajax · 6 months ago

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G T D

TEASER FOR AN UPCOMING STORY!

SIMON RILEY X OC READER

SCRAPPED SCENE:

He murmured between sloppy kisses. I reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it. He put me down to help me take his shirt off.

He pulled away to look right into my eyes. “Ya’ still have time to leave. Say no now, D n. Tell me to stop.”

“You’re just a fucking coward, aren't you? Fuck me, Simon. Fuck. Me.”

“Jesus, woman. You'll be the death of me.” He curled his finger inside and swirled it around only for him to slip it out and bring his finger to his mouth. His eyes closed as he sucked his finger glistened by my slick juice. “And so fuckin’ delicious,” he groans , “Ya’ hate me so much, let me see you cum with just my fingers, huh, slut?”

#ajax saint #call of duty domain #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x original character #teaser

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simonz-angel · 4 months ago

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simon who gets off on your pretty face… literally

your eyes sparkle up at him, diamonds cutting through the pretty iris, your plush, swollen lips grinning up at him. it dimples your cheeks, swells the apples that flush in a sweet pink.

and his cock slaps, tapping at that pink and drags, dragging against your skin nice n hot. it was crude, letting him bathe you down with the flushed length of him, letting him drag and slide his cock over your pretty face.

“stop grinnin’, bun,” he chuckles, taking the pretty pearls of precum n dragging em cross your lips in a pasty lipgloss. “not fillin’ your mouth tonight.”

you pout, letting your tongue catch at the sensitive tip of his cock, sucking the sweetness off your lips with a soft moan. and it has simon sucking his teeth, eyes taking you in with some kind of supernova, your sweet impurity breaking him down.

and he pats at your face with his freehand, digging the ball of his hand up into your cheek with a sick satisfaction, watching your skin pull and face drag up with his touch.

“keep it closed, you hear me?” he snarks, grabbing you suddenly at the back of the neck and pressing himself further into your cheek lewdly. “always so fuckin’ greedy.”

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voxslays · 29 days ago

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COCKWARMING — SIMON RILEY

PAIRING(S): Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader. WARNINGS: AFAB!Reader, unprotected sex, cockwarming. A/N: If you don’t like, don’t read, minors DNI.

ꨄ Simon loves the way your smaller frame fits against his large gruff one as you cockwarming him. The feeling of his member inside your thick gummy-like, velvety walls almost makes him want to come undone right there and then.

ꨄ Simon will rub his large calloused and veiny hands against your waist, holding you in place as he mercilessly thrusts up into you once or twice—although he stops before you hit your orgasm. He can’t have you coming undone already, can he?

ꨄ Simon will praise you as you whine and moan on his dick. “Just a little longer angel.” He would say, forcing your hips down—not letting you get any movement. And when he finally fucks you? He makes sure you can’t walk the next day.

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luxcuriousao3 · 5 months ago

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Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Four)

Summary: “I wonder what color your eyes were…” Ghost wanted to tell her they were brown like hers, but darker. Hers were the type that shone golden in the light, like nutty chocolate and a perfectly brewed cuppa. His were the color of pitch, of the damp, overturned earth of a fresh grave. Fitting, for a man like him. For a monster like him. Word Count: 4297 Warnings: still no smut, triple asterisk denotes a POV change as usual Notes: Happy birthday @kaya-nets ! Here is a surprise midweek update as a little gift, and a thank you for being the first person on tumblr to leave feedback on Dove! It is greatly appreciated, especially since I had a hard today. I hope you had a great birthday! AO3, Masterlist

“It’s nice to meet you, Simon.”

Ghost was sure no word had ever sounded so beautiful. To hear someone calling him by his name again, after all this time, was… he had no words to describe it. If he were religious, he might’ve called it a come-to-God moment. But his dog tags said No Preference for a reason, and that reason was that Ghost had stopped believing in a higher power a long time ago.

As he looked at his little dove, holding his tags and giving him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, he thought that maybe he’d finally found one he’d happily worship.

He groaned softly, trying to say hello back, and then gestured at her, cocking his head to the side in question.

“What is it?” She asked. He pointed at his dog tags again, then at her once more. Her brows furrowed in confusion, and he grunted, like that would help her understand what he was asking. Maybe it did, or maybe she just remembered how first meetings were typically supposed to go, because her brows went up this time and her pink lips parted, a rosy blush darkening her cheeks. “Oh! Oh, my name, of course. I’m Lelia Par—Addams. Lelia Addams.”

Ghost caught the slip, and the mix of panic and sadness that flashed through her eyes at it. He couldn’t exactly press even if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He had no desire to see his dove upset.

He tried to say her name, despite knowing it was useless. But it was just so pretty. Lelia. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.

That was one of Johnny’s favorite chat up lines, Simon’s voice in his head said distantly, sounding both exasperated and wistful. Ghost ignored it. He didn't know who Johnny was and no amount of trying to force his ruined mind to cough up the memory of him would work. But staying in his dove’s presence, might. She was the reason he’d remembered the name at all.

“Thank you for saving me, by the way,” Lelia said a moment later, handing him his dog tags back. She still looked faintly embarrassed. “Both times… I— I would be dead without you. I suppose not all soldiers are bad…”

Ghost knew that if she were aware of all he’d done, both before and after he’d turned, she wouldn’t think so highly of him. Nonetheless, he would very much have liked to find whichever soldiers made Lelia decide she was better off out here on her own, instead of back on a base, safe and warm and fed. He thought about the way her eyes had looked broken and glassy as she’d spoken about the place she’d come from, and how she’d insisted she’d rather be ripped apart than go back, not a trace of exaggeration in her voice. Whatever had happened to her there must have been hellish.

Ghost wanted to move forward to comfort her, but he’d seen the way she’d gagged and grimaced when he got close to retrieve his tags, slipping them over his head once more. He knew that he smelled something awful, that he always would no matter what he did, but he would at least try to clean himself, for her sake. She couldn’t afford to lose the little food she’d eaten.

There was a stream not far from here, he’d been near it yesterday before he’d decided to investigate all the noise. And he was fast, faster than he had been when he was human. He could be there and back in half an hour, tops.

Lelia, on the other hand, barely looked like she could make it to the front door.

He was incredibly reluctant to let her out of his sight for any length of time. Even just going around to the back of the cabin to dispose of the body earlier had made him twitchy. And if it was just a matter of his smell, he’d wait until tomorrow, when she was rested enough to make the trip with him. But it wasn’t. He could see just how dehydrated she was—chapped lips, dry skin, a constant tremor in her hands… she needed clean drinking water, now. And if he could get some from the stream for her to boil, she would be set.

He would have barricaded the door for extra protection, but it opened outwards rather than in. Shoddy installation job if he’d ever seen one. So instead, he pointed at her, and then at the bedroom. He awkwardly put his hands under his ear and then closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. He bumped his broken jaw as he did, and his teeth clacked against each other loudly.

He heard a little giggle, soft and high pitched. He opened his cloudy eyes to see his dove watching him, a pretty smile on her cherubic face. Her laugh was beautiful, pure and sweet. It was the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard. The sunken skin around his eyes crinkled a little bit, the only evidence of his smile.

“Fine, fine, I’ll go take a nap,” Lelia said, still giggling, as she headed for the bedroom. She disappeared inside, the door closing behind her. He waited until he heard her heartbeat slow and her breaths grow steady, and then he quietly moved the couch in front of it, blocking her in. He didn't want to risk her waking up, finding him gone, and getting herself killed while looking for him. If she decided to look for him. She might not—just because she asked his name and gave him a sweet smile didn’t mean she cared about him, the undead soldier who’d inserted himself into her life and wouldn’t leave her alone. That was alright, though. Ghost was so starved for human interaction that he’d take whatever he could get. And hearing his name from her lips was more than he’d ever expected.

Even if it was less than what he wanted.

With his dove secure, he left the cabin, making sure he didn't hear anyone nearby. There were a few infected a ways away, but if she stayed put—which he’d made sure she would—they wouldn't smell her. He was more worried about other people, but he couldn’t smell or hear anyone within range, so he felt comfortable enough to leave. Barely. He grabbed the large, rusted pail he’d noticed behind the cabin where he’d dumped the other zombie’s body, and then he was off.

-*-

When Ghost saw his reflection in the stream, he understood why Lelia had been so terrified to wake up and see his face first thing.

He’d known he looked bad, he wasn't an idiot. Just because his eyes were clouded didn't mean his vision was. He could see how disgusting the other zombies looked, and he figured he looked much the same.

None of that had prepared him for actually seeing himself.

Blood and gore covered every inch of him, bits of flesh stuck between his teeth and blackened gums—his teeth, which were permanently bared in a snarl, because his lips had rotted away.

That was the most horrifying part, he thought. Not the grey, sunken skin, the milky eyes, or all the gore and viscera. It was that his lips were gone, and he couldn’t kiss his dove even if she’d let him.

You’re disgusting.

The words echoed in his head, and he knew it wasn’t just about his visage. He shouldn't have been thinking about his dove like that. It wasn't as bad as his earlier thoughts, but just about. He was dead. A nasty, rotting corpse that happened to be able to walk around. There was something wrong with him to even be contemplating doing more than hugging Lelia. That was bad enough. She’d never want him to touch her in any way, she’d shown him that earlier when she’d kicked him while he was trying to check her for bites.

But maybe she would let him get a little closer, at least, if he didn't smell so bloody horrid.

It was that possibility that had him methodically strip out of his ragged tactical gear. He washed each piece in the knee-deep stream, even his mask and his boots. He laid them out on the bank to dry, moved a little further upstream, and then repeated the process with his body, dumping bucket after bucket full of water over every part of him.

The amount of congealed black blood and pieces of flesh that came off was concerning. He just hoped that none of the latter was his own.

Finally, he was done, and he stepped out of the stream and redressed in his still damp gear. Moving upstream for a third time, unwilling to contaminate his dove’s drinking water, he filled the bucket once more and began his trek back to the cabin, moving briskly but carefully so as not to spill.

Lelia was still asleep by the time he returned, and so he put the bucket down on the kitchen table, moved the couch away from her door, and then set about starting a fire. There was a small stack of roughly chopped logs next to the old, wood burning stove, and he placed a few inside. He searched through some of the drawers and found a book of matches, letting out a triumphant grunt, unable to believe his luck.

Except of course, things couldn’t be that easy.

Ghost’s fingers were far too stiff and clumsy to light a match. Fine motor skills were difficult for him, his muscles permanently locked in rigor mortis. Even piling up the logs in the stove had been difficult, as had carrying the bucket. He’d had to wrap his arms around it and hold it to his chest because his fingers wouldn't quite bend enough to grasp it by the handle.

