#simon ghost riley x original character

[simonz-angel]

nasty nasty room!mate simon

nasty crawls up over his neck, dripping from his pores as perspiration builds in a sparkling sheen over his face. its nasty, lewd the way he tangles the soft cotton of your panties between his scarred fingers.

and he’s ashamed, but not enough to keep him from pressing the material to his leaking cock. not enough to keep him from inhaling the faint scent of you off the worn fabric.

he could faintly hear you from the other room, giggling and talking all sweet with your friend over the phone. it fueled him, a burning desperation building a deep, knotting pit in his lower belly.

and so he abided, fisting your panties against his cock and stroking. it was a fast, desperate pace, his cheeks already burning a bright red but the way he felt had him almost imploding in on himself.

his throat shuddered, lungs pulling taut beneath his ribs as he choked on his own gasps. he couldn’t barely breathe, eyes rolling, neck arching back. good god, it almost hurt.

and the faster his wrist flicked, the more he got lost on the thought of your sweet pussy. the what ifs? the now? the later? the way you’d hug up nice n tight around him, the way he’d force you to take every fuckin inch…

his skin crawled burning hot, balls twitching so desperate for attention, so desperate to empty out. and he writhed, bowing into the soft sheets in a feeling that couldn’t be simply granted.

[ltash]

CONSUMED

Your undercover mission with Ghost to catch Makarov went South.

SimonGhostRileyxFemaleReader

There's not exactly a whole lot of time for formalities when you're chasing a known terrorist across an entire city. All the time is taken up with shouting orders over the radio and checking your six as you make your way to the next location.

But the sight of you, something different than what he's used to in this line of work, not to mention how you're certainly a sight for sore eyes, certainly makes him pause for just a little bit; staring across at your distant, brisk form as you pass him by, briskly striding with purpose.

And when you stepped into the grand ballroom, the world seemed to slow. The red silk slip dress clung to your form like a second skin, every movement fluid and deliberate. Diamond earrings shimmered under the golden chandelier light, catching the eyes of more than a few admirers. The unmistakable click of your Louboutins against the marble floor was drowned out by the soft hum of conversation and distant orchestral music.

At the bar, you took your seat with effortless grace, the picture of a Russian elite with secrets worth trading. You could feel Soap's watchful gaze through his scope, ever steady, ever ready.

To anyone else, you were just an elite; a well-to-do woman who certainly didn't mind showing off her status. To the taskforces' eyes, you're a goddamn fox; a veritable vixen, and that dress does nothing to quell the fact.

Soap, in particular, is more than grateful; taking every opportunity to gaze at you through the scope of his sniper. He's not the only one, either, who's paying extra special attention.

In the sea of elites draped in luxury, Ghost stood out, not for his wealth, but for the sheer force of his presence. He wasn't just your bodyguard; he was a guard dog, a predator among prey.

Across the room, your gaze found him. Thick thighs, solid like tree trunks, clad in dark grey cargos that did nothing to hide his powerful build. His black t-shirt stretched over a lean, muscular torso, every ridge of strength evident beneath the fabric. His left arm bore a sleeve of intricate tattoos, inked stories of war and survival, stark against his pale skin.

Skeleton-printed gloves encased his large hands, hands capable of both destruction and protection. And then, there was the mask. The balaclava, crowned with a white skull, rendering his expression unreadable. But his eyes, those sharp, watchful eyes, never left you.

He stood tall at 6'4", a tower of shadow and steel. Unshakable. Dangerous. A force meant to break men apart with his bare hands. And tonight, he was yours.

Soap is a good little spy.

He's good enough to see the attention you're drawing from every other elite in the room; all of them hungry, salivating to have a taste of you in any way, shape, or form. But he's also good enough to see the way Ghost looks at you; not with that same hungry, desperate gaze that the others do, but instead, something much more darker and cold.

Soap isn't exactly worried about you, per se, but he is a little bit concerned.

The haunting melody of Renegade drifted through the ballroom, slowed and reverberating through the air like a ghost of a song.

"Keep your eyes on mine...

And if you want, I'll tell you lies..."

Your gaze lifted, drawn by something unseen, and met his across the room. The world around you faded, the hum of conversation dulling under the weight of his stare.

Ghost didn't move. Didn't waver. His dark eyes, shadowed beneath the white skull of his mask, locked onto yours and held, unrelenting, unwavering.

It was a silent command. A challenge. A promise.

And you weren't looking away.

Every pair of eyes was on you, on your tight, hourglass figure and your sensual, sultry gaze behind those dark lashes. But those were cheap thrills; nothing compared to the way Ghost's gaze glued onto your form; intense, unflickering and downright predatory as it locked onto your gaze. And when it did, there was no breaking it. He was like a predator that managed to catch its prey with only its gaze.

"Tell you I'm yours for life..."

Ghost moved, slow and deliberate, his strides purposeful as he paced across the room, never once breaking eye contact.

"Oh, should've listened to them, don't you know what I am..."

The words seeped into the air, weaving into the tension that crackled between you. And in that moment, it felt as if he was speaking to you, not with words, but through the unyielding weight of his stare.

His eyes, dark, intense, held a question, a warning, an unspoken truth.

He wasn't just your protector. He wasn't just a man standing in the shadows for you. He was something far more dangerous, something you should have been wary of.

But you weren't afraid.

And neither was he.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, and tore your gaze away, unable to hold it any longer.

Even though he was your teammate, even though this was just another mission and he was merely posing as your bodyguard, you couldn't ignore the pull, the undeniable, magnetic force that seemed to tether you to him.

It was reckless. Dangerous. A distraction you couldn't afford.

And yet, with every passing second, every lingering glance, it became harder to fight.

Soap was still watching you through the scope. He wasn't exactly worried about you, not entirely, anyway. But he had his concerns. Namely: that every damn elite in this place appeared to be eyeing you like a goddamn meat market, sizing up each and every curve of your body and salivating to have a taste of it. Soap's finger itched on the trigger of his gun; wanting to pick some of them off for their damn audacity.

Ghost's job was to cover you, to be your shield in case things went south with Makarov. Even though you could hold your own, you weren't just some undercover agent, you were Spetsnaz, trained to survive in the deadliest situations, the weight of what you were about to do still pressed down on you.

You were about to lie to him.

Makarov. The man whose very name sent a ripple of fear through even the most hardened killers. A man who thrived on chaos, who could read deceit like it was second nature.

It was overwhelming, to say the least.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. The mission had to come first. No fear. No hesitation. And yet, as your eyes flickered back to Ghost, standing tall and immovable in the crowd, a silent guardian in the dark, somehow, that pull toward him only grew stronger.

It was part of the reason why they'd paired you with Ghost. Not because they thought you were incapable, but mainly because they knew that Ghost had an unnerving presence to him; one that would put the other elites on edge and keep the attention off. Though, from the way Soap was watching, from the way his focus kept shifting to the men that kept leering in your general direction, you were certainly getting more attention than they had originally expected.

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last. The weight of anticipation settled deep in your chest, tightening with every passing second.

