#simon ghost riley x you

[spurbleu]

neighbor!simon x reader. longer read.

you’re neighbor is a homebody. sort of.

he’s either never home or always home. you aren’t sure what he does, but whatever it is leaves his flat vacant for months at a time, not so much as a mouse breath breaching the thin popcorn walls that separate your rooms.

and when he is in the complex, you’d never know it. a shut in, the only give away is the muffled news channel that burrows through your moldings, or smithed footfall at ungodly hours.

the first time you caught him moving in while off to work. big bloke- and when you waved to him he stared, before lumbering into his complex. given, he was holding a large cardboard box, so you weren’t expecting him to return the greeting. but a hello would’ve been nice.

it was 4 months until you got a good look at him.

you were awake at a time you shouldn’t have been for a reason you had long forgotten. you do remember thinking you might as well do your laundry.

when you went down to the mat, there he was.

tracker fed shoulders taking up half the space, and on an inhale they took two thirds. clothes looked as though they had been dyed in pen ink and left to dry in hail. mud boots, thick legs, and the silhouette of a cauliflower ear against the fabric of his balaclava.

he glared at you like you weren’t supposed to be there. an anomaly, disturbed his routine. steel face, stone eyes, swear you’d seen the same look in your history books on the shields of greek soldiers.

it all scared you shitless, so you turned on your heel and didn’t go back until the morning. you make it a point to hustle past his door after that.

but you tend to take more than you can handle. swaddling your groceries as you wobble up the stairs, just barely there before your foot catches on the last step. produce among some of the other fragile items scattered across the tiles, and you curse under your breath.

you wouldn’t characterize yourself as a klutz, but it scrambling to collect your groceries feet from your door isn’t helping your case. the paper bags struggle against your grip, and it feels like you’re just biding your time until they all rip apart.

“you need help.”

its said more like an observation than it is a question. you turn slowly, and a goliath stands 6 feet and something over you. he sports a medical mask and a ballcap, which reveals new features- sun bleached skin that peels from the bridge of his nose to between his brows, which are thick and blonde. the left is cut in half by scar tissue and spite. if you squint you see freckles.

the night he scared you, you remembered his eyes as pitch. crow feather. under your bed.

you now see they’re the deepest shade of brown.

“i- no its fine i..” your arms do a dance with the bags, trying to keep them steady.

he grabs them both from you, and suddenly they still. its like handing squealing pigs to a farmer. built for holding them. it makes you feel weird that you like it.

“unlock the door.”

you do as you’re told and find your keys in your back pocket. fumble at the lock before opening the door and standing to the side to let him in. he nods.

sets your groceries down before gently tipping the brim of his cap. he doesn’t say anything before leaving.

and this started the strangest routine.

every week you’d get groceries, he’d be there.

the first time he was on the second flight of stairs. when you questioned how he knew you’d been shopping, he rolled his shoulders and scoffed.

“your huffin n puffin gave you away.”

he was there for four more trips. each time, you had gotten more words out of him. found out he had the driest sense of humor and a plethora of knock-knock jokes that you painfully laughed at.

he even kept up with the occasional flirt.

“yknow, you could start charging for your manual labor.”

“you rich?” he returned.

you laughed. “far from it. but this is a service, and you haven’t started making demands so…”

he stopped and stared at your back before you turned around. “so what?”

“i have to assume you just like me.”

he rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his cheek twitched under his eyes. although it was hidden by the mask, you had made him smile.

“don’t get your hopes up.”

all of it was enough for you to get comfortable. and then he wasn’t there.

the absence was strange enough to make your pace stutter when you reached the second floor, but you recovered and trekked to your room.

not without glancing at his door, though.

he must be back at work. surely he isn’t…well. he couldn’t have moved out without telling you. you aren’t close but maybe you are?

you thought so hard about it for so long that you placed your ear to the wall separating your flats.

after a few moments, you heard nothing. not even a mouse breath.

you felt foolish for being so relieved. and you kept feeling foolish for hoping he’d be there with every errand, and disappointed when he wasn’t.

it was 4 more groceries trips before you saw him again.

waiting at the entrance of the complex, crossed arms and black attire stood out like a sore thumb in the winter blight that bit at your nose with snow and temperatures below freezing. you picked up the pace.

when you got to the cement steps, you sorely regretted your decision to jog. not because it winded you, or it amplified the struggle you had with your bags, but because of the smug smile you could see crinkling the bastards cheeks under his mask.

“you missed me.”

you handed him a bag. “i missed your arms. carry that.”

you could hear the grin from behind you.

“whatever you say, sweet’eart.”

a/n- i didn’t really know how to continue this, if you have an recs send them in!! i make no promises tho.

[leviathanleva]

Neighbor! Simon, who sees you moving into the flat next to his one afternoon.

And out of pity, seeing you struggling alone with heavy furniture, he helps out. Picking things up with ease that you were fighting just to drag past the door.

He’s so sweet that you offer to pay him once everything is all set up. Of course, he refuses.

So instead, you offer him a coffee. It’s 7PM before you know it, he’s such pleasant company even though he’s not much of a talker.

Coffee turns to dinner.

He helps out the best he can, stirring the pot of pasta while you prepare the sauce.

It’s your first night in your new apartment so you decide to celebrate with a glass of wine. You offer him one too.

You wipe pasta sauce off the corner of his mouth. He bombards you with his best dad jokes.

And suddenly your lips are on his. You’d meant it to be a peck on the cheek, but he’d pointedly turned his head just in time.

You chase him out with excuses that it’s getting late, you need sleep, work tomorrow. He doesn’t protest, only smiles to himself as you push onto his back.

You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, fingertips brushing against your lips where his kiss still lingers.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: this chapter is all from Blue's perspective. if anything regarding the abuse or suffering of children triggers you do not read. though it is really not graphic at all (imo) and the SA is EXTREMELY implied and subtle (just a woman looking/potentially touching Blue's private area to check for virginity). I wanted to tell you so there are no surprises.

B

Blue hasn’t been without her father for more than an hour in over five years. There were moments when she'd imagined him disappearing, especially when he said no to her, when he could annoy her, push her too hard, or withhold the words she craved. And yet—now, with her head resting in Twix's lap, she can only long for him. The thought of his absence fills her with cold dread. The kind that erupts goosebumps on her arms despite the stuffy air in the room. Twix’s fingers gently stroke the back of her scalp, but it does little to ground her as her mind drifts to Ghost. He’s alive, that woman said. But it's been over a day, and he still hasn’t come for her.

"Do you think he will come soon?" she asks quietly.

Twix's fingers pause at the top of her hairline. "I think... I think he is doing everything he can to find you."

Blue is old enough to know that is a non-answer.

She knows, deep down, that Twix doesn't think he'll be coming, either.