After finally getting one of the matches to light, only to immediately drop it on the floor and burn a mark into the wood, Ghost gave up. He would just have to let Lelia do this part.

He moved the bucket onto the stovetop before quietly walking over to the bedroom. He reached out for the door knob and hesitated for a long moment, before letting his hand drop as he turned back around. She’d closed it for a reason, and he didn't need to see her to know she was alright. Her heartbeat and breathing were loud enough. So instead, he resumed his position as her zombified guard dog, and barricaded her door with his body while she slept, standing between her and anything that could bring her harm.

***

This time, when Lelia woke up, she knew exactly where she was.

The tiny bed in the cabin smelled of dust and old mothballs, but it was still far more comfortable than either a tree hollow or the bed she'd shared with Andrew back on the military base. She let herself luxuriate in it for a moment, exhaustion still pulling heavily at her no matter how long she had slept. Finally, she got up, walking over to the door and opening it—only to startle when she found Simon standing directly outside.

“Oh!” She gasped, hand clutching her chest, right over her racing heart. Then, she registered the lack of blood and gore on his face—which looked far less decayed now that it was clean—and the lack of a stomach churning odor wafting over her. He still smelled of death, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been before. “You’re— you’re clean!”

Simon groaned quietly. He was staring at her, as if waiting for something. She blinked several times, and then spoke again.

“Did you— did you do that for me?”

She knew she hadn’t hid her reaction to his stench well enough. She felt a bit bad, but she also couldn’t help but be relieved he'd noticed and decided to do something about it.

Simon jerked his head up and down in a nod, jaw wobbling. He shifted back and forth a little bit, then tilted his head to the side and let out a questioning grunt, milky eyes downcast. He almost seemed… nervous? Shy? Or like he was looking for her approval. She couldn't quite tell. But the thought was endearing, and she smiled at him.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “This is much better, really. I appreciate it.”

Despite the fact that he couldn't really make any expression, Lelia got the distinct impression that he was pleased with her answer.

Simon shuffled back, and then stiffly gestured for her to follow him. She did so, curious, and she found she could remain quite close to him without being overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. She still left a meter or so between them, as was proper. She doubted he wanted her crowding his space, after all.

He led her over to the kitchenette, and then gestured to a bucket on top of the stove. She peered inside it, and found that it was full of water. She brightened considerably, licking her dry lips.

“Can I drink this?” She asked, already reaching for the bucket. She was so thirsty, she’d even drink orange juice, right now. And she hated orange juice.

But Simon grunted, reaching out and stopping her hand with his own. His glove was slightly damp, and she blinked, frowning as she looked at him again.

“You’re wet,” she said, finally noticing that his gear was dripping a little bit. He grunted, ignoring her, and then gestured at a matchbook next to the stove. She stared at it in confusion, not knowing what he wanted her to do, before turning her attention back to the trail of water he was leaving in his wake. “You shouldn't walk around in wet clothes. You’ll catch a cold—”

Lelia paused, looked at Simon’s already dead self, and blushed.

“Well. Maybe you won’t, but still. You’re getting water everywhere. You should take them off to let them dry,” she continued, trying to recover. Simon gave her what she thought might have been an amused look, if the little crinkles around his sunken, milky white eyes meant anything. Though it was entirely possible she was just imagining it. “There’s a closet in the bedroom. I’m sure I can find you something to wear while you wait.”

Eager to escape after her blunder, she retreated to do just that. She heard Simon let out a grumble that sounded suspiciously like an exasperated sigh, but she didn't let that stop her. She let out her own noise of victory when she found a set of flannel pajamas that looked like they would fit her zombie.

When she returned to the kitchen, Simon was in the process of removing his gear. Lelia watched as he struggled with zips and buckles—he was making progress, but very slowly—and took a step closer to him.

“Do you need help?” She asked innocently, never one to just stand idly by.

***

Simon froze, damnable buckle falling from his stiff fingers. It had taken him ages to get all this off and back on again at the stream, but he’d managed. He would manage again… but his little dove was offering to help. To stand close to him, to touch him, or at least his clothes… he knew he should have said no, that she was just being kind and didn’t actually want to get anywhere near him—but she sounded so sincere, and he was so fucking desperate. So he groaned quietly, almost ashamed, as he jerked his head in a nod, letting his hands drop back to his sides.

Lelia set the clothes she’d found for him on the arm of the couch and then approached, starting with removing his helmet. She was so small, she couldn’t reach even when she stood on her toes, and he had to crouch down a little bit, knees creaking.

“You’re blonde,” she said, surprised. He looked down at her. She was close enough that he couldn’t smell anything but her, and it was intoxicating. But not nearly as intoxicating as the feel of her body heat, so near yet so far. He sniffed discreetly, once again trying to place the floral scent on her skin. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect that. I wonder what color your eyes were…”

Ghost wanted to tell her they were brown like hers, but darker. Hers were the type that shone golden in the light, like nutty chocolate and a perfectly brewed cuppa. His were the color of pitch, of the damp, overturned earth of a fresh grave. Fitting, for a man like him. For a monster like him.

She moved on to unbuckling his vest, and then unzipping his jacket once he’d gotten the bulky gear out of the way. Underneath was a plain black t-shirt, the least destroyed item of clothing he had on, but also the foulest smelling. Her delicate little nose wrinkled slightly, and he would have found it adorable if he weren't so embarrassed. He reeked, still, and she smelt so delicious he began to drool again. He reached up to wipe it away, but his dove beat him to it, using the sleeve of the jacket he’d just discarded. She seemed entirely unphased, rather than repulsed like he thought she’d be, just giving him a smile before stepping back.

“No buttons on that,” she said as an explanation. He didn’t dare mention the buttons on his combat trousers, once again disgusted by his own thoughts. He pulled his t-shirt off after a second of hesitation, knowing the grisly sight that lay beneath. Grey, translucent, thinning skin smattered with deep gashes in several places that would never heal. They were accompanied by faded tattoos and dozens of scars, including a patchwork of rough, burnt flesh over his bicep and left shoulder, going all the way down to his hip. He reached quickly for the dry shirt, but Lelia stopped him.

“Your gloves,” she said, staring at his torso with a look on her face that he couldn’t quite read. It wasn't positive, though, he could tell that much. She tore her gaze away a second later, gently grabbing one of his hands and pulling it closer to her as she undid the velcro strap at his wrist. She slipped her fingers beneath the wrist of his glove, and he felt her skin directly against his own for the very first time.

He groaned, resisting the urge to grab her hand and keep it where it was. He couldn’t feel the softness of her skin, his own senses too numb for that, but the heat of it practically scorched him in the most pleasant way. It sank all the way down to his frozen bones, and when it slipped away as she pulled his glove off, it was agony.

She repeated the process with his other glove, and his bare hands twitched as he fought not to clutch onto hers and not let go. Finally, he regained control of himself, grabbing the flannel pajama shirt and pulling it on. It was a couple sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin and stopping an inch or so above the waistband of his combat trousers, but it would do for now, even if he felt ridiculous.

“You’re shivering,” his dove said, frowning. “I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

She turned around and headed back into the bedroom, and he took the chance to shuck off his trousers. It was almost as if the warmth of her touch had reinvigorated his hands, or perhaps it was just luck, because he managed to get the button on the third try, and the zip on the second. He stepped into the too-small flannels just as she was returning with the quilt he’d given her earlier. He tried to avoid taking it—though he felt cold, he knew it was all in his mind—as he didn't want to contaminate it with the smell of death. But Lelia was stubborn, and she just wrapped the blanket around his shoulders for him, so he looked like he was wearing a flowery, quilted cape.

“There,” she said with a pleased smile, before bending down to pick up his gear and head over to the door. He followed her, a silent, massive, undead shadow, unwilling to let her go outside without him. He stood guard as she hung the clothes over the half-rotted wooden banister of the tiny porch, and when she came back in, he grunted to get her attention again before leading her back to the kitchenette. He tapped the matchbook, then pointed at the pile of firewood in the metal belly of the stove.

“You want me to start a fire?” She asked nervously, and he nodded, pointing at the logs again. She paled. “I don't know… I’ve never done that before. What if I burn myself?”

Ghost didn't like the thought of her getting hurt any more than she did, but they didn’t have a choice. She needed drinkable water, and right now, boiling what was in the bucket was the only way she was going to get that. So he fumbled for the book of matches and then pressed it into her hands—and if he let out another pleased groan when her warm skin touched his again, he hoped she misread it as encouragement.

His dove looked afraid, but she notched her chin and accepted the matches, clearly trying to put on a brave face. He let himself wonder at the fact that she had never used matches before. What kind of world had she lived in, prior to the end of it? Based on her nice clothes, posh accent, and utter lack of survival instincts, he imagined it was something privileged, something sheltered. He would’ve scoffed at the thought if he were still alive—pretty little rich girl with a pretty, perfect life. Had the dead not risen, she likely would have never known pain or fear or struggle. It would’ve angered him back then; the injustice of it all. The jealousy. Now, he just felt sad. She deserved a life like that. Not this hell on earth. She was woefully unprepared for her new reality—and she had suffered for it. The men she had had to rely on to keep her safe had put that haunted look in her eyes that spoke of a pain familiar to him, if unnamable. It bothered him that he couldn’t remember. That he couldn’t kill each and every person that had ever contributed to her suffering. But there was nothing he could do about that, now. All he could do was keep her safe, keep her alive. And maybe even make her laugh again.

It took a few tries, and several broken matches, but Lelia finally managed to get one lit without immediately dropping it in fear. She tossed it into the stove, and while Ghost would have advised her to hold it to the corner of one of the logs, first, it did the trick, and the fire caught. He gave her a groan of approval, and admired the way her face lit up with pride, a rosiness dusting her cheeks as she grinned. She was always beautiful, but when she smiled, she looked like an angel. Something far too good and far too pure for this hellish plane and all the monsters that lived on it, both alive and dead.

Together, they watched the water boil. It was about as exciting as watching paint dry, and took only slightly less time due to the old fashioned stove and small flame. He didn't mind, though, as his dove eventually began to fill the silence with mindless chatter, telling him about the meals her private chef—oh, so she’d been rich rich—used to make for her. Ghost was informed very seriously that Román was the best cook in the world and could have had his own restaurant, but he liked hearing Lelia’s in-depth analysis of his meals too much to leave. Ghost thought it was adorable that she believed that that’s why the chef had stayed, rather than the money he was making. Then again, Ghost had stayed because of her too, so maybe there was some truth to her words after all.