The wait for Makarov was suffocating enough, but it was Ghost's gaze that truly unraveled you.

You could feel it, steady and unyielding, burning through the crowded ballroom like a silent tether pulling you in. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, but the intensity in his stare was enough to make your pulse quicken.

The mission demanded your focus, yet all you could think about was him.

Soap had his scope trained directly on you, taking every opportunity he could to admire your figure in that damn dress. He wasn't entirely bothered by how other elites kept staring at you; knowing that Ghost was with you, keeping everything under control. Though, he did wonder what it was that Ghost was up to; seeing how the balaclava-clad man was staring, unblinking, at you.

The low growl of engines filled the night as a fleet of sleek black Range Rovers rolled up to the grand entrance, their tinted windows gleaming under the golden lights. A hush fell over the crowd, the unspoken weight of power and danger settling in the air.

Then, the doors opened.

Vladimir Makarov stepped out first, his presence commanding, calculated. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, he exuded the kind of quiet menace that needed no theatrics. His sharp eyes swept the room, assessing, calculating. Behind him, a small entourage of armed men followed, their movements crisp, their expressions unreadable.

The air thickened with tension.

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself. This was it.

From across the room, Ghost didn't move, but you knew his hand was already hovering near his weapon, ready.

Soap tensed up the moment that Makarov exited his car; attention immediately shifting and watching him intently as he made his way inside the gala. But it wasn't just him; it was almost like the entire crowd seemed to simultaneously tense up the moment he entered; watching him with an almost bated breath that could've made the gala completely silent, if not for the quiet whisper of the crowd.

"Eyes on the target, Ghost." You whispered into your radio, keeping your tone smooth, composed.

"Gotcha," Ghost's voice crackled back, low and steady. No hesitation. Always watching.

Before you could dwell on it, a presence loomed closer.

"Privet!" Makarov greeted, his voice thick with false warmth. The moment his lips brushed your cheek in a mock display of civility, a chill ran down your spine.

You forced a small smile, playing the part, even as your instincts screamed at you to pull away.

Makarov straightened, unbuttoning his coat before sinking onto the plush leather couch in front of you. His sharp eyes studied you, piercing and calculating, like a predator sizing up its prey.

You crossed your legs elegantly, masking the tension in your muscles, keeping your expression unreadable.

The game had begun.

Makarov smirked as he leaned back, his coat slipping from his shoulders.

"Ты выглядишь напряжённой, моя дорогая." (You look tense, my dear.)

You forced a small smile, keeping your posture relaxed. "It's been a long day, Vladimir."

"Ах, но сегодня только начинается." (Ah, but today is just beginning.) He reached for the glass of vodka on the table, taking a slow sip before setting it down. "I assume you already know why we're here, да?"

"I have an idea," you replied, tilting your head. "But I want to hear it from you."

Makarov chuckled. "Always so cautious. That's why I like you." He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement. "The Gora Dam... The airport... These are merely the beginning. I want to send a message-a reminder to the world that no one is untouchable."

"Ты хочешь вызвать хаос." (You want to cause chaos.)

His lips curled into a wicked grin. "Chaos is necessary. Without it, people grow complacent. Weak. They need fear to remind them of their place." He tapped his temple. "It is a lesson history has taught us time and time again."

In your ear, Soap's voice crackled softly.

"Bloody hell, lass. He's really goin' off, ain't he?"

You ignored Soap and kept your gaze locked on Makarov. "And how does drowning thousands in a flood prove your point?"

"Because it will not just be a flood," he said smoothly. "It will be a cleansing. The dam collapses, the waters consume everything. And in the chaos, we strike the airport. Mass panic, mass casualties. The world will watch in horror as their leaders do nothing." He tilted his head. "And then they will see who truly holds the power."

Ghost's voice came through the radio, low and tense.

"We've heard enough. Keep him talking just a little longer."

You took a slow breath. "And what happens after? You expect people to follow you after this massacre?"

Makarov laughed softly. "People always follow the strongest, моя дорогая (my dear). When they see their governments crumble, they will turn to the ones who showed them the truth."

You glanced at his coat, spotting the pistol tucked inside. Your fingers twitched, but you kept still.

"We've got everything," Soap muttered. "On your mark, Ghost."

Makarov leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Скажи мне, ты со мной?" (Tell me, are you with me?)

You smiled, shifting slightly in your seat. "Of course, Vladimir."

And then you heard Ghost's quiet command.

"Now."

Soap's finger was on the trigger; ready to take his shot. He had a clear-cut view of Makarov, sitting there smug as if he'd already won. But Soap waited, taking steady breaths and watching intently as you continued to speak with him. The only problem with the fact was how closely Makarov was leaning towards you; making a clean shot more difficult, especially with you so goddamn close. Ghost's breath was just as steady as Soap's, gaze unblinking as he kept his watch.

Makarov's sharp gaze flickered downward, and in that split second, you knew.

His smirk faltered. His eyes locked onto the tiny mic clipped discreetly to your collar, barely visible against the dark fabric. The amusement in his expression drained, replaced by something far colder.

"Ты думаешь, я идиот?" (You think I'm an idiot?) His voice was quiet, dangerous.

You barely had time to react before his hand shot out, fingers closing around your throat in a crushing grip. Your breath hitched as he yanked you toward him, his other hand reaching into his coat? pulling out his pistol in one swift motion.

"Ghost!" Your voice choked off as the muzzle pressed against your temple.

Ghost was already moving. His gun was raised, aimed dead at Makarov's head.

"Let her go," he ordered, voice like steel.

Makarov only laughed, tightening his grip on your neck. "Ты подвела меня, моя дорогая." (You betrayed me, my dear.) His finger hovered over the trigger. "Жаль." (A shame.)

You didn't hesitate. You struck, hard. A sharp jab to his wrist, forcing the gun upward just as it fired. The shot went wide, shattering a chandelier above you. You twisted against his grip, ignoring the burning in your throat.

Ghost's gun roared, but Makarov was already moving, ducking behind cover as his men stormed the room.

And then the gunfire truly began.

Chaos erupted as the first gunshot rang out, followed by dozens more that filled the air. The calm and quiet gala turned into a bloodbath in an instant; blood and broken glass flying through the air, people screaming and shouting in panic. Soap's eyes widened as they watched the scene unfold, seeing Makarov's men pull out their guns and begin to return fire.

"Bloody hell..." Soap cursed under his breath, taking cover behind a nearby pillar. "Lass is in trouble."

Makarov's grip was like a vice, his fingers digging into your throat as he snarled in Russian, "Ты предательница!" (You're a traitor!) His gun pressed against your temple, the cold metal burning against your skin.

Ghost was already moving, his pistol drawn in a heartbeat. "Drop it, Makarov." His voice was low, deadly.

But Makarov only smirked, his eyes gleaming with something close to amusement. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You didn't hesitate. Your training kicked in-one sharp twist of your body, a well-placed strike to his wrist. The gun wavered. You elbowed him hard in the ribs, making him grunt. That was all you needed.