"I will figure something out, okay?" she promises.

"Okay," Blue whispers noncommittally.

"Hey." A faint smile. "I've done pretty good at getting us out of shit in the past, right?"

Blue mumbles, "I guess so."

But this time felt different from those times. No matter how many times she catches Twix squinting around the room, murmuring things to Nereida, even Blue knows that a bright idea won’t magically appear. Not in here, where there is nothing except the three beds, the bolted cell, and the out-of-reach door that Ghost has yet to barge through.

When Blue's fingers instinctively search for her wrist, Twix’s face softens, and she gently encloses her palm over Blue's knuckles. "Alright. I want you to close your eyes and imagine that beach you showed me once. The one with white sand, and super blue water." Blue plays along with a deep sigh, closing her eyes as she feels a callused thumb brush her cheek. "Almost as blue as your eyes. See it?"

"I guess."

"Good. Now, I want you to imagine that you are lying on the sand, eating all the Twix bars and Nutella you want. Oh, and Grim is there. He was trying to make a sandcastle but got his head stuck in the sand."

Blue's lips twitch despite herself. "This is dumb."

"Dumb? Well, I don't think Grim finds it dumb. He can hardly breathe right now so you better stop eating chocolate and haul his ass up."

Blue snorts quietly, eyes screwing tighter as she imagines it; pulling the bunny out of the sand, giggling, the waves crashing. She falls back onto the sand with him in tow, but he darts away from her hands, toward the water. When she looks over, sun glaring, someone else is there. It's her father, and for a moment she is ready to jump on his back and beg him to play in the waves with her. That's when she notices he is keeled over, ripped apart, bloodied and battered.

Blue jolts, inhaling sharply. When she reopens her eyes, the image is still there. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I just saw—" she rubs her eyes profusely, but he's right in front of her. Blood begins to spurt from a sever in his throat. His head snaps forward, hanging by a thin thread of tissue. "I see him! H-his head is..." 

She jerks upright from Twix's lap, her eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off the vision. When that doesn't help, she buries her face in the pillow, but the image remains too real to ignore. The thread snaps, and her father’s head rolls away silently.

Twix’s voice cuts through, her hands gently shaking Blue’s shoulders, but it feels distant, like a shadow compared to the sickening thud of her father’s headless body hitting the ground. Thick blood pools at her feet, and she tries to move, but her muscles won’t obey. The blood rises and rises, suffocating her, until she can’t breathe.

"Blue, it's just... you're imagining it."

"I can't... I can't..."

Someone flips her over on the bed and hugs her shoulders.

Twix's chapped lips press into her cheek.

"Please, Blue. I'm here."

The touch is enough to drain the blood and free her lungs. Her father's dead body floats away. She gulps for air, cold sweat clinging to her neck, and curls into the body beside her. Lingering panic races through her heartbeat, but then, after a minute, it begins to slow considerably. A new feeling washes over with the force of a tidal wave; fatigue.

Blue suddenly feels so tired that she can't keep her eyes open. It’s as though the terrible images have drained her entirely, leaving only murky water in their place. Her mind begins to float, and the edges of the world blur. Twix's face is in front of her yet feels so far away. Her lips try to part for words to come out, but it takes three tries just to manage: "I feel strange."

Across the cell, Nereida whispers, "I do, too."

Weight shifts on the mattress as Twix tries to sit up, leaning against the wall. Her head dips slightly, then snaps back up. A shaky inhale. "That... that fucking bitch. The oatmeal!"

The oatmeal? Blue’s thoughts latch onto the warm meal they’d been forced to eat, but the memory slips away before she can hold onto it. The slow descent snowballs. Twix’s voice distorts, blending with the chirping of birds outside the window. Her body slides down the wall, crumpling back beside Blue. She tries to hug Twix again, but her arms won’t cooperate.

Minutes later, or maybe hours, Blue hears the metal screech of the cell door swinging open. Veiled ghosts drift in. She can do nothing to run from them. Murmured voices, speaking words she doesn't understand, bleed through the heavy blanket of fog lying over her.

"Vous avez dit que celui-ci était intact?"

"Oui, Maman."

"Nous offrirons son corps pur au Seigneur. Les deux autres seront aptes à avoir des enfants."

"Mais elle est une... Je veux dire, oui, Maman."

She feels something cold and sinuous lifting her—snakes. No, not snakes. Hands. Cold, unfamiliar hands. Twix shouts something slurred. Then Blue is dragged by her feet, her spine no longer supported by the bed. She tries to squirm free, but her limbs feel heavy, useless. More hands clamp down on her arms.

No, no.

She wants to call for Twix, but her voice is muffled beneath a palm, the sound dying in her throat.

A weathered voice coos in her ear. "Sweet child. There is nothing to fear."

She can't scream.

All she knows is Twix is no longer the one beside her.

Cold fear surges through her veins, and she claws at someone’s arm. The retaliation is swift—a prick to her neck.

The strike of pain intensifies her dizziness, the last fight in her body fading away. They're dragging her again. The hard floor beneath her feet melts into soft grass, and the stark white ceiling shifts into a blue, cloudless sky before everything fades to black.

A gentle melody repeats in her subconscious until she rouses.

The same three-note tune, over and over.

Peeling her eyes open against the buttery sunlight, the first thing she notices is an open window above her head, its thin white curtain dancing in the light breeze. Upon the windowsill sits a small, cooing bird with pearly grey feathers and a black ring around its neck. Its head tilts almost mechanically, two little black eyes regarding her. She stares for a long moment before her eyes fall closed once more, lulled by the familiar call. Only when the bird quiets does she truly come to her senses. The sudden silence jolts her upright.

This isn't the same room she was in before. There hadn’t been a window in the cell, and certainly not one left open. The air there had been thick with the scent of old wood and lingering dust. But here... here, the air is different. It smells of fresh flowers, of the tall grass she used to wade through with Ghost while hunting. 

The bird calls once more before flittering away, leaving her reeling.

"A collared dove."

Her gaze snaps to the right where an old woman sits in a mahogany chair, knitting needles in hand. Without looking up from the red yarn she weaves, she explains idly, "They are very common. Lovely, but common."

The accent of her old voice is nothing like Blue's Mancunian one. But she understands each word.

Her voice pulls through her teeth with great effort. "I don't... Where am I?"

The old woman's brow furrows as if she is deep in thought, but it smoothes over after she undoes a stitch and loops it again, hands moving with an unnatural slowness. "You had them in England, yes? They are very common there, too."

Blue's fingers spread into the fine linen, her pulse ticking as she blinks a few times to sharpen her vision. The woman before her is older than anyone she has seen in a long time, though there is a faint resemblance to a woman deep in her memory who she believes was her grandmother. Unlike the woman who visited their cell with food, this one does not wear a veil over her face. Long wisps of gray hair fall over her shoulders. Wrinkles etch around her eyes and lips. She is still cloaked in white, but around her neck hangs a red cord beaded with a cross dangling at the end.