When the water was sufficiently clean, he grabbed the bucket and moved it off the stove so it could cool down. Curiously, he didn't feel any heat from it, despite knowing it had to be hot enough to burn. It only made him crave his dove’s touch even more, the only source of warmth in his cold, undead life.

He searched through the cupboards again as they waited, looking for some sort of cup. He found a single dusty mug with a large chip near the rim. It was no crystal champagne flute, like she was clearly used to, but it would do. He handed it over, and Lelia made a face but thanked him nonetheless. She unbuttoned her pink tweed jacket and untucked a section of her still clean white blouse underneath, using it to wipe out the mug. He stared.

Look away, Simon’s voice in his head ordered. Ghost reluctantly obeyed. You’re a vile creature. You don’t get to look at her like that.

Even if Ghost was alive, he'd probably think the same thing. He’d been old and monstrous then. He was dead and monstrous now. He'd never lived a life in which he would deserve a sweet thing like her. But he still wanted, in this life and the last.

So when Lelia smiled at him after drinking her fill of the purified water, lips still wet and shiny, he tried to ignore the phantom sensation of his undead heart pounding in his chest.

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bambisworlds · 5 months ago

Text

needy little girl

simon was trying to finish paperwork before his next special forces assignment, but it was proving difficult to focus since bambi was visiting him on base. she's the ultimate distraction (1,155 word count)

*bambi is my oc, click on my pinned 'about my blog' post to learn more about her :)

content warnings, mdni 18+

f!reader, bambi!oc, needy!reader, bookworm!reader, established relationship, masked!simon, thigh riding, p in v, unprotected sex (don't do this), creampie, use of "Daddy" (three times), use of "good girl" (twice), let me know if forgot anything x

my masterlist

When Bambi asked to visit Simon on base for a few days, he knew having her around would be a struggle. Not because she annoys him, but because he can't keep his fucking hands off of her, the same way she is with him.

Simon was in his office, pouring over files about his next extraction. He was extremely behind; this was supposed to be done this morning. But, this morning, he was busy fucking Bambi into the mattress, so he didn't have the time to finish his paperwork.

He hoped their morning romp would sate Bambi for the rest of the day, and himself for that matter, so he could focus on his work. But he was wrong.

Bambi sat in the chair across from his desk. She nibbled on her bottom lip as she subtly glanced up at him every once in a while. She had a romance novel in her hands and a smutty one at that. The kind that made you rub your thighs together and set it aside so you could handle your own desires. She was subtly staring at his mask while subconsciously licking her lips.

"I can feel you starin' sweetheart," Simon said, not looking up from his paperwork. "Focus on your book, baby; I'll be all yours again in a few more hours." He says, still focused on the files before him.

"I can't read the book. The book is the problem." She huffs, crossing her arms in defiance.

Simon glanced up at her, setting down his pen. "What's wrong with it? Is it written badly?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowing beneath his mask. "It was on your list of books you wanted; that's why I got it for you."

"No, it's not bad." She says, looking back down at the book. "It's excellent, actually." She says softly, rubbing her thighs together.

Simon catches the subtle movement of her thighs and smirks knowingly, "I see, it's one of your smutty books." He chuckles, "Let me guess, it's turned you into the needy little girl I love so much?" He asks. Bambi couldn't see his smile because of his mask, but she could tell he was from his tone and how his eyes lit up. Bambi nods timidly, still rubbing her thighs together. "How about you hop on my thigh and make yourself feel better." Simon proposes, and Bambi perks up with an eager nod.

Simon leans back slightly in his chair, "C'mere, sweetheart." He encourages her as she crawls onto one of his muscular thighs. Unable to resist, he dipped his fingers beneath her skirt to see how wet she was. She was soaked. "Poor thing," he tuts, rubbing her clit through the fabric of her panties for a few moments before pulling away. Bambi pouts as he withdraws his hand, for a moment thinking he is going to finger her. "Don't pout. I have work to do," Simon says firmly, turning back to the files on his desk. "Don't just sit there starin' at me; my thighs waiting."

Bambi huffs and starts to roll her hips, rubbing her clothed cunt against his cargo pants. Simon hums in approval, his free hand resting on her hip as she grinds against him. Bambi whimpers, wanting his hands elsewhere, "Don't get greedy on me now," Simon warns, his thumb rubbing circles on the underside of her breast. Bambi whines and halts her movements, pouting at Simon. He sighs and sets down his pen, "Knew you'd do this to me," he mutters in mock annoyance, abruptly lifting her ass onto the edge of the desk and pushing her back down against the solid wood, "Such a needy fucking girl," he grits as he hastily undoes his belt.

Bambi whimpers, spreading her legs wide on the edge of the desk, "Need you all the time, Si," she whines.

"I know, sweetheart, you just need Daddy to take care of you," he says as he yanks her panties down her legs once his own pants and briefs are shoved down to his ankles. Bambi nods pitifully in response as Simon drags his cock through her slick folds. His free hand lifts up towards Bambi's mouth. She obediently spits on his palm, and he brings his hand down to rub the spit over his impressive length.

Simon moans in approval as he sinks his cock into her, sliding in without resistance from how wet she was. Bambi moans as well, gripping the edge of his desk, "Let's take care of this needy little pussy," Simon says as he sets an unforgiving pace, Bambi's body jostling on the desk with each smack of his hips against her thighs.

Bambi's mouth drops open with desperate moans, her head tilting back on the desk, repeating 'thank you Daddy' on a loop as he plows into her. "Such a good girl, thanking her Daddy," Simon grunts, continuing his unforgiving pace. The legs of the desk begin to scuff on the floor, but Simon barely registers it. He was practically drunk off of Bambi's cunt. Bambi moaned and squealed each time he bottomed out inside her, her tits bouncing beneath her pink sweater from the impact. Simon was laser focused on watching his cock move in and out of her, her delicate folds spreading open with each thrust of his girthy dick.

Pens began to roll off the desk, and a picture frame of him and Bambi toppled over as he continued to slam into her. His files were long forgotten, hidden underneath Bambi's enticing figure. The papers were likely tearing and ripping, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Simon moaned and grunted with each thrust; his mouth dropped open beneath his balaclava as he lost himself in her sopping cunt. "Best fuckin' pussy in the world," he moans.

Bambi's mewls grew progressively louder, converting into high-pitched squeals and squeaks as the desk creaked ominously beneath her, her orgasm building rapidly within her. She sobbed desperately as she came, her body trembling wildly atop the desk. Her hands moved around blindly for something to grab onto, knocking things off the desk in the process. Simon practically whimpered as he felt her squeeze him, his grip tightening on her hips that would surely leave a bruise.

"Fuck!" Simon cried out as he followed suit, seemingly forgetting that the halls outside his office were filled with soldiers. He slammed into her one final time, grinding his pelvis against her as he released into her cunt. Simon moaned in bliss, his head falling back as Bambi's walls continued to spasm and contract around his cock. His hips moved on their own accord with a few shallow thrusts before he finally stilled.

He panted heavily, looking down at Bambi, "Are you gonna be a good girl and let me do my work now?" he asked firmly. Bambi nodded, his cum beginning to leak out around his cock and onto the desk.

#simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x original character #simon ghost smut #simon ghost riley x oc #simon ghost riley x bambi #bambisworlds #call of duty

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g-h-0-s-t-3-d · 9 months ago

Text

See My Scars - Ghost x Hawk Scene

Pairings: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wren "Hawk" Yarrow (Original Character)

A/N: Short scene from later in Simon + Wren's story. Takes place in Russia after the 141 finds out Graves has been smuggling weapons for Makarov. Graves takes Wren hostage and tortures her, Simon comes to her rescue, and Wren kills Graves. Simon and Wren have a heart-to-heart one night following, and suddenly they're confessing. Then they're kissing. Here's what happens next...

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Injuries/Scars, Military Themes (Call of Duty), Mentioned Torture (past, by Graves), Implied Abuse (past, by Graves), Mentions of Simon’s Past, Friends to Lovers, Canon-Typical Swearing, Implied NSFW

It was all a blur when he laid her down, large hands surprisingly gentle with her small, bruised frame. She saw him pause… hesitation? She draws her knees up to her chest and waits patiently, her own nerves beginning to get the better of her.

Shit, this was a mistake, I -

Her breath stops when she meets his gaze. He peers down at her, eyes dark and intense, a great strength suppressed between his taught shoulders. “Y’sure you want to do this, Wren?”

His voice is deep, gravelly. She’d be lying if it didn’t turn her on, but she knows the weight of what they’re about to do - she knows they can’t go back.

Maybe I don’t want to go back, a voice screams inside of her, threatening to burst out her chest as she nods slowly, replacing all the things she wishes she could say with a single, ‘yes.’

He hums in acknowledgement and crawls toward her, hands gingerly beginning to explore. He rubs at her sides, her shoulders, and commits each freckle and blemish on her face to memory. His finger draws a line up her jaw and comes to rest on her cheek, right underneath the gash Graves had just given her. She flinches at the contact, despite how gentle it is, as his finger ghosts over dried blood and traces the shape of the gash all the way from the bridge of her nose to the corner of her eye.

His gaze is cold, unwavering as he studies it. She feels him tense up ever so slightly, and for a moment she’s worried he’s gotten cold feet, but he growls lowly and shifts his deep brown eyes to meet hers.

“Fucker had it coming. If you hadn’t killed him, I would’ve.”

“Simon,” she sighs, bringing her hand up to rest over his on her cheek, tiny fingers drawing in comparison to his. He grunts and shakes his head. She’s still reeling over the loss of him - of Phillip - and he knows that. But that wouldn’t make him forgive what Graves did to her.

“I would’ve.”

“I know,” she murmurs, leaning her head into his hand. His eyes soften, though they keep their dark, almost hungry hue. Then he kisses the bridge of her nose, right where the scar began, and dips his head to her neck, softly mouthing at the exposed skin.

His lips on hers earlier that night had been one thing, but his lips on her body now… a heat she’d long forgotten about rose slowly in her core, her breathing hastening as his hands tug at the bottom of her shirt. Simon moves slowly, carefully, because he knows how fragile she is right now.

He wasn’t prepared for the mess of bruises that adorn her chest and ribs, deep purple tones splotched over skin that was far too perfect to be hurt.

His breath hitches when he sees them - all of them - staining the skin of his woman. He tenses again, repressing his anger. Wren recoils out of nervousness, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, and Simon panics, quickly extending his hand out to her. He doesn’t know how to handle this, how to treat her… and he’s scared.