You dropped low just as Ghost fired. The bullet whizzed past you, grazing Makarov's coat. His men reacted instantly, opening fire. Bullets tore through the room, shattering glass and splintering wood.

Soap cursed in your ear. "Fuck! No shot!"

Before you could even register the movement, Ghost was on you, his arm wrapping around your waist. It wasn't just a grab-it was precise, calculated. He pulled you into him, twisting you both in a fluid motion that felt almost like a dance. Bullets zipped past, some so close you could feel the heat of them. His body shielded yours completely as he fired back, sharp, controlled bursts.

Makarov didn't stay to fight. "Идём!" (Let's go!) he barked, already moving. His men covered him as he slipped out, vanishing like a ghost into the chaos.

Ghost's grip on you was ironclad as he pulled you into cover behind an overturned couch. "You good?"

You nodded, your breath ragged. "Yeah."

Soap's voice came through, frustrated. "Bastard slipped away again. Bloody hell."

The gunfire faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Ghost was above you, his body shielding yours, his arms braced on either side of your head. His weight wasn't crushing, just enough to keep you anchored, protected. Your hands were still on his back, clutching the fabric of his gear like a lifeline.

You could feel his breath, hot, uneven, against your forehead. Your own chest rose and fell in sync with his, both of you reeling from the chaos.

Slowly, you peeled yourself away from the safe haven of his chest, your fingers still gripping his vest as you looked up.

His eyes found yours.

Dark, intense, searching. He wasn't just checking if you were hurt, he was making sure you were here, with him.

You swallowed hard, your breath still ragged. "Ghost-"

"You're okay," he murmured, voice low and rough. It was more of a reassurance to himself than to you.

Your throat burned from Makarov's grip, your body ached from the impact of hitting the ground, but none of that mattered. Not right now.

Right now, it was just you and him.

You nodded slightly, still caught in his gaze. "Yeah. Thanks to you."

His jaw tightened. "He got too close."

Your fingers curled against his vest, a silent acknowledgment of just how close it had been.

Soap's voice crackled through the radio, breaking the tense silence. "Ghost, sitrep."

Ghost's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before he responded. "Status green. Target escaped."

There was a beat of silence on the other end before Soap spoke again, voice gruffer than usual. "You both okay?"

Ghost's eyes flickered back to me, a quick once-over, assessing the bruises that were likely already beginning to form on my neck. "We're fine," he replied, his gaze not wavering from mine.

The mission had been a disaster. Makarov had slipped through your fingers once again, and the weight of it pressed down on everyone. After the chaos, Laswell arranged for you all to lay low in Berlin, a quiet, upscale hotel tucked away from prying eyes.

The halls were dimly lit, the soft hum of the city outside barely seeping through the thick windows. The Task Force had taken up an entire floor, each of you assigned a room for the night. It was meant to be a moment of respite, a chance to regroup before the next move. But none of you were at ease.

You had showered, hoping the scalding water would wash away the tension clinging to your skin. It didn't. Wrapped in a towel, you stepped out onto the plush carpet, glancing toward the window. The Berlin skyline stretched before you, distant lights flickering against the darkened sky. Somewhere out there, Makarov was still moving, still planning his next step.

You pulled on a loose shirt and a pair of shorts, running a hand through your damp hair. Sleep felt impossible. Your mind kept replaying everything-how close you had been, the weight of Makarov's hand around your throat, the frustration in Ghost's voice.

And Ghost-

He had been quiet after the mission, more so than usual. His presence had been impossible to ignore, though. Even in the debriefing, his gaze had lingered, watching you with something unreadable beneath that mask.

You sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. Maybe you were imagining things. Maybe it was just the adrenaline, the way near-death experiences blurred the lines between everything.

Then came the knock at the door.

Soft but firm.

You turned toward it, pulse skipping. For a moment, you hesitated. No one on the team would come unless it was important.

You exhaled slowly, crossing the room. Your fingers curled around the handle, and you pulled the door open.

Ghost stood there, his presence filling the doorway. He hadn't changed out of his gear, his balaclava still in place, but he had ditched the heavy tactical vest. He looked, less like a soldier, more like a man standing on the edge of something.

His eyes flickered over you, taking in your casual attire, the damp strands of hair curling at your shoulders. Something dark passed through his gaze.

You swallowed. "Couldn't sleep?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward, forcing you to move back as he shut the door behind him.

And then, in a voice lower than usual, he said, "I wasn't here to talk."

"He got away because of you," he finally said, his tone sharper now.

You stiffened. "Excuse me?"

Ghost exhaled harshly, stepping back just enough to pace. "We had him, and then you hesitated. If you'd kept him talking a second longer, we could've ended this."

Anger flared inside you. "I was buying us time.."

"You let him see your damn mic!" His voice was low, dangerous, but controlled. "That mistake cost us."

His words hung in the air like a suffocating shroud. They stung, but he was right. I had made a mistake-a small one, perhaps, but in this world, mistakes got you killed. I felt a pang of guilt, of shame, but I refused to let it show.

"And what about you?" I shot back, my own temper flaring. "You could've taken the shot instead of standing there like a statue."

Ghost froze, his shoulders tensing. His gaze flicked back to me, the intensity in his eyes flaring.

"That shot wasn't clear," he gritted out. "Too many people around."

I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms. "Since when are you afraid of collateral damage?"

His jaw clenched, tension rolling off him in waves. He was fighting something, control, emotion... I couldn't tell.

"This isn't about that," he growled. "If I'd taken that shot, and people got hurt, "

"People were already getting hurt," I snapped. "We had our chance and you just stood there."

He moved suddenly, closing the distance between us in two strides. His hand shot out, fist pounding against the desk beside my hip. I felt the impact, the wood trembling beneath his touch.

His face was close now, his breath hot against my cheek. "You don't understand how it works," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You don't understand what it takes, the risks it takes, to bring down a man like Makarov."

The sound that left your lips was a mixture of a gasp and a wheeze, an audible pulse of raw sensuality.

Ghost's gaze hardened, his breathing deepening as he pushed you back against the desk, crowding into your space. He was suddenly everywhere, the heat of his body, the smell of him, the sound of his voice as it dropped an octave lower.

His hand found the edge of your shirt, his thumb tracing a line along the bare skin of your hip. It was a possessive, intimate gesture, his touch sparking a low burn in your belly.

The sound that left your lips was a breathless whisper, a shuddering plea.

"Ghost..." The name trembled on your tongue.

His hand slid beneath your shirt, palm pressing flat against your stomach. His touch was rough, calloused, yet it sent a shiver through you, igniting every nerve under your skin.

"Don't you get it?" he murmured, voice thick with suppressed emotion. "You don't know this world. You don't know the risks. You don't-"

His words faltered as his fingers traced higher, brushing the edge of your bra. His eyes darkened, his touch turning possessive.

Your back arched instinctively, body melting beneath his hands like putty. Any protest died on your lips the moment he leaned in, his body pressing against yours. Logic blurred, lost to the heat coursing through you. His touch was both demanding and reverent, his hand trailing up your torso, thumb skimming the underside of your breast.