Her fingers clench. "I don't care about the-the stupid bird. Why am I here? Where are my friends? You..." she swallows the feel of sandpaper in her mouth, "You put something in the food. You made me lose control of myself again!"

Finally, grey-blue eyes flicker up beneath a questioning brow. "Oh, sweet child. You are so full of fire." With an unsettling calmness, the woman sets down the knitting needles on a carved side table. Pressing a palm to the surface of it, she rises slowly, then laces her hands in front of her. "Come, and perhaps your questions will be answered. Though, I wouldn't try to run." She moves toward the door, her gait shuffled but steady. A glance over her shoulder beckons. "Your friends are under my care."

The mere mention stiffens Blue's spine. She forces herself to her unsteady feet, swaying slightly, bare toes digging into the wood planks. Each small step feels lighter than the first time she woke up from being drugged, though her body still protests. Ahead, the woman is already walking away. It wouldn’t take much to catch up, but Blue lingers, her eyes sweeping the room with deliberate caution—always stay aware of your surroundings.

For a moment, she considers grabbing the knitting needle and stabbing the woman. But then what? Everyone, her father included, is under her care, and any misstep could mean their deaths. Ghost always told her to never act without some type of plan—to wait for the right moment. Blue doesn’t even know where the others are.

As she hesitantly steps out of the small house, the realization hits her. There are more people here than she’s seen in a long time. Almost like a town, but not really. Smaller than that, but more than her group. The building they just left is a small, home made of light grey stone. To her right are more homes, smoke billowing from the chimneys. She counts at least four of them. Straight ahead of her is gravel road. This is where the woman heads, with Blue trailing behind her. To the left is a stretch of green lawn, bright and lush. She has the itch to sprint over it, but a voice ends that idea.

"Catch up, girl." 

Gravel bites her toes as she walks to the woman's side. She is still only dressed in the simple, white slip. She hasn't worn a dress before.

"Where are you taking me?"

"There are some things I wish you to see." 

"Why... why can't the friends I was with be here to see them, too?"

From the corner of her eyes, Blue catches the woman smile lightly. "What do you think of France?"

Blue digs her nails into her palms, swallowing down her frustration at the non-answer. "It's... nice, I guess." It isn't a lie. The beautiful beach they left from, the fields of wheat and flowers, were things she'd only imagined before. 

"Good. My husband was from India but owned this land. I never wanted to leave it. France is the most beautiful place. I knew I wanted my son to grow here." She exhales in a quiet appreciation. "My husband said this land would thrive, even after the plague. He was right. The Lord spared it. He did not spare Ashwin, though."

Blue doesn't know what to say to that. If she should feel sorry for this person or not. She didn't state her husband's death in a sorrowful way, merely factual. As they walk, they pass a few men hunched over tree stumps, chopping wood. The smell of fresh earth and spilt sap wafts up her nose. The men glance up, their gazes lingering on Blue a moment too long, making her shift uncomfortably. Then, they lower their heads respectfully toward the woman. She speaks to them in French, and their chuckles follow her words.

Under a warm afternoon, they approach what looks like a large barn, bordered by wooden fence posts strung with taut wires. Inside the fenced area, Blue notices a white horse, smaller than Cherry, along with four cows. More men are working nearby, some tending to the animals while others, farther off, wield sickles to harvest stalks of wheat.

When they stop in front of the fence, Blue can't stop herself from asking, "Where are all the girls at? Like the one who fed us? I've only seen guys so far."

The woman doesn't look at her. "Our community is built around the roles God intended for us. Men have bodies made for working under the sun. Women, like those beautiful young ladies you traveled with, are vessels to be cherished, protected. Especially in these times when they have become rather scarce."

A few of the words fail to make sense to Blue, never having learned them from any of the books Ghost read her. "Um, is that why you separated the girls in my group from the men?"

She hums, a slow sound. "Women are kept in their own quarters with the infants."

"Okay," Blue rocks on her feet and grips the hem of the dress before the light air can catch it. So is her dad one of those men working, then? She squints, confused, and shakes her head. No; if he was anywhere out here, he would've come to her. He must be locked up, too. A wave of anger buzzes in her chest, louder than the cicadas. "That still doesn't explain why you are holding Twix and Nereida prisoner. If women are so special, why are they locked up and I am out here? And where are all the men from my group?" Her mind briefly flashes to the others; Kyle, Price, and... Ari. 

"None of them are prisoners, child. They are merely being readied for the role their bodies were created for, by God."

Blue grits her teeth. "You're not really answering my questions. What about me? Why did you bring me to," she glances back at the working men, who haven't stopped to look at her like the others had, too engrossed in the strenuous labor. "A fucking farm. What could you possibly want to show me here?"

"There is someone I need here before our next stop." She leans closer to the barbed fence and calls out, "Pierre! J'ai besoin de toi et de trois hommes pour nous accompagner jusqu'à la cale. Apporte les chaînes."

A man—Pierre, she guesses—strikes one of the cattle's hindquarters, wipes sweat from the back of his neck, then shouts in French to three others following behind him. They unlatch a gate in the fence and slip inside a small shed for a brief moment, emerging with rusted chains in hand. They approach, causing Blue to falter and step back. An old, strange woman is one thing, but three strong men are another. A fissure of terror cracks through her, and she inhales shakily.

"You need not be afraid."

She blinks up at the woman, who for a moment, conjures something similar to a comforting expression. Blue nods, and then they are walking again, with the four men trailing behind them. The sound of the chains dangling in their grasp makes her feel uneasy. What are they for, and why are they coming with them? She is ready to build the bravery to ask when the woman ghosts a hand on her shoulder.

"What is your name, child?"

"It's... um, Blue."

A soft chuckle. "The English and their strangeness. This is not your real name, is it?"

For some reason, Blue finds the truth stuttering out of her. "No, it's—the name I was born with is Amelia."

"Amelia. Much better. Tell me, Amelia, did your mother have blue eyes?"

Blue nearly chokes, her footsteps halting in the grass as she flinches away from her hand, curling her fingers into fists. "What the fu—why are you asking me that?"

The woman stops beside her and clasps her hands together, the long sleeves of her gown falling over them. She is a small woman, hardly taller than Blue, and can't be any stronger than she is, but something about her emits control. Blue can't look away from her eyes, even as her jaw tightens, stomach swirling.

"There are many answers to questions that can be discovered on their own if one simply looks for them. I know which one of them is your father—"

"How could you know?" Blue demands. "I haven't even said any of them was my dad."