“Graves did this to you?” Simon utters, frozen in place, a deep hatred slowly bubbling up and conflicting with his fear of scaring Wren off.

“Not all of it,” she replies, voice low and somber. “But, most, yeah.”

“Did he… touch you?” He tries with every fiber of his being to keep his voice restrained, but Simon had never been too good at dealing with anger. He could repress it, sure, but that was what always drove so many people away - he was cold, aloof, unapproachable. And when his feelings were now so strong, so overwhelming, all his instincts tell him to run away, to isolate and compartmentalize.

But he knows, maybe painfully so, that deep down he doesn’t want that. He wants her. So he stays, and he waits with tense shoulders and a clenched fist.

“No. Wouldn’t let him.” Her voice trails off as she tries desperately to read his gaze, cursing each blemish that greeted Simon so prominently. Simon breathes a noticeable sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing and his eyes softening. If she looks hard enough, she swears she can see the wetness of tears in the very corners of his eyes, mixing with the remainder of the eyeblack he just couldn’t wash off at this point. She sighs. “I know they’re not pretty. If you don’t-”

“Wren.”

Her eyes snap up to watch him wordlessly undress, his huge hands lingering on the hem of his shirt before slowly pulling it over his head. He stops about halfway through, his hand shaking as he holds the fabric just over his ribs and holds her gaze silently - watching, waiting, debating.

Then he hesitantly pulls the fabric completely up to reveal a long, dark gash across his right rib cage that had never quite healed right. The skin was patched with ridges and divots, dark red marks adorning the mottled skin.

“Hung,” he explains. “Mexican cartel. Corrupted an old captain of mine. I won’t burden you with the details.”

“Si…”

“All these burns,” he nods to each red splotch, so numerous and concentrated that there was hardly any untouched skin there, “Field burns. Or cigarette burns… from my father. This,” he opens up his right hand to reveal a long slit with what looked like scars from stitches, “was from digging out. When I was buried alive with ‘em. Used his jawbone and it fucked up my hand.”

She tries hard to hold back tears - Simon never spoke much about his past. She knew things, of course, but not when he was this vulnerable. But he holds her gaze, and it's intense.

“And everything else? Wren, I have been beaten and shot and stabbed and fucked - if you think I’m going to be bothered by some marks, then I’m a goddamn hypocrite and you’re out of your fucking mind.”

She quirks her lips up into a sad smile, reaching her hand out and beginning to trace each mark on his chest. “Si… ‘M sorry all that happened. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t need to say anything, Little Bird,” he grunts, leaning back down and catching her lips once more. “Just have me.”

And she did.

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ltash · 30 days ago

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Rabid

He was feral, rabid, a bringer of death. Now the queen was down, he was the one who snatched your crown until you came crawling back to him.

Simon'Ghost'Rileyxfemalereader wc- 9k approx

Warning: 18+, mdni, dark, angst, mentions of murder, sex.

It all started when he was sent to Dubai, tasked by Price to provide security for a business tycoon, an assignment he had little interest in, another rich bastard who needed protection from threats they'd never see coming.

He hated the damn place. Too garish and ostentacious. The opulent excess of the golden city was enough to make anyone lose their damn mind, him included, and god was it loud. Even in the quiet of the meeting room with the heavy oak doors shut, he could feel the damn music from next door thrum in his bones.

But a job is a job, and when Price asked you to guard a spoiled little rich kid with 'Daddy's money, he didn't hesitate, even if he wanted to.

He never had a soft spot for the rich. The world was cruel, and there was no shortage of wicked men out there, but he had to admit that for spoiled little brats, they were some of the worst. Never knowing any hardship, thinking that everything was owed to them. They were just as bad as crooked politicians, only less discreet at keeping their skeletons in the closet. Still, business was business, and he had a job to do. It was all about keeping up appearances, after all.

It was like that now, as he stood by the door, eyes lazily trailing over the room, and your bare legs tucked away into your leather chair. The white silk shirt you wore was tight around your form, and as his eyes followed the way you shifted, he caught a glimpse of a thin, lacy number underneath.

His gaze lingered a little longer and a little darker than it should, mind spinning with fantasies that he had no right to have.

The itch inside him was telling him to turn away, run as fast as he could, never to turn around and look at you, but the dark, twisted part, the beast which lurks beneath him, the one who comes out only when he has a bullet to fit between an enemy's eyes or an itch to scratch told him to strip you off bearing, to bring you to a verge that you had nowhere to run but to him.

It was all just so... wrong. Everything about it. But no matter how much he hated it, the thoughts were there, and the images in his head were not ones a man like him should be having. But he could no longer look away and pretend that they weren't there, not when he knew what he wanted.

And it was a goddamn shame he was a dog on a leash, because if he were a free man, he'd have you on the conference table in seconds.

And then you turn to face him. All pretty, prim, proper and perfect. Beautiful so much like the heavens have sent you down on earth with skin gleaming like gold. Like the innocent doe who never flew, but was ready to be caged, wings clipped.

He hates it, hates how pretty you are, how goddamn perfect that skin of yours is. And he's a damn bastard because all he wants is to ruin that perfection, spoil the innocence. But it was your eyes that really set him off, wide and clear, completely guileless to the animal he was.

That beautiful doe didn't even know the wolf was watching. He watched from the shadows as you smiled at him, friendly and cordial.

And boy oh boy, at that moment he decided, that he will possess you, destroy your facade until it crumbles the foundation of your existance, make you so weak for him that you will forget everything, just remember him. Make you only want him. The dark twisted side of him ate all the sense of marolity, he wanted you at his feet, at his mercy at somepoint of his pathetic life.

He was so tired, so sick and tired of always doing the 'right thing', of always going by the damn book. He was sick of playing the good damn dog, of leashing his desires, of keeping that darkness that prowled underneath from surfacing.

And then you were there like something straight out of heaven, an angel of destruction who had come down to Earth just for him. You were so goddamn perfect, but you didn't even know it, and that only made the hunger inside him grow all the more. He wanted to have you. He had to have you.

He was fucked.

Completely and utterly.

For one night with you, he'd damn his soul to hell and back.

He'd kill for you, he'd do every disgusting, depraved thing you wanted, just to hold you in his arms.

It didn't even matter that you were a spoiled brat who had never known a day of hardship in your life.

What right did he have?

He was a damn guard dog, and you were a pampered little princess who had no idea what was coming. But the thing about dogs was that they could be trained. Trained to do things they would never do.

He was completely, utterly, and unashamably, utterly and wholly, absolutely, completely, and undeniably, 100% beyond any shred of doubt, so very, very, and perfectly,

Fucked.

"So you've been here all this time, standing there silently, colour me surprised." You put your arm on the table, a pen rolling between your fingers.

His eyes trail after your fingers, gaze sharp and focused, before meeting your eyes.

One of his thick, broad shoulders rose in a lazy shrug. He had a voice like sandpaper, rough and gritty, and he was more wolf than he was man. "Just doing my job," he said, voice casual but words laden with a dark, prowling promise.

"What, who are you again if you don't mind me asking?"

You asked so casually, your tone so insulting like the man standing infront of you held no regard.

One of his eyebrows rose at your tone, gaze sharpening as he leaned back against the wall. He was an imposing figure, his stance relaxed but coiled tight as a wire.

"Ghost," he said shortly, words clipped as he crossed his burly arms over his chest. The muscles of his arms flexed, straining against the fabric of his shirt, and a dark glint of mockery crept into his eyes. "Simon Ghost Riley, at your service."

"Another guard dog." You muttured under your breath. Your whole demeanor spoke of arrogance and privilege.

Your tone didn't escape his notice, and his dark gaze hardened, eyes narrowing as he studied you, taking in how perfectly you fit the stereotype he had of you. The princess sitting on her throne, safe from all the dangers.

His tongue clicked in his mouth, words sharp and edged with sarcasm. "Watch it, rich girl," he said, lips curled into an ugly sneer. "Or this dog might just give you a damn good bite."

"You are forgetting that I don't let dogs bite me, I keep lions, break their canins and declaw them." You stood up slowly.

A sharp, mocking bark of laughter left his lips at that, eyes darkening at your words. He pushed off the wall, taking a slow step towards you, gaze roaming over your form before stopping before you.

"Is that right, rich girl?" he said, a smirk toying at his lips. "You like playing with lions, huh? Well, let me break it to you, sweetheart, I'm not some tame beast that you can keep on a leash."

"But you are on a leash, Riley, aren't you? So behave like a good dog. Rabid dogs are euthanized."

The words, so casually spoken, hit him like a shot to the gut. He went still, the dark glint in his eyes hardening into something dangerous, like the gaze of a prowling wolf. He could already picture it, his big, strong hands wrapped around your delicate throat.

But he reined it back, words cold and clipped as he bit out, "Just because you have a silver spoon in your mouth doesn't mean you own everyone around you."

A spark gleamed into your eyes, your delucate throat bobbed as you swallowed. "Relax, I was just testing your self control."

"My self-control," he repeated, a hard edge creeping into his voice as he took another step forward until he was so close to you he could pick up on the light scent of that sweet perfume you wore.

"You're testing my control," he said again, words low and rough, a dark promise. "You know what's going to happen if that leash breaks?"

You smiled, a cruel, mocking smile.

Your smile didn't suit you at all. It was cold and calculating, but his gaze was caught on your full, red lips, and how they curled into that cruel smirk. The beast inside him howled, a dark hunger rearing it's head.

He took another step forward, invading your personal space and bringing his face down to yours, so close that you could feel the hard, coiled strength of him, like a predator ready to pounce.

"I'm gonna tear you apart, sweetheart," he said quietly, gaze locking onto your every minute movement, taking in every little detail, every little flutter of your eyelashes, every subtle change in your expression. "Shred you open until all that pretty gold of yours is gone, until you're nothing but a bare little pup. Then you'll know how it feels to be on the leash."

He was right in your face, so close that you could feel his warm breath ghost over your cheeks, and his big, broad form loomed over you, making you feel helpless, cornered.

But instead of being scared, all you could feel was something dark and twisted crawling under your skin.

God, he was so damn feral, so dark and dangerous and utterly feral and a part of you *wanted* it. How messed up was that?

"Right now, your job is not to bark or rip me apart but to guard, do your job Riley, I don't have to say it again." You snarled.

His jaw clenched, the desire to rebel warring with the need to obey. Goddamn. It was like someone had lit fire under him.

He took a slow, deep breath in through his nose and then out, his gaze never leaving yours. "Yes, ma'am," he said, his tone clipped and cold as he took a sharp step back.