"This isn't..." you tried, already breathless.

He didn't let you finish. "Shut up."

His lips found your neck, teeth grazing, biting down just enough to make you gasp. His hand cupped your breast, firm, claiming.

"I should be angry with you," he muttered against your skin. "Shouldn't touch you. Shouldn't want this."

Thoughts scattered, incoherent beneath his touch. Every inch of you burned for him, hypersensitive to the way his hard body pressed against yours. The room was silent except for your ragged breaths, the rustle of fabric.

Then, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his fingers tilting your chin up.

Your hands found his jaw as you leaned in, lips barely a breath away. "I need you. I want you. I don't know why, don't know how, but I've never desired anyone like this, never wanted anyone the way I want you, Simon," you whispered.

His eyes burned with something deep, unrelenting. The silence that followed was thick, charged.

And then he moved, swift, decisive.

His hands gripped your hips, lifting you onto the desk. Your legs parted, framing him as he stepped closer. His head dipped, lips tracing a path down your neck, your collarbone, moving lower, relentless in his intent.

You surrendered to him. Let him worship you.

Clothes fell away, discarded like an afterthought. He left you bare in his arms, the need between you both desperate, consuming.

His touch was a storm, demanding, possessive. Every movement left you breathless, aching for more. He stripped you down, exposed you, left you vulnerable in a way you'd never been before. And you didn't care. You wanted this. You wanted him.

His hands were everywhere, exploring, claiming. Rough, yet careful, like he was holding something precious. Each touch, each caress, seared into your skin, branding you his.

The night stretched on, filled with whispered promises, mingled breaths, shared heat. The need to have each other was insatiable, undeniable. He became you, and you became him. You became one.

And you were lost, so lost in him, in the way he consumed you. The only name left on your lips was his.

Simon.

You fell into the abyss of ecstasy, shattered beneath his touch. But he caught you, every time. He gathered the broken pieces of you, putting them back together.

And in the end, you weren't just his. He was yours, too.

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove (A Zombie!Ghost Story) Masterlist

This fic got long so it gets its own masterlist lol.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

???

???

Dividers by: @sweetmelodygraphics

[bambisworlds]

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)

[kneelingshadowsalome]

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.

[vintageaesthetic20]

Be honest. He's hot isn't he?

P.s. i just love the gloves and has anyone listened to wasabi by little mix

[saint-ajax]

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?”

[g-h-0-s-t-3-d]

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.

[simonz-angel]

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.”

[ltash]

Alone (mdni)

You were kidnapped by Simon Riley who was a twisted psychopath.

Warning: size kink, kidnapping, dark, angst

He stood over his truck, arms folded over his big chest, the muscles in his bared biceps flexing as he used a wrench to crank the hood open.

He stood a staggering 6'3. With broad shoulders and a lean but built figure. He was clad in a black tank top and dark grey cargos, the tattoos marking his muscular arms and neck just visible even through the shadows.

He had that cold, hard, almost lifeless look to him, that of a killer. But you'd probably just assume he was some kind of ex army vet.

That's a dangerous weapon to be walking round with, the he muses idly when he finally gets to get a good look at you.

Soft, milky skin. Delicate, porcelain. An angelic face cut by an alluring mouth. Eyes wide, trembling, begging him to be kind, to have some sort of mercy.

He grins.

Well, he never did learn how to behave as well as he should.

You were like a doll he'd gotten his greasy paws on, all wrapped up with a silk bow and all.

And he'd never been a fan of unwrapping gifts with care, anyway.

So he doesn't,

He really, really doesn't.

You're an angel, but the kind of men that like girls like you, they're not nice men. Not soft. Not gentle. Not soft-hearted, at least, the way you probably would've expected someone like him to be considering he's supposed be a good guy.

But he's not.

He's rough. He's ruthless. He's cruel. He's a predator, a wolf in sheep's clothing, and it really does look like he's about to pounce

As if sensing your gaze on him, he looks up from the hood and stares you down from over his shoulder.

And even behind those deep, impenetrable sunglasses, you could feel the way that icy, piercing gaze raked over you, from the mess of blood-matted hair on your head and the dark sweat staining your clothes to the trembling mess that your body had become on his backseat.

As the hours pass, with every hour, that window closes more and more. And now

It's starting to seem more like a prison you're never going to escape from.

But you try, don't you?

You fight with everything you have in you, every bit of strength you possess.

It's a valiant effort. An admirable fight.

It's just a shame you're all alone.

He's bigger. A lot bigger.

He's stronger, too.

He's been fighting for years.

He's done this sort of thing before.

You haven't.

And you're learning the hard way it doesn't take much when you have nothing to fight for.

You should know better.

But no one ever really takes the time to teach those things to silly, little girls like you.

Especially when they grow up with the kind of overprotective brothers and fathers you do, the ones with the means and the sort of power that make them think the world will always revolve around them.

Or so they tell you, again, and again, and again from the time you're old enough to understand the words.

Until you start to believe it yourself.

And then someone like him comes around and makes you learn the hard way the world doesn't work like that.

That your overprotective brothers and fathers have no power.

That pretty, little, stupid, stupid girls with big, wide, innocent eyes can be snatched off the street without a single soul to save them. 

And they won't.

And no one will save you.

There's no one coming for you.

Maybe the ones you love will look for you.

Maybe they already are.

Maybe they're already asking the cops to help bring you back.

But they won't find you.

Not in the abandoned hunting cabin they put in the middle of the woods to keep the riff raff away.

He knows these woods better than anyone else does.

He could hide right next door and you'd never know it.

And there's no one left in the world to keep him away from getting what he wants.

Because everyone you knew, everyone you loved is in the city.

And you're not.

For the first time in your life, you're totally and completely alone.

He was a literal monster, built with scarred and calloused hands to match the rest of him. And a temper to boot. Big, brooding, built with a barrel of a chest and thick, corded arms. Dark eyes, like embers set into a face that was half handsome, half ruined, if you squinted, at least. 

"Quit your damn complaining girl," he grunted low, rough in the sort of way that suggested a sandpaper rasp. 

He doesn't say anything right away, just stands there, staring at you. Then he says,

"Look at the state of you."

You were a little doll, he thought to himself, eyes sweeping over the long, elegant lines painting the pale canvas of your body. All pretty angles and soft, creamy skin, all curves and dips and tender little crevices waiting to be filled.

Your clothes had already been torn off, carelessly strewn over the floor of his truck. He didn't care for any of the expensive stuff, the little earrings and things that probably cost more than his truck, his life, and his mama's life and still wouldn't equal out. That was the last thing on his mind. And the shoes he could barely stomach a glance of were so far above his pay-grade they should have gotten themselves some first class seats in the sky.

"A little too fine to get caught up in trouble, ain't ya, dollface?"

His words were a rough, almost raspy snarl, as he finally turns away from his truck, crossing his arms over his chest as he steps closer to peering into the back of his truck.