Thin lips twitch at the side. "A daughter gets the shape of her face from her father." A bony finger reaches to trail the edge of Blue's cheek, and she trembles from the cold feel of it. "But the features are all from her mother." She looks away and continues walking, speaking over her shoulder, "A little dove might have also told me he was asking for you."

When the men step forward, Blue is forced to continue walking. It feels hard to breathe, even though the canopy of trees offer fresh, rich air. "Then why are you asking about my mother?"

"Your eyes are blue, but your father's are not. I was simply curious."

"My mother is dead," Blue finds herself gritting out. 

"I figured. Neither of those women were her, and many mothers have been lost. A very terrible thing. A child needs its mother. You will call me Maman, Amelia. This is what French children call their mothers."

"I am not going to fucking call you that. Tell me where we are going," Blue presses, swallowing as she looks back at the farm behind them. Through the gaps between the men's shoulders, she sees that it is rather distant now, along with the small homes. She looks back ahead; nothing but overgrown vegetation. Even the flowers have grown sparse over here. It is quiet and still. She can hear the thrum of her own heart.

"Your fire is admirable, but you need to learn respect." For the first time, Maman's voice carries an edge, one that sends a shiver down Blue's spine. A foreign bird call echoes through the leaves, and the woman holds up a hand, signaling for everyone to stop and listen. "Ah. That’s the Bluethroat, if I’m not mistaken. Much rarer than the dove. You won't often find those in England."

The bird calls again—a trilled chirp—as they crest over a small hill, and the air suddenly grows heavier, more pungent. A smell Blue knows well makes her freeze, but a strong grip on her arm keeps her moving toward the source of the stench: an old, smaller building made of much darker stone. The sharp rustle of wings through the trees fades into the distance, but the tension in her body doesn’t ease.

"You, too, are rare, Amelia," Maman continues, voice steady and unhurried. "A pure, young female like you—so virtuous—carries more favor from God than any other. Your friends have their purpose, and you have yours. Each of us plays a part in shaping the new vision of God's children."

The men move in front of them now, except for one who continues gripping Blue. The tremble in her body intensifies, and a cold pit grows unbearable in her chest, thundering. She is forced to stand about four meters in front of the large door, where one man grips the handle while two others, including Pierre, stand beside it, their hands ready with chains and their stances wide. It’s now, through the stinging film that grows over her eyes, that Blue notices large metal muzzles attached to the chains.

Blue is too stunned—too confused, yet frightfully aware—to move a muscle when Maman procures a knife from inside her robe. Pierre shouts something in French, but Blue can barely hear him. Her senses are fixed on the bead of sunlight glinting off the knife, and on the scratching and snarling she hears from the other side of the door.

"Please—" she gasps, unable to finish the thought.

Maman ignores her in favor of snatching hold of her wrist. Cold fingers force her arm to extend, and a burning pain cries out when the knife slashes a laceration from her elbow to the rim of her palm. 

"Une seule coupure pour les attirer."

The blood weeps, and the door shakes from the ignited frenzy behind it.

Tears finally escape Blue’s eyes just before the door opens. She feels it—the sensation of her body being torn apart beneath rotten teeth. She squeezes her eyes shut, thinking of Ghost, when she hears more shouting and the harsh sound of chains being whipped through the air. When she opens her eyes again, the men are wrestling two Greys into the muzzles.

"Deux c'est bien!" Maman orders, and the door is slammed shut over the others that threaten to spill out toward the fresh wound. 

Blue is alive.

Her arm numb and bleeding. 

Maman yanks something else from her robe—a strip of cloth. She wraps it roughly around Blue's forearm, then issues another command. Without warning, Blue is hoisted from the ground and callously tossed over the shoulder of the man who had held her in place. They start heading back the way they came, the leashed Greys trailing behind them, and finally, a scream rips from Blue’s throat.

"You said this one was intact?" "Yes, Maman." "We will offer her pure body to the Lord. The other two will be fit to have children." "But she is a… I mean, yes, Maman." "Pierre! I need you and three men to accompany us to the hold. Bring the chains." "One cut to attract them.” “Two is good!”

[readwritealldayallnight]

You had never seen him look so utterly human before

Laid up amongst the scratchy, thin sheets of the hospital bed, with only a plain surgical mask covering the bottom half of his face, everything else above Ghost’s shoulders exposed to your eyes for the first time, while his own eyes have been shut for nearly four days straight now

You had never seen your Lieutenant without the signature mask that haunts the dreams of even the deadliest foreign mercenaries, had never seen him look anything less than intimidating, commanding, powerful without so much as even trying to, his presence alone striking fear into those who’ve heard whispers of the fearsome Ghost

Now however, with an IV hooked up to his arm and a nurse that comes to check on his vitals periodically, it’s hard to picture him as such a gruesome soldier, rather than a simple man who bleeds like any other human

In spite of the evident vulnerable position he finds himself in, his pale skin appearing nearly translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital, there was no denying that Ghost remained someone to be feared

A particularly nasty blow to the head during a field op gone wrong had knocked the burly soldier out cold, and though doctors were optimistic he would make a full recovery, they couldn’t exactly tell the extent of the damage done until he woke up

You and the men that made up the remainder of the 141 had been taking turns remaining by his side, not wanting for Ghost to wake up alone, whenever that would be exactly

You wonder how he would feel about this, the fact that you are currently the one on shift for the unofficial rotation of visitors who’ve stuck by his bedside throughout his injury

You’re well aware of the fact that the Lieutenant doesn’t like you, has never liked you, and probably never will, though you’ve never been able to get a straight answer as to why

From the moment you’d met him, he’d been cold to you, distant, making no effort to get to know you nor welcome you to the team, opposite to the way the Sergeants and Captain had welcomed you with open arms and hearts

No matter how much you poked and prodded at them for an answer, some sort of inclination as to what you could possible have done wrong to have Ghost dislike you so much, the men always bit their tongues

You saw the way they exchanged knowing glances and sly smirks, believing they were being more cunning than they really were, insisting to you with carefully chosen words that it wasn’t something you should worry about too much, that the LT had a different way of expressing his feelings than most

“So long as he doesn’t wake up and want to ‘express his feelings’ by punching me in the face for being the first thing he opens his eyes to.” You thought to yourself, glancing up from your book at his still sleeping form, shaking your head at your silly thought

No, he’d never been particularly kind to you, but he’d also never gone out of his way to be cruel to you either you supposed

Perhaps he found you to be more of a nuisance than anything else, a pest he couldn’t seem to swat away hard enough, an annoying pimple he couldn’t quite pop

Your eyes scanned over his face once more, cursing whatever Gods might be listening that the man hiding beneath that Ghost facade had to be so … intriguing

You could see old scars running across his face, some of them peeking out from under the surgical mask while others ran across his brow, his crooked nose evident even under the fabric of the mask