He'd do his job, that was what a good dog did.

"Good boy!" You said, malice dripping from your tone.

The words sent a jolt through his body, a cold shiver running down his spine. He hated how they made him feel, how they made him feel like he should bare his throat in a submissive gesture.

He could picture it, the image clear in his head, on all fours, kneeling at your feet, his head in your lap, being a good boy.

What the hell was this power you had over him?

But he was a rabid dog more like a wolf who had a habit of tearing throats apart, he couldn't be tamed.

He was a damn wild thing, untamed and unchained. He was all rough edges and barbed-wire tongue. And that was why he hated this, this pull he felt towards you, this need deep within him to be tamed.

He was the wolf; he should be the one to bite, to mark, to *ruin*. It was the prey who should be trembling at his feet, not him, the goddamn predator.

The door opened and the board of directors started to pour in. You went back to your seat, posture straight, alert and commanding.

Ghost took his place by the door, every muscle in his body on high alert, as if waiting for a command. He couldn't stop his eyes from taking every little detail of you, damn, you were just so *proper*, sitting with your legs tucked into your chair, so damn proper and poised.

He wanted to see you ruined.

He wanted to see that cold, calculating mask of yours shatter, see it break into a thousand pieces and crumble into dust. And he would be the one to rip it off, to tear away your composure until all that perfect, golden facade was gone, leaving you bare and exposed.

He was a wildfire that had you in his sights, and he was going to burn you to the ground. He was going to set fire to everything you had, all those things that you so carefully protected: your company, your privilege, your damn innocence.

He was going to destroy it all and watch the flames burn it to nothing. And then, when all was in ashes, he'd lift you up, pull that pretty neck of yours against his chest, and take what was left, everything that made you **you** and claim it as his own.

You were the phoenix, all rising and glory. You were the goddamn daughter of Apollo, so pure and perfect, but he was the goddamn Grim Reaper. You were life; he was death.

And he was determined to show you what a little bit of death could do to the most beautiful things.

He was already making plans.

He'd make your company suffer, and all of it would be his doing.

And he would watch you suffer.

He would watch you struggle, he would relish in it, every moment of your pain would be his delight.

And then, when you were down on your knees, gasping like a fish out of water, he'd be the one to pull you in, to wrap you in his steel arms, and hold you, and make you his.

Because he was a twisted bastard like that, he couldn't help himself, he just saw a pretty little toy that he wanted, and he was sure damn going to have it.

The nights he spent in your apartment as usual, guarding the premises like a good 'ol guard dog.

Watching you sleep everynight was one of his new habits, the rise and fall of your chest, the soft melody of your breaths. And when you slept he would sneak into your dresser, fingers carressing on a beautiful set of lingerie.

He knew he shouldn't be doing it , he was supposed to be a goddamn professional, after all , but he couldn't help himself.

Every night, he'd creep into your room, like a thief in the night, and let his fingers linger on the soft fabric of your lingerie.

He'd touch them, caress them, imagine you in them, and he could barely keep himself from tearing them off of you. He was a depraved bastard, yes, but he wanted you so desperately that his thoughts were clouded, his judgement blurred.

It was like an addiction, one he couldn't shake, one that he didn't even want to shake. He'd let himself linger, imagine, fantasize. He had every part of your body memorized , the curve of your hip, the slope of your waist, the softness of your thighs.

He was beyond reason, deep into the pit of carnal hunger. Every thought, every moment was just about you, and how he desired you, and how badly he wanted, no, needed to have you.

He was your goddamn shadow, always there in the background, watching, listening, observing.

And you were so very good at pretending he didn't exist. You'd go out for dinner with your fancy little friends, laughing and talking and having fun, never once sparing a glance or a thought for the dog at your feet.

He hated it, how you treated him, like he was nothing but a mere accessory, disposable and worthless.

He hated it, hated how you just saw him as an ornament, a piece of furniture. He was more than that, so much more, but you just didn't see it, didn't notice how he burned hot beneath his cold exterior.

He wanted to grab you, to drag you away, to make you damn look at him, to make you acknowledge his presence.

He was a damn special force soldier, a highly trained assassin, a master of combat and stealth, but instead he was here, pretending to be a bodyguard, playing a role.

The fact that he'd allowed himself to be in this situation was a damn embarrassment. He was a warrior, not a bloody babysitter.

Underneath the surface, a tempest was brewing. His calm exterior was just a cover, concealing the storm that raged beneath.

The more he watched you, the more he wanted to tear down your arrogance, to show you just how much power he held in his hands.

He was plotting, he was planning, and he was damn determined to bring you to your knees.

And his time had just begun.

Your father was the first obstacle-the immovable force standing between Ghost and what he wanted. A man of power, wealth, and unshakable authority, used to controlling everything, including you. But Ghost had spent his life eliminating men like him.

The downfall began in whispers-deals collapsing, allies withdrawing, wealth slipping through his fingers like sand. The empire he had built with blood and steel crumbled, piece by piece, until he was left exposed. Vulnerable.

And then, Ghost finished the job.

The shot came from over a thousand meters away. Precise. Silent. A .338 Lapua round that tore through your father's skull before his guards could react. No struggle. No warning. Just death, swift and absolute.

And the sniper? It was him. It had always been him.

But you would never know.

To you, he was just your silent shadow, the ever-present bodyguard watching from the sidelines. The man who stood in the background when the news shattered your world, when you clutched at grief and uncertainty.

He was there to protect you now. To keep you safe.

And you would never realize that the greatest threat had never been outside those walls.

It had been beside you all along.

It was a damn perfect shot, smooth and clean, his fingers steady as he fired into the head of your father.

He'd done it, he'd brought down the king, and now all that was left was the princess.

He was a predator, a creature of the shadows, the deadliest hunter, and he'd just claimed his prize.

And now he was guarding that prize, and the only person that could stop him was in his arms.

"Daddy's gone 'n' left you, huh sweetheart?" He asked, his tone hard.

He stood silently behind you, his gaze trained on your grief-stricken figure, as you clutched at the news of your father's death.

His fingers twitched, itching to reach out, to touch you, to provide some comfort, but he held back.

He was your bodyguard, your loyal shadow, the one who was supposed to shield you from harm.

But he was also the one who'd orchestrated it all, the one who'd brought ruin upon your father, and by extension, upon you.

He was the wolf in sheep's clothing, standing guard while you were unaware of the true cheess player.

The days that followed were a blur, as the world outside the protective walls of your home descended into chaos. People talked, whispered about a power struggle in the empire, about the loss and uncertainty. But within the shelter of your home, Ghost, he kept you oblivious.

Every day he watched you, broken, shattered by the loss, but he also saw something else. Something he didn't expect.

Resilience.

With your father gone, the empire was left in your hands, vulnerable, exposed, ripe for dismantling. And Ghost? He played his cards with precision, pulling strings from the shadows, setting fire to everything you had ever known.

It started small. Lawsuits, regulatory fines, whispers of corruption spreading like rot through the heart of your pharmaceutical empire. Investors lost confidence, shares plummeted, board members turned on each other like starving wolves. You fought, desperately, brilliantly, but the war had been lost before you ever realized you were fighting.

Because Ghost wasn't just watching from the sidelines. He was inside.

Your closest advisors, your most trusted allies, they weren't yours. They were his. Feeding him information, sabotaging deals, ensuring every move you made led you deeper into the trap he had set.

And when the walls finally crumbled, when the empire your father had built lay in ruins, there was only one person left standing at your side.

Him.

The protector. The shadow. The man who had orchestrated your downfall with his own hands.

And now, there was nowhere left to run. Now, you belonged to him.

He watched you fight, the fire in your eyes burning bright as you did everything in your power to salvage the crumbling empire that used to be your everything.

But it was all vain effort, a pathetic display of desperation, like trying to stop a sinking ship with nothing but a holey bucket.

The final blow was all that remained before checkmate.

Ghost had been meticulous in his destruction, patient in his execution. Every move calculated, every step precise. But this, this would be the killing stroke.

The latest batch of medication, once a beacon of hope in the medical world, had been tainted. A subtle, undetectable alteration in its formula, so slight that even the most rigorous quality checks wouldn't catch it until it was too late. A drug meant to save lives would now take them instead, slowly, cruelly, inevitably.

The first reports trickled in like a quiet storm on the horizon. Patients reacting violently. Unexplained deaths. Doctors questioning. Panic spreading.

Then came the headlines, Pharmaceutical Giant's New Drug Linked to Fatalities!

The lawsuits followed, swift and merciless. Government agencies intervened, forcing immediate recalls. Entire shelves emptied overnight, stocks crashed to nothing, and the name your family had built over generations was poisoned beyond repair.

And you? You stood at the center of it all, watching helplessly as everything collapsed, as the world you had fought to hold onto was ripped from your grasp.

And when the dust settled, when there was nothing left but ruin, Ghost was there. Unshaken. Unmoved.

The only one left standing.

He had won.

He watched every minute of it, watched as the headlines screamed of ruin and catastrophe, watched as your eyes widened in disbelief as the weight of it all truly sank in.

When it was over, when you were left with nothing but rubble, he was the only one left standing. He had torn down everything, ruined you completely.

A twisted sense of satisfaction washed over him, a dark pleasure at seeing you standing amidst the wreckage of your former glory.

This was what he had wanted all along, to watch you crash and burn, to see you on your knees, and now, he had finally achieved it.

He was the winner in this game, the master of your downfall.

Your world had crumbled to dust, and now, so had your last sanctuary. The lavish Dubai penthouse-your gilded cage, your final refuge-had been seized, just another casualty in the long, calculated war against you.

The silence inside was deafening as you packed what little remained. Once, this place had been filled with luxury, with opulence. Now, it was just hollow, stripped of its grandeur, as empty as the life Ghost had methodically torn apart.

And then, like a shadow slipping through the cracks, he was there.

"Leaving so soon?"

The voice sent a cold shiver down your spine, smooth yet laced with something dangerous. Mock sympathy dripped from every word, his tone carrying just enough amusement to make your blood boil.

You didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. You just kept moving, folding the last of your designer clothes into a battered suitcase that looked almost pathetic compared to the life you once had.

A slow, deliberate set of footsteps approached, stopping just behind you. Close enough for his presence to suffocate.

"Tough break," he murmured. "One day, you're untouchable. The next? Just another nobody in a city that won't even remember your name."

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. Don't react. Don't give him the satisfaction.

"You should've been smarter," he continued, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Should've known the moment your father dropped that you were next. But you didn't, did you?"