He murmurs under his breath, more or less, a wry chuckle tumbling past his lips.

But pretty things like you are like shiny little toys. So easy to break and so easy to break for. Like all pretty things, you don't belong in a place that stinks of gasoline and sweat and death. But he's got a wicked sense of humor. It's just a pity that you ended up here, all dolled up for no one but him to see.

His fingers trail over the dip of your waist, following the soft arch of your hip into the valley that he would like very much to bury his face. He wants to mark you in all ways, in all the ways he can, like you're his, because that's what he does, after all. He takes ownership of pretty little toys. And you're a pretty little thing. A pretty little toy to play with and to use up and to take for all that you're worth until he's done with you. And like all toys, you'll break eventually, but not before he's had his fill. After all, he's a man with one hell of an appetite, and pretty little toys are so hard to come by.

And you could see the way that lean, hard muscle coiled under the taut skin of his arms, rippling the intricate ink covering his skin as he looks down at you sprawled across his backseats. The way that he seemed to soak in each detail, gaze lingering on the trembling mess of your body.

"Christ, look at this mess you're making. You're gonna ruin my goddamn seats."

He crouches down to your level, reaching in through the open window to prod coldly at your injured leg. His touch was rough, almost calloused fingers prodding cruelly into the swollen skin.

"And damn, you sure are a noisy little thing," he mutters, not exactly gentle. Then he glances at you, gaze lingering on the sweat staining your clothes and the way your body trembled in the back of his car. 

"Whined an' sobbed the whole way here. I mean, I get it. But god damn."

"Wha-why?" You could barely spoke.

He grunted, rough fingers drumming against his thick thigh. He seemed to mull over his words for a moment, before he finally spoke. 

"Whaddya mean, 'why'?"

"Why are you doing this?" Your voice barely above a whisper.

He lets out a low, gravelly chuckle at that. Dark, callous, not even remotely charming.  

"Why? I'm doing this because I want to." 

His words were cold and casual, but you knew that there was no reason behind them. No good reason, anyway.

Still, he glances down at you, gaze lingering on the tremble that wracked your shoulders. 

"Besides, I think we got some good, ol' fashioned leverage here." 

He reaches in, poking cruelly at your bleeding leg, eliciting another cry of pain from you. 

"I mean, you can't go calling the police or no one, because then you'll be explaining to them just what you were doing out here in the woods in the first place. And.."

He paused, grinning cruelly. 

"I know for certain you don't want that."

He leaned down a little more, rough fingers brushing against the bare skin of your shoulder. The touch was cold, but you could feel the strength in his grip, his hand resting on your flesh as he looked at you.

"You're just my little... catch for the day, that's all." 

His words were quiet, almost as if to himself. As if he already knew what he was going to do with you.

He turns away from you, reaching in the car to push the back of his seat down so he could peer into the back. He just stares, studying the mess that your body had become sprawled across his backseat. 

"Besides, I'm not really the type to let a catch like you go." 

He adds, tone almost mocking, as is to say 'you don't seem to be in any position to be doing much of anything, let alone fighting back.'

He leans down closer to you, so close that you could feel the cold, almost cruel press of his breath against your blood-matted hair. A shiver runs down your spine, and you can't help but tremble slightly as you feel the rough scrape of his finger brushing over your tender skin. 

"And I get the feeling that you, sweetheart, aren't exactly in a position to argue with what I want."

The shadows on his face growing deeper.  

"That's all there is to it. There's no point in wondering 'why'. It doesn't change anything, does it?"

He's got a wicked gleam of something dark and cruel in his eye as drags you from the floor of his truck and onto the floor of an old abandoned hunting cabin.

The smell of dust and damp decay fills the air, and the floorboards beneath your back are cold and old and creaky. It's the kind of place where only old dogs still have the courage to wander, and the kind of place only old men could stand to call home.

He's got a wicked look in his eye, cold and callous and mean, as he stares down at you. The look in his gaze is nothing short of depraved and wicked, eyes roaming over your curves like you're already at his feast.

And he doesn't say much, but he takes you in with his eyes. Everything he wants to say he says with his gaze. Not that he's the kind of man to talk too much, anyway, he'd rather get right down to business, instead.

You seized the opportunity as he walked out to tend to his engine. You slowly opened the door and without making a noise, crawled out. With your injured leg you darted towards the thick forest.

It took him only a moment to notice the quiet sound of the door opening, and he turns, gaze immediately falling on your figure as you limp away as fast as you can towards the thicket of trees. 

He takes a half-step forward, surprise flickering briefly cross his face as the corner of his mouth curves into a slight smirk.

"God damn, you really are something, aren't ya?" 

His low, coarse voice rings out in the silence as he starts walking after you.

He follows you into the wilderness, each step measured, slow, unhurried. His boots crunching against leaves and brush, the only sound between the two of you.

He could easily catch up to you in a few strides, but he seemed to enjoy the little chase. The way you'd try to limp faster every time he got closer, the way you'd glance over your shoulder so panicked and scared.

He almost felt like he was hunting.

He watches with calculated precision as you try to limp faster, trying to stumble through the thick trees and foliage. He knew your injured leg would start to slow you down, make it hard to push through the branches.

He could see the desperation in your eyes as you looked back at him, and it was almost satisfying to him.

His footsteps started to speed up, pace increasing as he slowly starts to close the distance between you.

His voice cut through the air, sharp and rough, and it was almost as if you could hear the growl rumbling deep in his chest. He closed the distance between you with long, easy strides, his footsteps like the drumbeat of war.

He catches you just before you stumble through the trees, a rough grip wrapping around the back of your neck as he lifts you into the air with easy. Holding you like a disobedient cat.

"Oh, you think you're real cute, don't you?" he spits at you, his grip on your neck tight and unyielding as he pulls you back through the trees, heading back to his car.

"Trynna pull some dumb little escape act. Think you're gonna get away. Where you think you'd end up, princess? Think you're gonna get very far with that pretty little ankle of yours all busted up like that?"

He pulls you back to his truck, tossing you into the back seat with rough, easy force.  

"You could barely even walk, you know. You think you could limp away from me? In the woods? You'd get halfway through and you'd start cryin' again. Then what? You think someone's gonna rescue your dumb ass?"

He shoves you back into the backseats, not at all gentle as he forces you inside. Then he climbs inside after you without a single word, reaching for a coil of thick rope lying on the floorboards.

His fingers are quick and rough as he binds your wrists together, the rope chafing against your skin as he binds your ankles, taking extra care to tie the knots tightly. 

He looks down at you for a moment as his rough fingers work away at the knots, his gaze lingering on the mess of your hair, the sweat staining your clothes.

The backseats were stained with drying blood. 

"Damn. You made a mess of my car."

"Fuck you and fuck this godforsaken fucking truck. You heartless monster." You yelled..

He glances at you, one of his eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. 

"Damn, look who's got some fire in 'em."

He laughs again, dark and deep. 

"Heartless, am I? You don't even know the half of it."