He was handsome in his own, rugged way, a fact you were displeased to learn when you first saw him laying here, switching off with Soap who’d been sat at his side earlier

Ghost may not care for you, not that he had given you many reasons or chances to care for him, but you cared about your remaining members of the task force, and knew how important Ghost was to them, and so for the 141, you’d do your duty and care for a Ghost who apparently wanted no such love and tenderness from you

You looked the large man over, brows furrowing when your eyes landed on his neck, noting that the pillow supporting his head was getting a little flat

You stood from your chair, setting your book down, and approched him carefully, almost as though any sudden movements would somehow wake the comatose man from his slumber

As gently as you could, you attempted to adjust the pillow behind him to hopefully be more comfortable, quickly realizing just how heavy he was when he was nothing more than dead weight

You slowly slipped your hands behind his shoulders, pulling him forward as best as you could until you were able to adjust the pillow one handed

Slipping your hands back down his shoulders to ease him back into the bed, your palms naturally ending up sliding onto the back of his neck, the tips of your fingers brushing against the hair at the base of his skull, an involuntary shiver running through you at what you realized too late was a bit of an intimate touch with a man who’d been touch starved for years

It was hard to say who was more stunned at first, with how quickly things transpired, when you suddenly felt a pair of strong hands reaching up to grip your wrists and hold them in place

You hadn’t even realized you had let out a gasp as your eyes flicked down and met none other than Ghost’s own wide open orbs only inches away from you, staring right at you as though he was seeing a ghost

Stunned into silence, worried that you truly were about to end up on the receiving end of Ghost’s anger for having invaded his space like that, you barely had enough time to process that he’d somehow woken from his coma when his grip on your wrists tightened further, and somehow, whether it was a trick of the light or you imagination, his gaze softened before his scratchy, out of use voice said:

“Love.”

Your ears were ringing, hardly taking notice of the way a flurry of alarms and bells had gone off as soon as Ghost had woken up, his heart rate soaring through the roof and alerting staff

Medical personnel rushed into the room before you could wrap your mind around any of what was happening, Ghost’s grip on your never loosening until the doctor finally approached you both, sensing the tension in the air

“Lieutenant Riley,” the man said, gently landing a hand in Ghost’s bicep to hopefully help him ease his strong grip on you. “Let her go.”

His grip on you disappeared instantly, as though your skin had suddenly burned him, but his eyes never wavered from your own, even as he began mumbling unintelligibly beneath his medical mask

“What was that?” The doctor asked, trying to bring calm back to the room and ease Ghost into a state where he could be properly examined

“My girl.” The Lieutenant’s gravelly voice echoed throughout the sterile room

“Pardon?”

“My girl.” Ghost repeated, never once breaking eye contact with your now widened eyes

“Do- do you know who this is, Lieutenant?” The doctor posed the question, slowly gesturing towards you with a confusion that was spreading amongst you all

“‘Course I do.” Ghost spoke with certainty. “That’s my love.”

[beloveds-embrace]

Thinking about designationless!reader au, how the boys would spend HOURS searching for candles that properly represented their scents so reader would feel included in the nest

Anyway just wanted to say I LOVE your writing and you've got me inspired to write my own little designationless!reader au (which if I ever do post, I will tag you for credits ❤️❤️), its just has so many possibilities

Every time I see you post, blog, wtver this website wants to call it, my day gets a little brighter :)

-👽

omg thank you so so so much anon?? you are so very sweet!! i am very happy to know you like my stuff and felt inspired by it!! i hope you enjoy this, your idea was wonderful! <33 omegaverse masterlist

The idea had started innocently enough.

Gaz had mentioned it one night while they were snuggled in the nest, you nestled warm and comfy between them all. You’d fallen asleep on Price’s chest, Soap’s arm thrown over your waist, Ghost’s steady breathing brushing your temple, and Gaz quietly watching from the edge.

“She can’t smell us,” Gaz had murmured, musing and cutting through the peaceful silence. “But… what if she could? Just a little? For the nest.”

It was a seed of an idea that quickly took root in all of them.

The next day, they found themselves walking through shops they’d normally never step foot in- boutiques, candle stores, even a few farmers’ markets. Price looked utterly out of place amongst rows of colorful jars, his gruff demeanor clashing with the delicate scents wafting around him. Soap, on the other hand, took to it with a determination that made the staff wary as he sniffed candle after candle, holding them up to Gaz and Ghost for confirmation.

“This one’s close, isn’t it?” he asked, holding up a jar labeled Amber Woods. He shoved it under Ghost’s nose, earning an irritated growl.

“Too sweet,” Ghost muttered then, shaking his head. “Try again.”

Gaz was off in another aisle, holding up a candle labeled Vanilla Bourbon and frowning. “This isn’t right either. It’s too… fake.” He sighed, setting it down with a heavy thunk. “How’s it this hard to find something that fits?”

Price stood in the corner, his brow furrowed as he examined the names on the candles. He knew and had been told many times his cedarwood scent was sharp and earthy, grounding in a way that none of these synthetic imitations could capture. He picked one up- Smoked Cedar- and took a deep inhale.

“Not bad." He said after a moment, setting it aside in their “maybe” pile.

They spent hours combing through the store, moving from candle jars to wax melts to essential oil blends. They argued with each other quietly, then with the amused store employees, their tones growing increasingly frustrated with each other as they tried to find scents that truly represented themselves.

“It’s just a candle, sirs,” One employee, clearly annoyed with them, chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Does it really matter this much?”

Ghost’s dark eyes snapped to him, his voice low and dangerous, not helped by the balaclava and cap he wore. “It’s not just a candle. It’s for someone.”

That shut the employee up quickly.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity and much sniffing, they settled on a few options.

When they brought the candles back to the nest (oh, how they loved that you were beginning to spend more and more of your free time there), you blinked up at them, confused by their triumphant expressions and the little bag Price held in his hand. They looked a little too proud of themselves.

“What’s all this?” You asked, sitting up from your spot. I

“Something for you.” Price said simply, his voice soft as he placed candles on the table.

Soap grinned, almost vibrating with excitement and pride as he gestured for you to come closer. “Go on, lass. Smell ‘em.”

You leaned forward, hesitantly uncapping the first candle. The cedarwood hit you first, earthy and grounding, and your eyes fluttered shut as you hummed in delight. You glanced up at Price when you heard a deep rumble you've come to understand as prideful.

“This is.... you, isn't it?” you realized, earning a small nod from him.

You went through each one, inhaling the soft citrus of Soap’s, the richness of Ghost’s smoky scent, the soothing vanilla of Gaz’s. By the time you finished, you stared at them with something akin to more awe than the sun has for its orbiting planets.

“You did this... for me?”

“Of course,” Gaz pressed a kiss to your temple. “Wanted you to feel like you’re part of us. Always.”