A sharp exhale left you, rage coiling tight in your chest. "What do you want, Ghost?" you bit out, finally turning to face him.

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. What did he want?

"Nothing," he said easily, watching you like a predator who already knew his prey was trapped. "Just wanted to see how the mighty heiress looks when she finally hits rock bottom."

You swallowed the lump of fury and humiliation in your throat. "Enjoying yourself?"

He exhaled a quiet chuckle. "More than you know."

The words burned, but you refused to break, meeting his gaze with a defiance that made something dark flicker in his eyes.

Ghost took a slow step back, as if he'd had his fill of the moment. "I'll leave you to it, then. Can't imagine it's easy going from penthouses to, what now? Cheap hotel rooms? Or are we thinking hostels?"

Your jaw clenched. You hated him. Hated that he was right.

He turned, walking toward the door, but paused just before crossing the threshold. His voice came softer this time, almost a whisper.

"You'll come back to me," he said. Not a threat. Not even a promise. A fact.

And then he was gone.

Leaving you alone in the ruins of the life he had destroyed, knowing full well that when you had nowhere left to turn, when the world finally crushed you under its weight...

You would come crawling back.

He left you there, standing alone in the wreckage of your former life, watching as you seethed with anger and humiliation.

He knew he had gotten under your skin, had struck a nerve.

And he couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction at the thought of you, broken and humbled, coming back to him, begging for his help.

You were a fallen queen now, and he was the one who had yanked the crown from your head.

The world was indeed a cruel place. One moment, you had everything, the power, the wealth, the name that made people stand in line just to breathe the same air as you. The next, you were nothing.

Your name was a stain, spoken in hushed whispers, cursed by the families who had lost their loved ones to the medicine that had once been your legacy. Headlines screamed your downfall, reporters hounded you like vultures picking at a carcass, and every door that had once been wide open was now bolted shut.

And the money? It was slipping through your fingers like sand, running out far too fast. No accounts to fall back on, no investments left to salvage, Ghost had made sure of that. What little you had left was barely enough to keep you afloat.

Your phone was silent. No friends, no allies, no one willing to be seen with you, let alone offer help. The very people who once groveled at your feet now pretended you didn't exist.

For the first time in your life, you were helpless.

And somewhere, watching from the shadows, he knew it.

Knew that soon, when there was nothing left, not pride, not hope, not even the illusion of control, you would have no choice but to crawl back to him.

He watched as your world crumbled around you, as you stumbled and fell, stripped of every last bit of power and authority.

He watched as you struggled, as hope drained out of you like water from a broken vessel.

And he waited. Patiently. Silently. For the day when you would break, when you would admit defeat and come to him, begging for his help.

Just as he had planned.

Because in the end, he was the puppet master, pulling the strings, manipulating every part of your life.

And you were his marionette.

You stood in the dimly lit hallway of a rundown Manchester apartment complex, your once-perfect world reduced to this moment. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and damp concrete, a stark contrast to the scent of fresh-cut roses and expensive perfume that had once filled your penthouse.

Your suitcase-the last remnant of your past life-stood by your side, scuffed wheels scraping against the cracked floor.

Your hand hovered, fingers curled in a knocking gesture, hesitation thick in your throat.

This was it.

You had resisted, had tried to claw your way back from the ruins he had left you in, but the world had been merciless. Now, you had nowhere else to go.

And he knew it.

Taking a slow breath, you knocked.

Once

Twice.

A moment of silence. Then, the sound of heavy, measured footsteps approaching from the other side.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Ghost.

He leaned against the doorframe, clad in nothing but sweatpants, his bare chest scarred and toned, shadows cast across his sharp, unreadable face. His mask was gone. No barriers. No pretense. Just the man who had burned your world to the ground standing before you, looking utterly unsurprised.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His gaze dragged over you, taking in the exhaustion lining your face, the defeat in your eyes, the sheer helplessness of your presence here.

Then, he exhaled a slow, amused breath, tilting his head.

"Knew you'd come back."

He stepped aside, holding the door open just wide enough for you to step inside.

Your pride screamed at you to turn around. To walk away. But there was no other choice.

So, with the weight of your ruined past on your shoulders, you took a step forward.

And walked straight into the lion's den.

His gaze followed you as you hesitantly crossed the threshold of his apartment, your face a mask of defeat.

There was no surprise in his eyes, no shock or even the hint of guilt. He had known this moment was coming. He had planned for it. He had orchestrated it.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and you were trapped.

Trapped in this dimly lit space, surrounded by the remnants of his life, the remnants that spoke volumes about who he was.

A man of violence. A man of darkness. A monster.

He watched as you stood in his apartment, your body tense, your eyes conflicted.

You were broken. Defeated. Desperate.

He almost pitied you.

Almost.

Your pride, your dignity, your life, everything you once held dear was held in his hands.

As you stood there, frozen in place, the reality of your new situation sank in.

You were at his mercy. Completely and utterly.

Each day was the same, a never-ending cycle of degradation and submission. Gone was the world of luxury, of power, of control. Now, you scrubbed floors until your fingers were raw, cooked meals you weren't allowed to sit down and eat, cleaned up after the very man who had torn your life apart.

And all the while, he watched you. Judging. Amused. Relishing in every moment of your downfall.

The apartment, small and suffocating, had become your prison. Your existence had been reduced to this, picking up after him, following his orders without question. And he made sure you knew it.

"Missed a spot," he'd murmur from his chair, voice lazy, mocking. You'd glance up to find him lounging, legs spread, a cigarette between his fingers, watching as you scrubbed the floor beneath his feet.

Sometimes, he would flick the ashes onto the surface you had just cleaned.

Other times, he'd drop the entire cigarette butt, waiting for you to bend down and pick it up.

And you did. Because you had no choice.

The worst part wasn't the work, the pain in your knees from hours of kneeling, or the humiliation of being at his mercy.

It was his gaze.

The way he looked at you, like you were some broken thing, something conquered. His eyes traced your every movement, dark and unreadable, and no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, it burned into you.

You hated it.

You loathed it.

But you endured. Because you had to.

And each night, lying in the cold, tiny room he had given you, your mind raced. You thought of what you had lost. What you had once been. And what you had been reduced to.

The spark of defiance still burned within you, deep and buried.

But for now, you swallowed it down.

You worked. You obeyed. You waited.

Because one day, this would end.

The world tilted beneath your feet.

One day you barely had the strength to stand, your vision swimming as fever burned through your veins. The wooden spoon trembled in your grip, the rich scent of simmering gravy filling the air as you tried to stir through the haze clouding your mind.

But your body betrayed you.

The pan slipped from your weakening grasp, tilting dangerously, the scalding liquid about to spill-

And then, he was there.

A strong arm wrapped around your waist, steadying you as your body sagged against him. The warmth of his chest pressed into your side as he grabbed the pan with his other hand, setting it back onto the stove with a controlled ease. His fingers turned the burner off in one swift motion, cutting off the heat before disaster could strike.

"Bloody hell," Ghost muttered, his grip tightening around you. "You tryna burn yourself alive?"

You couldn't respond. The fever had drained every ounce of strength from your body. Your breath was shallow, your forehead damp with sweat.

"You're burning up," he said, his voice lower now, scrutinizing.

You wanted to push away from him, to reclaim some semblance of dignity, but your body refused to obey.

A sigh left him, one of frustration rather than concern. "You need a doctor."

You barely remembered the ride to the clinic. The fever had blurred everything into a fog, your head lolling against the window, every muscle in your body aching. The only thing grounding you was the steady presence beside you, his calloused hand firm against your wrist as if making sure you wouldn't slump over completely.

And then, you were in a sterile white room, the fluorescent lights burning into your eyes as the doctor examined you.

She was a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, flipping through her clipboard as she asked a few routine questions.

"How long have you been feeling unwell?"

You tried to recall, blinking dizzily. "Since yesterday. Maybe longer."

The doctor hummed, writing something down before glancing between you and Ghost, who stood with his arms crossed, impassive as ever.

"Are you two married?" she asked.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"What?" you blurted, cheeks flushing. "No, we're-"

"I only ask because fever, nausea, and dizziness are common early pregnancy symptoms," the doctor continued, unfazed. "Have you two been trying?"

Your face burned hotter than the fever coursing through you. "N-no! I mean-there's nothing like that between us."

The doctor arched a brow but said nothing, simply jotting something else down.

You risked a glance at Ghost.

He stood there, silent, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his mask. He didn't react, not a twitch, not a shift, not a single damn thing.

Like he didn't care. Like the question hadn't meant anything at all.

Something twisted in your chest, but you swallowed it down.

"It's just a viral infection, then?" you asked, trying to change the subject.

The doctor nodded. "Most likely. You need rest, fluids, and proper meals. I'll prescribe something to help with the fever."

Ghost exhaled sharply, like the whole thing was a nuisance, before turning to you.

"You heard her," he said. "No more collapsing in my damn kitchen."

And just like that, the moment passed.

But as you lay in bed later that night, staring at the ceiling, you couldn't shake the memory of the doctor's assumption.

And worse, you couldn't shake the fact that Ghost had said nothing at all.

The night was heavy, the silence almost oppressive as you lay in bed.

The fever had subsided for now, but your mind was still feverish, racing with thoughts and feelings that you couldn't push away.

And all of it was centered on him.

He hadn't said a word since the clinic. Hadn't even looked at you with anything other than his usual indifference.

The doctor's words echoed in your mind, the image of Ghost's stoic face burned into your memory.

Pregnant.

The very idea was absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible.

You were his prisoner, his toy, his plaything to use and discard at his leisure. Nothing more.

Yet, the thought of carrying his child, of creating something so vulnerable, so innocent, with a man as cold and unfeeling as him, sent a shiver of dread down your spine.

The very thought made you nauseous. Not because the idea of being pregnant was repulsive, but because of who would be the father.

You shut your eyes, trying to push the thought away. But it was like trying to push back the tide.

The darkness seemed to press in around you, the walls of the apartment feeling suddenly claustrophobic.

You tried to slow your racing heart, to force your mind to think of something-anything, else. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw his face.

His dark gaze, the sharp lines of his jaw beneath the mask, the cold indifference in his eyes.

You hated it. Hated the fact that he had any kind of effect on you at all.

But even more so, you hated how your body betrayed you at the thought of him.

Next morning you stood near the kitchen sink, your hands inside the soapy water as you scrubed dishes, you wore denim shorts and a tshirt, you were braless. Your hairs in a messy bun and you were trying to push the lose strands of hair with the back of your hand.