He leans closer, his face just a few inches from yours, eyes dark and gleaming. 

"You know, the world isn't all rainbows and sunshine. It's rough out here. Survival of the fittest. And you, princess? Well, you're just a little too weak for all this, ain't you?"

You spat on his face, the spit landing on his balaclava.

He freezes, the smirk on his face shifting into a look of cold, hard anger. He reaches up, wiping away the spit from his face with the back of his hand.

"You little—"

His hand smacks across your face, an explosion of pain that feels like a thousand pins stabbing into your cheek

"You want to watch your mouth, princess. I don't take kindly to disrespect."

"Maybe I should teach you a little lesson," he says, his hand resting on the back of your neck, fingers pressing cruelly into your skin. 

"Show you exactly what happens to little brats who think they can do whatever they want."

"Why don't you show me your face so that I can spit on that, you fucking coward." You glared at him.

"Yeah?" he snarls, his grip on your neck tightening. "You wanna see my face, huh? You wanna know what I look like? I'll show you my face, princess, and then you'll wish you hadn't said a goddamn word."

"Go on then, what are you waiting for you coward" You spat back.

That was it

He reaches up and slowly, like a man taking off armor, he yanks a black balaclava down, letting it hang around his neck.

And you could see him now...

A dangerous, hard, rough face. A jaw as sharp as a blade. Those eyes like ice, cold gaze pinning you like a specimen mounted on a goddamn table. 

His whole face was covered in scars and old bruises, remnants of war and cruelty and battles that had left him with no mercy to spare. 

You got a glimpse of a man that couldn't be called an angel. Couldn't even be called a devil. 

"There. This what you wanted to see, princess?"

"Simon Riley!!" That’s all you could utter…

Ghost. The legend. The nightmare in the dark. The man whose name was spoken in hushed tones, like a warning, like a curse.

And now, he was right in front of you. No mask. No shadows to hide behind. Just him.

His gaze didn't waver, didn't soften. If anything, it bore into you deeper, searching, waiting.

"Not what you expected, is it?" His voice was rough, low, almost mocking, but there was something else beneath it. Something unreadable.

Your breath hitched. This was the face of a man who had seen hell and walked through it. A man who had no past to return to, only a future built on blood and war.

And yet… he was here. Before you, unmasked. Letting you see what no one else did.

It was terrifying. And it was beautiful.

[luxcuriousao3]

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.

[bambisworlds]

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.

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)

[kneelingshadowsalome]

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:

[itsstrange]

Prof Price x Mechanic Ghost x Reader??

Anyone Interested?? 👀👀👀

Again, will delete this if it does not get votes! 🙃

[thoughtsandbones]

The flesh you thread between my blood and bones slows down the pendulum of death

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc OC (codename: Blue) 💀💙

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

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

PLEASE reblog and like! Hope folks are enjoying the series, I am building up characters and plots, cos I have a lot ideas and just been enjoying writing :D

Song inspo: Don't Fear the Reaper - Tom Jones, American Idiot - Green Day, After Dark - Mr.Kitty, 1973 - James Blunt

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline... (Also I'm ignoring the OG Shepherd betrayal and keeping in line the one with the new timeline..)

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

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

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

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

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

Part 15 II

Ghost stared at the yellow sign reading in black NO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT on the white double doors that led to the operating room where Soap had been wheeled in by both doctors, surrounded by other medical staff.

As he walked behind them when they rushed ahead he heard them shouting all sorts of medical jargon. You were so calmly ordering for mLs of drugs with too many Zs. He looked down at his skeletal gloves, the fake bones once white now stained red with Johnny's blood.

Looking up again at the sign he thought of you. How your hands would also be bloodied, pouring deep into Soap's body, mending him.

You gotta save him he pleaded in his head. He couldn't lose Soap, not now. Not after what they had been through together in Mexico, Chicago... now this.

'C'mon Lt!' Soap's words rang through his skull. Guilt flooded his chest as he remembered moments of how blunt he had been to Soap...

Squeezing his fist tight, Ghost sighed and then walked down the corridor until he found himself a chair in an empty room and plopped the chair right outside those double doors. Sitting down, Ghost winced with pain, the cut sobbed as he sat down and moved his torso.

"Fuuuck" He growled quietly.

Leaning back, he shut his eyes letting the darkness wash over him.

...

Soap was lifted onto the surgical bed. As you and Peyton scrubbed in, the nurses dressed him. Through the window of the scrub room you watched as he was intubated, his bloodied clothes discarded in the yellow hazard bin.

Once scrubbed and prepped, you assume the lead role in the surgery. Neuro was your speciality, this was a spinal injury. This is your arena. Closing your eyes, you breathe in.

"It's a beautiful night to save lives" You say, opening your eyes. Peyton eyes crinkle, a sign she was smiling under her medical mask.

"10 blade" You say and the nurse gives your instrument. You place the edge of the blade two inches above the bullet wound, applying pressure with your index finger you slide the blade across the skin unveiling the flesh beneath.

"Suction" Peyton says and she moves in with the machine that gargles up the blood from the exposed muscle

Peeling back the muscular layers you clamp down areas needing support. Soap's lumbar was one display. No major damage could be seen.

"Bullet must've missed the lumbar" Peyton says

"L1 clear" You say inspecting the upper lumbar region, with your blade you move down

"L2 clear"

"Suction" Peyton says

"L3 clear" you say and then move down

"Suction"

As you looked around L4, there was a sudden gush of blood and the monitors started beeping rapidly

"Found the bullet" You say "Clarissa, Kerrison rongeur" holding your left hand up whilst holding the area with your blade as Peyton continued suction. The beeping subdued.

"Need another pair of hands for this" You say

Peyton gave the suction pipe to the nurse on her right and then took hold of a clamp and forceps.

Cutting away at the connective tissue and muscle you peel the layer as Peyton grabs the shrapnel

"Hard part now.." She said after depositing the shrapnel in dish

Rapid beeping started again. You and Peyton both move together, suction, cutting, threading and assessing any damage to the surrounding nerves.

"Pulse at 120" Clarissa said as she took hold of the forceps from Peyton

"Shit" You say as more blood gushed from the wound which was quickly slurped away from the suction pipe.

"Sutures" Peyton said and she began to sew up the first damaged nerve.

There was a increase in beeping

"Pulse 150"

"Let me do it" You say and Clarissa swiftly gives you a new set of sutures.

After adjusting yourself you look down "Surgical microscope please" And the microscope was brought down to your level and adjusted to your eyeline.

Focusing your eyes through the lense you begin to graft the a new nerve from the damaged nerve, cutting the damaged part and sewing the ends.

This was your element. Fixing the broken. Mending the hurt.

After 5 hours of intense surgery, you and Peyton were nearly finished. The beat of song playing off the speaker was echoing across the walls of the OR. Nodding your head along to the drum of Green Day's American Idiot as you finished suturing the final layer of Soap's skin.

"Nice finish" Peyton said as she cleaned the area "Stats are good" she added looking at the various monitors that beeped rhythmically along with the music.