You didn’t know what to say, but as they lit the candles and pulled you back into the nest, you felt surrounded by them in a way you never had before.

And for the first time, you felt as if you could... be like them. For once, you understood what their scents were like- a part of their world for just a moment.

You will be keeping those candles.

[skyeconch]

Y/N : I’ll do anything you want

Ghost : anything?

Y/N : anything.

Ghost : drink more water

Y/N : what?

Ghost : go outside, get back on your workout routine, stop procrastinating—

Y/N : wait—

Ghost : continue pursuing education, achieve acclamations, manifest the best version of yourself.

Y/N : WAIT— NO— PLEASE—

[circe69]

𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 - 𝐬.𝐫. (𝟏𝟖+)

⚠︎︎ 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐬!𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝟏𝟖+, 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭.

⚠︎︎ 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫-𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐲? 𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥!

⚠︎︎“𝐦’ 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐢𝐭, 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡, 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐞.”

water rinses the conditioner out from your hair, and you wince as the gash across your stomach stretches with your motions. you hear the chair outside the shower curtain squeak, indicating the man sitting has abruptly stood up.

"m' fine, lieutenant" you breathed out, "m' fine".

a grunt escaped simon as he sat back down, "hurry up".

you huffed as the steam made it's way throughout the vacant bathhouse, every noise echoed back and forth, ceiling to floor. simon could smell your vanilla and blueberry scented skin from miles away, but now that he is right here, right where the source is wafting close to him, he's on the verge of losing it.

another sharp gasp comes from your mouth as you attempt to shave your right leg, and the shower curtain rips open. "the fuck, y/n?"

with one hand over your gash and the other over your breasts in attempt to hide yourself, your gasps turn into exasperated groaning. your hand moves to pull the shower curtain back from him, but he grabs both of your wrists in one of his palms, "don't fucking try it." you could see his dark eyes through his mask, scanning your body as water droplets fell and snaked down your skin. "lemme see," he said, you shook your head, "now."

"simon, leave, it's fine-"

his hand disappeared under his mask as he used his teeth to pull his glove off, then reached out to grab and pinch your hip as he inspected the gash.

you hissed as he thumbed the stretch marks surrounding the wound, and watched the old blood and water swirl together on your skin.

by now, the embarrassment and shame from him pinning your naked body in place has beckoned tears out of your eyes.

you could hear him sigh, “fuckin’ damn it,” simon said under his breath as he lifted you effortlessly out of the shower and onto the floor. water drenched him, and out of all the things he chose to be upset about, this was not one of them.

“c’mere” he walked you with a hand on your lower back and led you to sit.

on his lap.

he sat first on the chair, then forced one leg over his until you were completely perched naked upon him.

you suddenly could feel every roll, every pinch of skin, you were aware of it all and aware of the way the man was watching you. simon took a wet cloth and hovered over your wound, “you trust me?” he said, you nodded in response.

once the cloth touched your open skin, you hissed in pain, and you tried to silence yourself by going slack jawed.

“m’sorry, you can cry if y’need to.” his deep voice left you questioning absolutely everything.

another wave of pain passed as he resumed his ministrations, and you instinctively rolled your hips, causing a groan to escape simon’s mouth.

he swatted the opposite hip, “don’t fuckin’ do that, y’hear me?”

“m’sorry, sorry, it just hurts so bad”

he said nothing as he continued, then he looked into your eyes, “just one more, then i’ll b’done” you nodded again.

once he began the last swipe of your bloodied skin, you braced yourself by grabbing onto both of his shoulders and squeezing, and you groaned in pain as the burn took over.

simon grabbed your hip to ground you, “there, m’done.” he slowly looked up at you, then the realization hit him; that you, his precious birdie, was sat up on him, drenched and naked, in complete submission to him.

what was he doing?

what he’s been wanting to do for a long time.

“fuck,” he said in a grunt, and stared down at your lips as your tongue came out to swipe the bottom one. his hand on your hip squeezed, the other hand pulling his mask up halfway, “c’mere”

he pulled you in by your neck and left you dazed once his lips touched yours. it was hungry and desperate, like he was searching for something deep within you.

the hand on your hip lowered down further to squeeze your ass, kneading the fat while groaning into your open mouth, “you drive me crazy” he whispered.

“really?”

“yes really,” simon said while pulling out his cock.

he was huge, too big for comfort, but then again, you weren’t looking for comfort, were you?

as he lined you up, he peppered open-mouth kisses on the side of your jaw, ranging down your neck and licking up the water that the shower left on you. “mm, tickles,”

“shut the fuck up and take my cock,” he grunted out, as the head of his dick notched itself inside of you.

a small whine escaped your mouth as he fed himself into your cunt, “you’re so grumpy when you want something, simon.” you bit his ear lobe and giggled as he laid his head in between your jaw and shoulder.

once he was completely sat inside of you, every part of you and every part of him was intertwined. you didn’t know where you ended and where he began, all you knew was this feeling.

“m’ not sitting here for you to warm it, bitch, ride me.”

you moaned at his harsh words and the sting his hand left after swatting your ass, “yessir,”

“mmm, fuck yeah, say it again,” simon said as he thrusted up into you.

“mmph, yessi- ohhh fuck, right there.” you said as you could feel the tip of his kiss your cervix.

“too much, feels weird, simon,”

he grabbed both of your hips and shoved them downwards, shutting you up instantly, “yeah well, that’s how I know i’m hitting the right spot, baby,”

as his tempo increased, with you bouncing on top of his dick, he couldn’t hold on for much longer, “where, fuck, where do you want it?”

“mm, mmmph, inside, wan’ it inside”

he smirked and let out a sigh, “you heard the woman, give her what she wants,”

you felt him tense up, and as your walls clenched around him, you felt his hot release paint your insides, “fuckkk yes,” you came shortly after, squeezing his spent dick and causing him to spasm. once the two of you came down from the high,

“y’need another shower, i reckon”

[saintgoths]

ɢᴀɴɢ ʙᴀʙʏ

ghost hears about your new boyfriend.

nasty smut

follow my twitter - saintgoths

feedback would be appreciated!

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You cursed under your breath, he was fucking you so deeply, so hard while whispering lewd words into your ear, your leg was on his shoulder, and you were pressed against a wall, gasping as you could feel Ghost slip further inside of you, you clenched stiffly around him, you knew he loved that, you knew he missed the feeling of you, as you missed the feeling of him.

When he found out that you had a new boyfriend, a month after the two of you had broken up, no words could’ve described how enraged he had felt, the creeping obsession returning back to him.

You were his, and he wanted to make sure you understood that, he wanted to make sure that your new lover understood that.

He left a trail of marked kisses on your body, shameless, possessive ones whilst continuously marking you with the thickness of his load that he released. Truthfully, you didn’t know what round you were on, or how many times he has groped your ass and mentioned his ownership over you.