Ghost was at the dining table, going over some paperwork. His gaze flicked up from the stack of papers as he heard you moving around, his eyes instinctively drawn to your figure.

He watched silently, his gaze tracing over your form. The way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your tshirt clung to your body, the way your bare skin peaked out between the layers of fabric.

The sight was... Distracting.

Ghost shifted in his seat, forcibly redirecting his gaze back to the papers.

He tried to concentrate on the words in front of him, but his mind kept wandering, drifting back to your figure in the kitchen.

He'd seen you in less before, of course-this was hardly anything new. But there was something about the domesticity of the situation, the casual way you moved around in your comfortable clothes, that made it... Different.

Ghost gritted his teeth, silently scolding himself for this sudden weakness.

He couldn't let you get to him like this. Not again.

He forced himself to focus on the paperwork, his eyes glazing over the words without really seeing them.

But his thoughts kept returning to the memory of your body, of how it had felt beneath his touch. The smooth softness of your skin, the way you'd responded to him...

No.

He clenched his fist around the pen, his knuckles turning white.

He needed to control himself.

But he couldn't deny that he always wanted you, and this time he couldn't stop himself.

So he stood and silently approached you, stealth was his game.

You were so focused on the dishes that you didn't hear him come up behind you. It wasn't until you felt the heat of his body pressed against your back that you realized he was there.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing. You could feel his breath on your neck, the faint scent of his aftershave filling your nostrils.

"Keep scrubbing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

His hands settled on your hips, large and warm and possessive.His grip was firm, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he pressed against you. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of your shirt, making it impossible to ignore the sheer size of him, the way he dwarfed you, caged you in with nothing but his presence.

Your breath hitched.

The soapy water swirled around your fingers, forgotten, as his voice rumbled against your ear. "I said, keep scrubbing."

Your hands trembled as you forced yourself to continue, the dishes clinking together under your unsteady grip. But how could you focus on anything when he was right there-when every inch of your back was flush against the solid wall of his chest?

His thumbs brushed over the curve of your waist, slow, almost lazy. Like he was savoring the feel of you. Like he owned you.

You swallowed hard. "G-Ghost-"

"Shh."

His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, not quite a kiss, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"You know what I think?" he murmured, his voice dark, rough, laced with something dangerous. His fingers trailed higher, tracing the hem of your shirt, just skimming over the bare skin beneath. "I think you like this."

You clenched your jaw, refusing to answer.

But your silence only seemed to amuse him.

"You walk around here, dressed like this..." His hands slid lower again, over the swell of your thighs, gripping just enough to make you inhale sharply. "And expect me to just sit back and watch?"

You felt his breath against your neck, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled movements.

This wasn't about tenderness.

This was about control. About reminding you exactly where you stood.

And the worst part?

He was right. You did like it.

The way he was touching you, the way he was talking, it was all so wrong, so wrong. And yet...

You couldn't deny the way it made you feel. The way your body responded to his touch, the flutter in your stomach at the sound of his voice.

"I..." you started, your voice barely above a whisper. But before you could continue, his hands moved again, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

His fingers were rough, calloused, and the feeling of them against your skin made your breath hitch.

His hands found their way into the soap water, slowly encircling your wrists. Then he took the sponge from your hand.

You felt the warmth of his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, teasing, taunting.

He squeezed the sponge over your t-shirt.

The soapy water trickled down your torso, tracing slow, tantalizing paths along your skin, and the wet fabric clung to you like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination.

His hands, rough and unyielding, kneaded your breasts through the drenched fabric, his fingers pressing into the softness of your flesh with an intimacy that left you breathless. His palms, calloused from years of experience, contrasted starkly against the slickness of the soap and the silkiness of your skin. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he tightened his grip, a mix of pleasure and something dangerously close to surrender pooling in your stomach.

"You know..." he whispered, his voice dripping with amusement as he nipped at the edge of your ear, "I was reconsidering the words of the doctor."

A delicious tension coiled in your core, tightening with each passing second. The implication in his words sent your thoughts spiraling, your mind hazy from the sheer heat of his touch. Your hands, submerged in the warm water, clenched involuntarily as another wave of sensation coursed through you.

"What... what do you mean?" you managed to breathe out, though your voice trembled, betraying the war waging inside you.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers rolling over your stiffened peaks through the sodden material of your shirt, making you arch slightly against him. His grip firmed just enough to remind you of the power he held in this moment, over you, over your body's reactions, over every shaky breath you took.

"That you need to rest," he murmured, his tongue flicking against the pulse point on your neck. "That you should take it easy."

A sharp contrast to his words, his hands moved with a sinful intent, kneading, teasing, making a mockery of the so-called 'rest' the doctor prescribed. You could feel the smirk against your skin when he spoke again, his voice a low, knowing drawl.

"But looking at you now... I think you're doing just fine."

His Calloused palms moved with slow, deliberate purpose, sliding beneath the damp fabric of your shirt, tracing the shape of your waist, your ribs, before grasping the hem. He peeled the shirt from your body in one fluid motion, the cool air kissing your exposed skin in contrast to the heat of his touch. A shiver ran through you, though you couldn't tell if it was from the temperature or the way he was looking at you, eyes dark, heavy-lidded, burning with something raw and possessive.

Without a word, he turned you to face him, his grip firm but unhurried. You barely had time to take a breath before his lips found your jaw, warm and insistent, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. He trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your neck, pausing just long enough to suck lightly, leaving ghost-like marks in his wake. His lips continued their descent, dragging lower, mapping the delicate line of your collarbone before reaching your sternum, where he lingered, exhaling softly against your skin.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his mouth traveled lower, his tongue flicking out to taste you, teasing, testing your resolve. Then, with a calculated slowness, he took one of your nipples between his teeth, a feather-light graze before his lips closed around it, sucking with aching softness.

A sharp gasp left your lips as his mouth closed around you, the heat of it sending a rush of sensation through your body. His tongue flicked over your nipple before his teeth grazed it, a teasing, maddening pressure that had you trembling in his grasp.

Pregnancy.

The word echoed in your mind, drowning beneath the wave of pleasure he was drawing from you. It was too much, too sudden, too real. You should have pushed him away, should have protested, should have demanded an explanation for why he was saying this now, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

But his hands were steady, moving with purpose as they gripped your waist, thumbs stroking over your ribs, his touch both possessive and reverent. His mouth trailed from your breast to the valley between, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your sternum, as if savoring every inch of you.

"You'd look beautiful carrying my child," he murmured against your skin, the words laced with something deeper, something that made your heart stutter. He kissed the underside of your breast, his fingers kneading the flesh he had just abandoned. "So delicate... so full with me."

A shiver rolled through you, not just from his touch, but from the weight of his words. It wasn't just desire in his voice, it was intent.

You swallowed hard, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders, as if grounding yourself. "You can't just decide something like that," you managed, though your voice was weak, breathless.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unreadable. "Can't I?" His tongue traced slow, teasing circles around your other nipple before he took it between his lips, sucking lightly.

Your body betrayed you, arching into him, fingers tightening against his bare skin. He felt it, your surrender, no matter how reluctant.

"We'll talk about it," he murmured, dragging his mouth up the column of your throat, his breath hot against your ear. "Later."

But the way he was touching you told you exactly how he intended this conversation to end.

And after he is done with you.

His body shudders against yours, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as you both come down from the high, breathless, wrecked, utterly consumed by one another.

And even as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you, you know, this isn't the last time he'll have you like this.

Not even close.

Your vision explodes into white-hot oblivion, your body trembling violently as pleasure sears through every nerve, stealing the breath from your lungs. It's too much, too intense, so all-consuming that for a moment, you feel weightless, adrift in a universe made of nothing but sensation. Every star in the galaxy bursts behind your eyelids as you convulse around him, pulling him deeper into your euphoria.

You barely register the way he groans out your name, his voice wrecked, desperate, before he stills inside you. His broad shoulders shudder as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling every last drop of his release deep inside you. He ruts against you in slow, deliberate movements, dragging out the last waves of his ecstasy, ensuring you take everything he has to give.

The exhaustion that follows is suffocating, a heavy, inescapable fog wrapping around your limbs. You're barely conscious of the way Simon moves, his body still flush against yours, refusing to part from you. His softened length stays buried inside your overstimulated core as he shifts the both of you beneath the covers, settling you into the warmth of his embrace.

Strong hands smooth over your back, tracing soft, lazy circles against your bare skin. His lips pepper your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, each kiss a stark contrast to the primal, devastating way he just took you. His mouth lingers on yours, slow and deep, as if sealing a silent promise between you.

"You did so good," he murmurs against your skin, voice laced with quiet reverence. "So fuckin' good for me."

And though your body is too spent, too satisfied to listen, somewhere, deep down, you know.

This was just the beginning.

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

Man-sized Part 1/9 Dance For You

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC Tags: Explicit content, only for +18 audiences. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics). CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters. Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

He was always there, every night for a week, and then disappeared for months.

He was there a few moments before she began her show, and left right after it ended. He never watched the other girls, the ones who she only warmed up for, the ones who actually stripped and were professionals. He never had a lap dance, a private show, nothing. He just ordered one scotch, watched her little pole dance show, and left.

She used to pick someone from the audience, just one single guy who looked more or less harmless. She was performing to that one guy only — it was more comfortable that way. She could concentrate better, and it was easier to try and be seductive. To be in control.

But he wasn't harmless. And she wasn't in control.

But ever since he started to visit the place, she always picked him, and it required no effort whatsoever to appear seductive. She was wet after every show she performed for him.

When she danced for him, she could feel his gaze on her, as goosebumps and flames that licked her skin. He didn't look at her like she was a goddess. Or a whore. He looked at her like she was a woman, like she was his woman, and they were the only ones in that club. She knew she was being nonsensical — after all, he was just another guy who came to watch an exotic dancer.

But she wasn't one of the stars, she didn't even strip.

At some point, she realized she started to do choreographies just for him. She started to check the calendar, count the days, because he was usually gone only a month, maybe one and a half. Then he came back, every night, for a week or so. She could see that he liked it when she did inversions and shoulder mounts on the pole. Perhaps he could tell that it demanded a huge amount of strength. She liked it that someone admired that — her strength and agility, not her outfit, not even the way she arched her back or threw her hair around.

He was looking at her like she was an artist and an athlete.

She could tell he was an athlete too, but what kind, remained a mystery. He was a big fellow, a muscled fellow, and she always tried to catch what it was that he had tattooed on his forearm.