"Pause music please" You said, one of the nurses pauses.

You cut the last suture and place the forceps onto the tray held by Clarissa.

"Good job Dr Kaur" She said nodding at you. You nod back and return to admire the handiwork which was being dressed by Peyton and another nurse.

"He is stable and stats are looking great" Clarissa says as you eye the monitor. You turn to her and smile, putting more effort to crinkle as your mouth was hidden behind the mask.

"We will take him back to the ICU just for observation" Peyton said as she moved over from Soap to you and Clarissa.

"I'll help take him" Clarissa said "Well done"

"No thank you" You say "Thank you everyone" You say loudly to the rest of the medical team all who respond with a cheerful thanks back.

"I'm gonna head back" You say

"I'll keep you updated, and let you know when the team can see him" Peyton says taking her gloves off as they left the OR, she tapped you on the shoulder and walked off.

Taking off your surgical cover, masks and gloves you wash the grimy sweat off your hands. The smell of strong disinfectant soap filled your nose.

Leaving the scrub room you walk off back towards the double doors where you had rolled Soap in. He was okay now. Had to wait until he was awake to see if there is any nerve damage to his legs...

Checking one of the clocks on the hallway you realise it was 11:49am, you longed for a hot shower and then the comfort of your bed. Walking through the double doors, midway through yawning you were met with a giant man sat in the middle of the hallway. The skull face gave you a jump. It took a few moments to register that it was Ghost.

"Lieut-"

Ghost leapt up from his chair and nearly toppled you over as he confronted you

"Is he alright? Did he make it?" He blurted, his eyes widening at you.

You stare back into his eyes, only just able to make out the blue iris.

"He's okay." You say, reaching your right hand up to to his shoulder.

"His legs, said somethin' abou' his legs" Ghost huffed at you

"Ghost, he is stable and in the ICU, regarding his legs, we will have to wait until he wakes up to assess any damage." You to him calmly

He takes in this information, your calm demeanor. Of course you know what you are doing he thought to himself

"Are you okay sir? You ask

"I'm okay" Ghost said quickly.

You look at him curiously, there was something off about him.

"Okay then.." You say moving away from him.

Ghost moves towards the chair and picked it up with his left arm, the sudden weight made him wince and groan as his unattended wound stretched and weep as he moved.

"Fuuck" He whispered to himself as he set the chair back down and placing his right hand over his wound on the left side of his waist.

"Lieutenant what happened?" You say rushing over to him

"Nothin'" He said trying to push you away. You scoff at him and roll your eyes.

"Ghost, I'm in no mood for bullshit" You say sharply at him. Ghost looked at you, eyebrows narrowed, your eyes slightly red and clearly tired.

He was being rude again.

"I got a nick" He said motioning to his wound looking at your stern face, eyes narrowed. Clearly annoyed. "Can you patch me up?" He asks, your stern face relaxed, softened.

"Right, come with me" You say letting out a big sigh and head out of the RAMC building and then back to the infirmary in Building 2.

Turning the light on you spritz the med bed and give it a quick wipe.

"Get your vest off" You say plainly to Ghost who follows your command. He unties the straps and then sets his vest aside. Attempting to take his hoodie off but he couldn't as the wound caused him to wince further.

"Need some help?" You say as you look over to Ghost who was clearly struggling.

"Alrigh' then" He said and braced himself as you walk closer to him, bringing your hands to his body, rolling the hem of his hoodie slowly and carefully.

Ghost winced again as you went near his waist.

"Might have to cut it off" You suggest looking up at him.

"Go on then" He mumbled, the edge of his mouth curved slightly under his mask.

Grabbing a pair of clothing shears, you cut the hoodie off Ghost, revealing a damp black shirt underneath, his bare muscular arms on unveiled. You look at his waist, and see a patch of dried up blood, parts of his shirt clung to his skin dried and wrinkled.

"Sit on the med bed please" You motioning to the bed and then you walk off to the bathroom to wash your hands. Sleep eludes you. Drying your hands you head back to where Ghost was, who was now sitting crouched on the edge of med bed.

Putting on a pair of gloves and grabbing a stool with your foot you slide close to Ghost, and lift the t-shirt. As suspected the parts that clung to the skin where dried stuck to the wound. An impromptu weak bandage.

"Gonna also have to cut your shirt around the wound, it's dried to the gash"

Ghost looked down at you.

"Can't you bandage it?" He asks and the expression your face held clearly showed he asked a stupid question.

Your look of disbelief subdued, and grabbed the scissors. Ghost's heart quickened. He didn't mind being shirtless. But not when he has been in the field with limited availability to shower, smelt like shit and especially in front of a woman he was interested in...

"Wai-" Ghost began but he was too late, you began to cut his shirt off him, exposing his sticky sweaty scarred skin.

As you cut away at the fabric you notice various deep pink and white scars adorned on his chest and abdomen. Dirt had built up in areas, but it was expected. A shower is the last thing you need in the field.

Grabbing some saline water and a towel, you wash away dirt surrounding the remaining cloth covering his wound. Gently, with your gloved fingers you peel the cloth away revealing the gammy wound. Inflamed and dirty.

"Lift your arm" You ask and Ghost does so and watches as your pour more saline to the wound, his eyes focused on the precision placement of your fingers on his waist, not ogling him.

He slightly winces as your fingers graze over a sensitive area. As you examine the area, you notice it was bumpy, sand had gotten into the wound.

"This area is very inflamed. Lie down, it'll sting as I clean it" You say gently

Ghost shuffled back and then. laid down and then turned his head to watch as you focused on cleaning his wound, your concentration unwavering as you focused on the task at hand. He noticed the lack of talking, just blunt and no joy. But then, you did just finish a 6 hour surgery.

He gazed at your tired eyes, noticed how you rapidly blink every now and then, your mouth pursed, no smile on show. You grabbed some small gauze and wiped the wound.

"This is going to need stitches" You say

"Hmm" Ghost mumbled "I'll let you get to work, I'll just be here" He adds

You laugh slightly and then finish cleaning the area before starting to suture the two layers of fatty tissue and muscle, pulling the flesh together again, wiping away any blood with clean gauze.

Ghost felt himself slip into the bed beneath him as you got to work, focusing on his breathing; in for four, hold, then out slowly for four. Drifting away, away from the chaos of the last 24 hours. Away from the chaos that still looms ahead of him.