“Turn around,” he commanded, and you did, you slipped your leg off your shoulder and allowed Ghost to direct you to curve around for him, your ass faced towards him that had his hand marks that slowly disappeared.

He bit his lip, spread your cheeks as he inserted himself once more, the both of you groaned, he had you leaned against a table, the object scraping against the wooden ground as he thrusted himself deeper inside of you, his motions were robotic, fierce and powerful.

You felt your eyes curve to the back of your mind, his girth had spread you wider while your ambrosia coated his shaft.

“What did you tell him?” He asked as he continued to fuck you from behind, his hands now entangled through your hair, pulling you close to him, his bare chest against your naked back.

With lack of shame you cried out. “I told him---I told him I couldn’t’ fuck him yet!” You whimpered, feeling yourself cave in, the tip of his cock had licked against your end, the sounds of your skin slapping increased and you felt the vibration of Ghost laughter, it was mocking, he knew why you didn’t want your current boyfriend to fuck you, your cunt belonged to Ghost’s.

“I told him I wasn’t ready for him.”

He slapped the curve of your buttocks, as if he had been proud, and in truth, he was.

“Naughty princess,” he muttered as he slammed himself inside of you again. “Naughty---” he said once more but he stopped talking, when he felt his knees weaken, he gently collapsed against you, his hips had still been moving as if he were a machine, he has made you climax so many times, you felt stupid, crazy---with how your mind had ceased all of its intelligence, succumbing to your desires, succumbing to him.

Your toes curled, you were almost there, you felt the heat rush back to you, like crashing waves taking over a beach. Your forehead now pressed against the table as you struggled to keep yourself up. The noise of his skin slapping against yours enticed you, and how his balls slapped against your clit had commenced to make your body twitch.

“Ghost!” You whined, you felt like something had possessed you, like a spirit of greed, hunger and lust. You wanted Ghost to take you as a whole, use your body and continue to fuck you senseless.

You cried out, your moan bouncing off the walls, but you hadn’t cared how loud you sounded, especially when you felt yourself release, your cum painting his cock, squeezing and pulsing around him as if it was clinging onto him for life.

“Good girl,” he said as he pulled himself out of you, releasing his semen against your back, arrogantly painting your skin with his nectar. “Good girl,” he smirked as he slapped your ass.

“Now turn around,” he said and you did, you turned around to kiss him, but the excitement and the thrill immediately died down the second you realised your boyfriend came back home.

P!LINK ONE

P!LINK TWO

ghost masterlist

masterlist

based on this song

[itsoutrageouss]

Part five of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley seeing reader cry for the first time; this one made me fucking giddy. This time it’s Simon being soft and vulnerable with you for the first time after a mission…

It’s been three days since you’ve seen him. Simon went on a solo mission and you swear you’ve never felt time go by so slowly, feeling so sluggish with each passing hour. When he volunteered for it, you had to bite your tongue to stop from protesting. You had absolutely zero entitlement to say anything, and even less arguments for why he shouldn’t be the one to do it when he was the most capable.

The day before was when he had drawn you that bath for your pain, respectfully looked away as you undressed, his ears perking at the sound of each soft thud of clothes to the floor, the water singing as you lowered yourself into it. His hands were digging into his thighs in his pockets.

It was a foamy bath because he’d found one of your products that smelled nice. You had your back to him and beckoned him to turn around. He had stared at you and felt his hands shake as he ran a cloth over the expanse of frail skin.

Then the very next day he was gone like he’d never been there at all. You even - to your own deep, mortifying embarrassment - snuck into his barracks and stole a t-shirt. Because you had none left yourself and he didn’t exactly need them right now, you tell anyone if they made notice.

Then on the fourth night, you felt like you were going insane. Because what if that was it? What if he never came back and you only ever got so close to whatever had started blooming between you as a knuckle kiss? The thought that he might never know how much space he had made for himself inside of your head was one you had to force out of your mind as you sat with the others in the rec room. It was a quiet Friday. You had an untouched beer in front of you.

Then the door was pushed open somewhere and you stood up in a heartbeat because for some reason that you didn’t have time to analyse, you recognised his footsteps. You ran.

Then you stopped as you saw him, nearly fallling over your own feet. He looked dangerous at first, chest expanded and heaving heavily. There was a dark crimson staining parts of his clothes and mask and it was dripping to the floor. He looked like a wounded lion and you were simultaneously frightened and so so relieved.

He was scowling the same way he had found himself doing the last four days, a dark veil, a black lens over his eyes. Then he saw you.

You in his shirt and a pair of sweatpants, hair tucked away, eyes a little too tired.

He fell to his knees.

A heartbeat passed, flinching at the movement before you were right there with him. His hands were slightly painful where they grabbed your waist, your hips and your shoulders, clawing and pawing to make sure you were real and here and that everything was okay. He made a sound like a groan and a whine as his head awkwardly bumped into you when he tried to nuzzle your neck and inhale. You couldn’t move, eyes wide at the way he was basically just falling apart for you, acting like some needy cat.

“You’re hurt,” you insist.

“You’re here,” he responds.

It’s like something bursts inside him. He had almost died out there and when all he found himself worrying about was who might help you with your cramps now, he knew he was fucking done for.

“M’ here Simon” you confirm softly, trying to cradle his jaw to make him look at you, but he didn’t budge from where he had somehow managed to press his face into the delicate skin of your neck.

His hands kept you under lock and it started to burn in your muscles from the position you were in, but you didn’t make a single sound, not even as you felt his shoulders tremble slightly, chest hiccuping.

“You okay, lovie?” He asks after a solid five minutes of maybe crying into your neck a little.

You almost laugh, choking on a little sound of amusement as your eyes crinkle. But you hid it well enough. He was asking if you were okay? You?

“I am now. Are you?” You pulled your head back slightly to look down, hoping he’d reveal himself from the shadows. Slowly he peeled himself away, gear shading his face. There were streaks from his eyes in that black, dried war pant that revealed slivers of his pale skin, his lashes sticking together. He just looked at you for a long moment.

“No.” He confessed, sounding like it took all his reserves of strength to admit to such a thing and he looked ready enough to bolt now that he’d finally said it. You only nodded in understanding, wary of how to treat him now, how to do this right.

You stood up and he clawed at your legs, his brute strength making you stumble. “I’m just gonna draw you a bath. Come.”

It took him a while before he wordlessly got up and slumped after you. You went into your own room, and he didn’t comment on it. Not even as he sat down on the little stool and watched you pour one of your good smelling soaps into the tub as the water streamed, creating a white noise that filled the mutual comfortable silence you had created.

“Are you hurt?”

“A little” he said, once again wincing at his own admission of vulnerability. You slowly walked over until you stood in between his legs, looking down at him with a gentle head tilt.