In the darkness, his eyes were like burning coals, even if the rest of him was pale and blonde, almost like a color that was worn and washed out. He was the most tired, exhausted man she had ever seen, especially on the first nights of his week in town. But that didn't take away an ounce of his power. The whole club could've been full of big, dangerous-looking men, and he would've still been the most intriguing person in her eyes.

At some point, the heated gazes and the tension built up to such heights that she walked to the bar after her show. She rarely did that — she was here to dance and that was all. Get some money so she could study. Some of the girls liked to hustle, but she only wanted to go home after her show, which was draining, especially when he wasn't there to watch her.

She knew he was going to leave again soon. This was one of the last nights if she had her calculations right, if not the last. She already knew she would miss him and copy-paste his image to the audience every night until he would finally materialize on one of those chairs again.

She saw he saw her approaching him. He raised his chin, drew his shoulders back, and turned slightly on the chair, angled his body towards her. She slowed her walk as she reached him, enjoying the way he was forced to look up at her from where he was sitting.

"Are you gonna buy me a drink?"

A smile rose to his face, just a tiny one, one that didn't even bare teeth. It was simply an acknowledgment.

He rose from the chair, took his coat, and left.

---

The next time she saw him was only half a month later.

She climbed the pole, and he watched, had that tiny smile playing in the corner of his lips through the whole show. Her choreography had started to resemble something she would've chosen to perform in a pole dance competition rather than in this kind of place. She had ditched the heels, and danced like she was both Tarzan and Jane; flexible, strong as fuck, showing off what she could do with just one stiff vertical object. He didn't look as tired as before, and when she came to the bar like a bitch in heat, sniffing around a strong, virile male, she saw he had two drinks in front of him.

Perhaps she was making a fool of herself… But she walked toward him again, almost walked past him, then got stopped by an outstretched hand that held a Long Island iced tea.

"Took your time," she said as she grabbed the offered drink.

The man didn't answer. Her heart was thumping faster than when she was exerting herself up on that pole, now occupied by the first true star of the evening.

"May I sit?"

He nodded, and she could feel her palms get sweaty. She didn't usually do this kind of stuff... but when she did, it certainly did not go like this. Like she was the one trying to woo the man.

"So, what do you do?"

He still didn't say a word, and she was beginning to think that the man was actually a mute.

"Are you a professional boxer?"

Finally, a chuckle came. Dark, and husky...

"No."

He had a hoarse, gravelly voice, a voice she could listen to for forever if he only would speak.

"MMA?"

A shake of the head. She peeked at the forearm placed on the table between their drinks, and she saw the inked skull, a helmet, some kind of a bomb…

"You in the army?"

"Somethin' like that."

She barely caught the Manchester accent. Shit… This man was just… He was sexy as hell. Probably picked up ladies like berries wherever he went. She took a sip of that Long Island — why would he buy her a drink with so much hard alcohol in it? It was a bit suspicious. She hadn't seen him buy it, hadn't seen if he had put something in it…

"Oh, I get it. You're James Bond."

He was amused, but something in his eyes told her that she had hit a bit too close to home this time.

"What's your name?"

She was starting to get tired of listening to her own voice, tired of prying for information. But her heart rate spiked as she saw how his interest seemed to die immediately after her latest question. He looked away, his eyes swept the club, and she had a feeling that she had just played poker against an actual Bond and lost it all. Had been a good player until she blew it by asking his name.

"Simon." He rose, reached for his coat, and was leaving again…

"Are you gonna ask my name?"

Fuck, stop speaking.

"It was a nice talk, Sarah."

---

He came back the next day. This for sure was the last time she would see him before he vanished again. But it was impossible for her to go to the bar because she suddenly felt like she had to put on a whole other show after the pole dance performance.

A show of playing hard to get.

So after the lights on the stage died, she went straight to the backstage and got herself ready for a walk home.

"Sarah… there's some guy out there asking for you."

But the show worked. She took her stuff, glanced at the mirror to see that everything was like it should be, then went to get her shoes.

"You got a fan?"

She didn't answer, because it was suddenly hard to pay attention to anything else than the guy named Simon, the guy who had watched her dance for months and was now waiting for her at the back door, the one used by the staff.

A fucking spy, indeed..

"Just be careful, ok?"

"Yeah."

As if she needed a reminder that the brooding James Bond looked like death and danger.

"Hi."

He looked her up and down, didn't say hi back, but gave her a few dark red carnations.

"Oh. Thanks."

The fact that a guy like him was giving her flowers at the back door of a strip club shouldn't have affected her the way it did. Should definitely not make her weak in the knees like he was a high school crush asking her out. Well, he was good at what he did, she had to give him that. Perhaps not the most original move, but still… to her, original enough. She had never received flowers from anyone.

"How long are you stayin' here?" His voice was both smooth and rough, and she wondered if he was as stoic off his feet as he was on them.

"Actually, I was just leaving."

"I can walk you home."

Yet again, it shouldn't have been this way. She was accustomed to pulling the strings, calling out the shots. It wasn't that she didn't feel safe with him… It was just that she didn't feel in control. At all.

They had walked only a few blocks when he lit a cigarette. So much for not hooking up with smokers… And somehow that cancer stick managed to make this man even sexier. Manly.

It was stupid — he had all the traits of a modern cowboy, and she should feel repulsed, not hooked.

"So, how's the James Bond thing going?"

"It's tiring."

"Yeah, you look like you could use a good night's sleep."

Not what I had in mind for you tonight, but still…

He really was a man of few words, but she had a hunch that he wasn't shy. Perhaps Simon only spoke when he had something groundbreaking to say.

"Why do you watch my shows?"

He inhaled the smoke deep and long before giving his answer.

"You move well. Strong 'n' sharp, trained… Could be a fighter."

His compliments made her blush in the cool night air, but she wasn't surprised. He admired and respected toughness, just like she had suspected.

By the time they reached her apartment, she was almost shaking with excitement, and he had filled himself with that smoke.

What the hell… It couldn't taste that bad.

"You wanna come inside?"

The amber eyes looked at her with a flash of amusement instead of hunger.

"Sure."

He suddenly seized her, pinned her against her front door with his body, and kissed her. The flowers dropped to the ground as her hands shot out to clasp his neck; to feel the raw muscle there.

He didn't taste bad at all.

He could've taken her right then and there, in the middle of that sleepy, quiet, dark street, and she wouldn't have said no. Her last time with a man had been everything but mysterious and exciting, months and months ago, and Simon felt like a perfect match right now, a perfect, tall, dark stranger. He was just the kind of man she had always found nothing short of disgusting: an overconfident heartbreaker who couldn't commit.

But this evening was different. Her morals were deep asleep, and she was ovulating, and, well, it was a first time for everything…

He broke the kiss only to pant a question, his second ever, in her mouth.

"You accept credit or cash?"

The slap was way harder than she had meant it to be. Her palm lashed out in pure, hot rage; for having thought that a man like him was nothing but another chauvinistic jerk.

But what he'd implied wasn't even the worst thing. It was the laugh that followed her.

She heard it even after she had shut the door, brushed her teeth; after she climbed into her lonely bed to get some sleep. The tears that emerged were born of shame, not disappointment.

---

He came back after a month.

She knew she shouldn't go down there, to roam among the filth and give him the satisfaction and the mercy.

But those eyes drew her to him like a snare, beckoned her to have another round in the ring with him.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"Come on, dove. Don't back away when it just got interesting."

He gave her a full smile this time. She had a feeling that this man didn't smile often, and that flash of pure, bold contentment charmed her right off her feet. Simon wasn't a mystery or a puzzle, he was a whole Rubik's cube.

"I could show you how to do a proper right hook instead of that bitch slap you gave me."

"Wasn't painful enough for you?"

He laughed, darkly, and it went straight between her legs.

"Slept on my right side for a week."

She found herself smiling against her will.

He had thought of her for an entire week when going to bed and was now back for more.

Fuck… The way he just spun her around his finger in mere minutes was despicable. She turned around to leave so that she would win at least one round, but that gruff, dark voice stopped her.

"It was a test. Apologies."

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned.

"A test?"

"Yeah. A test." He downed his scotch, and she found herself thinking whether Simon had an addiction to the taste of smoke instead of tobacco per se.

"You got more tests for me?" She tried to appear mocking but only ended up sounding like she was asking for it, asking for more tests and humiliation and… whatever they called it these days. Toxic relationships.

"I was thinking about asking you out."

"We are out."

"Suit yourself."

That fucking accent… It was responsible for this, at least for the most part — that Manchester gruffness was why she was so wet and weak for him. As was the tattoo and his ominous strength, his height and that lone wolf mentality… But why the hell was he harassing her when he could get some pussy even more easily? Why stalk her for months and months and deliberately insult her just when he was about to get laid?

"You know... You're not the first guy who's tried this tactic. And I'm telling you now that it won't work."

The smile turned into a slight smirk. "I doubt you've ever met a guy like me."

Jesus Christ, this man was annoying.

"Wow, you really are a Bond…"

"Dangerous and good-looking?"

"A womanizer who's full of himself."

That fucking laugh. She should leave now when she still had the chance.

But she didn't.

She didn't sit down… But she didn't leave either. He looked at her with those infuriating dark eyes, slightly bloodshot, like he was not only having a rough week at work but a whole rough life as well.

"And you got all the characteristics of a Bond girl."

She didn't take the bait of asking what exactly did he mean by that.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Bond?"

He licked his lips, narrowed his eyes, and all in all, looked like he was estimating whether she could handle what he was about to tell her.

"I kill people."

Well fuck me…

Ok. Fuck.

"Oh, okay. So you're in Hells Angels or something?"

He smiled and shook his head slowly.

"You're a merc?"

He gave him a vague nod of the head, a shrug of the shoulder, a gesture that said: "Kind of".

"Why would you want to take me on a date?"

Why don't you just say it how it is, that you only want to fuck me?

"'Cause there's something here. You feel it, I feel it."

"You're looking for a relationship in a titty bar?"

He laughed again, and even she had to smile. He matched her boldness, her unapologetic straightforwardness. It couldn't kill her to live a little. Even if it meant tumbling into bed with a cowboy. Even if it meant living a little with a killer.

"You never know," he offered.

"You're a bit too cocky for my taste."

"You've barely even tasted me yet."

Fuck, this man would soon make her drip all over the floor. The tall, dark stranger tilted his head and left her with no choice.

"Shouldn't you at least give it a try before you say no?"

PART 2:

#ghost x oc #simon ghost riley x original character #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon ghost riley #ghost fanfiction #simon ghost riley fic #cod fanfic #ghost smut #simon riley smut

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