<CUE FLASHBACK> 23rd August 2010 Ashfield Base, mess hall "Sergeant Riley" You said as you plopped down opposite your superior in the mess hall with your lunch, the hall was mostly empty, the radio played on the speaker overhead. "Cadet" Sergeant Riley said not looking up from his cup of tea and half-eaten sausage roll. "C'mon sir, you know my name" You quipp at him as you take a bite of your pizza. Simon looks up from his cup and stars at you, your eyes widened and the grin appeared on your face. "Cadet Ruhari" He sighed looking back at his sausage roll. "Cadet maybe no more" You say cheerfully Simon looked up quickly "What do you mean?" He asked "Captain asked if I wanted to come join full time, commit proper into the army." You said "Ah" Simon said quietly "Ain't you got some good brains for uni?" He added and looked at you as you shrugged "Maybe can do it later, but I do enjoy this" You say motioning the space around you. "Nothin' enjoyable about war" He said sharply You were taken aback "Of course not sir, I just meant as in discipline, camaraderie and the protection of one's country" "Hmm" Simon mumbles giving you a slight cold stare with his sharp blue eyes. In that moment of silence, the radio station at base start playing 1973 by James Blunt. The echoes of the piano filled your body and you began to twiddle your fingers to the beat of the drum. Looking at Simon you start to grin, he looks up at you as you begin to mouth the lyrics: Simona.. you're getting older Your journey's been etched on your skin... "Simonaaaa" You sing quietly and giggle Simon gazed at your joyous smile as you continued to mouth the lyrics of the stupid song that made a twist of his name. He watched on as you exaggerated the 'mona' part of Simona and laughed along with you. Simon knew the Captain was going to offer you a place in the army, but he had hoped you would decline. Going out in the field changes people. Changes the best of people. Turns them into someone else. Would you still be the same after you see the horrors of war? Simon wondered as he watched you finally finish the now cold slice of pizza. He would hate to see that beautiful smile disappear.

[http-paprika]

Together, Inhospitable | Simon Riley 1 Bug Like an Angel

masterlist / next

summery the rest of the 141 had gone out to celebrate, except for simon who shed his mask for the night. unbeknownst to him, christina was still there.

pairing simon “ghost” riley x christina "red" perez / wc 1087 / warnings mentions of death, alcoholism, and swearing

note today is my actual birthday, and nothing is more of a gift than sad, mitski induced angst. enjoy.

"amateur mistake, you can take it from me" mitski

The sun had dipped below the horizon and daggered mountains, leaving the sky navy with too much light for the stars to shine, but too dark to be daytime. Simon sat back in his plastic chair, a single brown glass bottle of beer looking back at him from the outdoor table, he watched a bug fly around the rim, catching flight before he could move and catch it in his calloused hands. His gaze rose with the bug, following it to the outdoor light where the small insect rested with other winged bugs. Still watching, he grasped the bottle and raised it to his mouth, resting on sun-dried lips and allowing the sour liquid to scorch his throat as Simon swallowed.

He was alone tonight, the rest of his team had gone out drinking and celebrating but with a migraine and bitter mood, Simon chose to stay back. Allowing himself a drink and shedding the mask, for the few hours he had to himself, he let the warm summer air touch his skin. A sudden gust of wind sliced through the porch, causing the blond hair to stand on his neck. Simon rested a hand on his chin, feeling the growing stubble of facial hair that he’d have to shave soon, he hated the way it made him look, cursing as it reminded him of his father.

Suddenly the glass bottle in his hand stung, like a phantom cut against his rough palms. It dropped out of his grasp, shattering on the tiled floor as the door behind him clicked open. Out of instinct, he snatched the neck of the broken bottle as he turned to the sudden intruder, Simon’s shoulders falling when he realized it was his teammate.

“Jesus, Red. I thought you left with the others to go celebrate.” He gruffly says, bending down to try and clean up the dark glass, the remaining liquid seeping into his shoe.

“I don’t drink.” She was surprised to see him on the porch, thinking she’d been alone in the house. Christina was also surprised to see him without his skull mask, only having seen him without it once after she accidentally entered his office uninvited. “I’ll grab a bag and towel.”

Simon wanted to disappear, he didn’t like the way Christina looked at him before she stepped back inside to grab supplies to clean the mess he’d made. He wasn’t as comfortable as Simon around his team, safety was in the caricature that was Ghost. Where he was just a man behind a mask.

“Here.” She hands him an old dishcloth and begins to carefully pick up the glass shards, not questioning the mess at all. It was his luck that Red had been the one to stay at the base as opposed to Soap or any of the others, she was quiet and didn’t question why Simon hadn’t joined the team. Only speaking when she saw a good reason too.

“Thanks, Red.” They quickly clean up the mess, before Simon returns to his chair and she stays standing, picking at her lips.

“Do you want me to leave?” Christina finally asks, breaking their silence.

“No, you can stay.” She takes the seat across from him, pulling her knees to her chest. Simon studied her, remembering that she was a decade younger than him. Yet they’d always had some unspoken understanding, a knowing look behind their eyes. Some part of their hidden pasts that tethered them together. “I thought you used to drink.”

“No, I’ve been sober since basic training.” She tells him, allowing him to briefly pick at her brain. In return, she asks why he stayed home from the celebration their teammates were participating in. “You’ve never stayed back before.”

“Massive fuckin’ headache.” Simon grumbles, had she always looked so tired? Were her shoulders always so bony under her shirt? On the field, she’d always been intimidating enough, coming across as a good soldier who never seemed to be afraid. But here, she seemed so timid and faltering under Simon’s gaze. “Can I ask why you don’t drink?”

“You can ask, I might not answer,” Christina responds, looking up at the light as if she were one of the insects searching for the sun. Aching to fly away, fly into the bright sun, and disappear in its warmth.

“So why don’t you?” He asks, unsure if Simon actually wanted to know the truth. If finding the reason behind the haunting look in her eyes was worth it, but he couldn’t imagine it was any worse than anything else he’d experienced. But Simon knew it could still come as a shock, whatever the reason.

“My father drank himself to death. His liver gave out, he died at his favorite bar.” She closed her eyes, the lids stained a purple color begging for rest she’ll never receive. Heavy bags underneath resulting from a line of work a woman like her shouldn’t have been in, Simon decided. “And I wouldn’t be like him.”

“Ah.” Simon thought of his own father, who as a child he wished would drink himself away. Now, he tried not to even think of the man, trying to ignore his father was like trying to ignore a sore in Simon’s mouth. It always came back and ruined his mind and mood. “Well, I’m not sure how much it’s worth. But from what I’ve seen, you’re a better woman than most people I’ve known.”

Her eyes roll open, looking at him with an almost distant crystalized gaze. Where their eyes met, that invisible string was tugged, pulling at Simon’s throat as he stared at Christina, almost longingly, wanting to say her name. Simon’s hands almost ached to reach out and hold hers. To speak and comfort her as Red’s eyes grew watery. But he withheld the urge and thankfully so as they could hear the rest of their team returning, with Soap drunkenly singing some song he’d heard at the bar. The moment died as Simon pulled his balaclava back on, falling back into the comfort of being Ghost. Christina uncurled herself, stretching out her shoulders and back to give her added height and hardening her face.

There was a cold distance set up between them as drunken Soap stumbled into the light propped up by Gaz and Price who were evidently tipsy as they loudly exchanged greetings with their two sober teammates. Soap in particular was loud, looking between Res and Ghost before announcing his opinion. “Oh, so that’s why you stayed home, Ghost. Had a fucking date planned.”

ending note this has been edited from the original to fit the Together, Inhospitable series. only minor changes though, nothing major.