Then you unstrapped his headgear. Left the mask alone, his eyes tracing every move of your hands with both apprehension and affection. You undid his vest before slowly going to your knees, caged between his thighs and blinking up at him. He swore he died, something inside of him jolting at the visual. His jaw ticked. You slowly put his guns away. Peeled his layers one by one, barely touching him and he watched wordlessly.

He even lifted his hips for you until he only wore his boxers. You saw his chest rising and falling a bit rapidly. “I’ll take care of you.” You pulled on his neck as your hands met his cold skin, dragging him down and his heart stopped when your lips were closing up on his, but you angled your chin and met his forehead instead. He was relieved. Disappointed?

The soft press sent shivers down his spine and he felt deliciously awful at this vulnerable disposition he had. His shoulders slumped and he watched you clean his wound, muscles tensing at the sting.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He mumbled.

“Never said you had to.” You respond, turning off the faucet before turning back to him. “Do you want me to leav-“

“-no.” He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even care anymore, he told himself; if he was embarrassing himself, if you found him pathetic. Each time that fear clutched him this last half hour, he looked up and saw an odd sense of assurance and calmness in your eyes. Like you knew this was the natural next step for both of you and it calmed his nerves like a balm.

“Do you want me to look away?” You ask, breaking his train of thought. He looks up at you. Then he slowly shakes his head.

“…no.”

You breathe in a little sharper than usual as nervous excitement bubbles up your spine. You nod in a way that lets him know you don’t really want to look away either. He stands up and strips himself of his boxers. You take an appreciative glance over his now bare body, lingering on his stomach, instead of where he might think you’d look. He subconsciously flexes.

“Beautiful.”

He downright blushes and therefore hurriedly lowered himself into the tub with a groan. The water melted away the worst of the grime, tickling his chest as his eyes closed with a deep sigh. You smiled as you sat on the lip or the tub. He cracked an eye open.

“Come” he said and nudged his head to the tub, not managing to say anything else, his eyes selfishly looking at your neck again. It felt primal, almost not even… sexual as you stand up, hands possessing a slight tremble as you undress before him. He watches and you let him.

The water is a bit dirty, but bubbles foam at the top as you lower yourself in front of him, facing his front as your legs tangle under the surface. The water stops at the dip of your waist. He watches it, the dangerous waver of it that caressed your skin and he wished it was him. You lathered some soap on the cloth he had used for you before. Mind you he still had the mask on, only finally taking it off and breathing in. You gently use the cloth on his face, around his eyes, down his neck, humming softly.

“I missed you. Is that… is that fucked up?” He asks, his voice hoarse. This mission, its horrors, the loneliness; it wasn’t supposed to all just go away when he saw you. So why had he suddenly forgotten these last four days?

“I don’t know. But I’m glad that you did. I was going mad.” You tell him, a soft crinkle to your eyes as you dip the cloth in the water. His stomach tenses as the material scrapes down the hard planes of muscle. He groans softly.

“Just don’t tell anyone about this, yeah?” He mumbled as he leaned his head back, eyes closed in a bliss he hadn’t known before now. You bit your lip.

“Never. God forbid Simon Riley enjoyed himself.” You shook your head with a faux stern expression and his lips hinted at a smile, eyes barely open.

“Shut up and touch me some more.”

series masterlist

[blingblong55]

The art of touch- Simon "Ghost" Riley

--- F!Reader, fluff, friends to lovers, soft!simon --- A/N: I can't see the old requests for some reason so enjoy this mess I made in the meantime

Simon is a quiet man. He's calm and collected—truly the man that most soldiers wish to be. He has confidence on and off the field. There are so many things that he is, but being insecure or nervous about anything off the field or base is not something he can say he has. When he met you, you weren't looking for anything but a friendship. So, it stung to know that the most beautiful girl he had ever seen didn't fancy a date with him. But, like anything in his life, he accepted it, in a "I'm going to get you anyway" kind of way.

It started with him trying to get you to at least say yes to lunch. Something that friends do. Which is normal, totally not a date in his mind. Will definitely tell everyone else that he went on a date though. When the "dates" became frequent, he made sure to invite you to dinner after he had helped you move into the home you bought.

His volunteering to be your handyman was normal by now. He wants to be part of your life in any way you offer. You need to drive an hour away, no problem, he has nothing to do that weekend so he can drive you there. It's not like he doesn't have paperwork waiting for him in his office. He'll complain about it later, but never to your face because he wants to become reliable.

It was something slow, so painfully slow even for him but fuck it, he was very much interested in you. So interested that he forgot about the pretty girls he would occasionally sleep with when he went on missions. He became loyal to the "relationship" you two had in his head. Who needs sex when he has the idea of you and him as a couple?

It was odd, he rarely had pure thoughts when a pretty bird was beside him but with you, he wanted to have them. So he did, he refrained from them and only thought of you for who you are. He could list two hundred things that he loves about you before he lists your body.

For you, keeping him at arm's length was a strategy. Sure he was attractive and all but you wanted something real. Not something that is formed through sex and pleasure. Something that is born of real emotions, something that can be brought up when you get asked where you were when you realised you were in love. The answer should never be in bed

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[luxcuriousao3]

Part 2 of Alpha!ghost?? 🥺🥺

Please?

-🍒Anon

I've been sitting on this because I've been asking myself, "Will I write a full part two?" But the answer is probably not 😅 BUT I have part of a second chapter written, and I figure I can share a little bit of it. Think of it as an alternative ending I guess? It's not... happy, per say, but it does make Fevered Mistakes SIGNIFICANTLY less angsty lol. I guess you could call it a hopeful/open ending. And hey, I suppose if people want to see the other bits I've written for chapter two, I'll publish them, I just wouldn't call it canon.

Also I've never had emoji anons before, but I will happily accept you as 🍒 anon! I love cherries.

warnings: a/b/o, mentions of past rape, vageuly suicidal thoughts

When Simon woke up, he was alone.

He was cuffed to a hospital bed, and both his team and the omega were gone. Simon’s heart lurched in his chest. His omega. He’d claimed her. He’d raped her. He’d killed her.

Simon was not a good man. He hadn't been a good man in a long time. He’d done horrible, horrible things. Some he regretted, many he didn’t. He bore them all and kept going. But this…

He didn’t think he could live with this.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Johnny entered, clutching a cup of coffee. He looked haggard—face unshaved, hair unwashed, clothes rumpled and stained. There were heavy bags beneath dull blue eyes, but when he saw that Simon was awake, he perked up, rushing over.

“Thank fuck yer awake,” he said, slumping into the chair next to Simon’s bed and grasping his hand tightly. “Cannae take anymore o’ this waitin’ ‘round.”

“They gonna discharge me?” Simon asked, looking away. Looking at his hands, the ones that had killed that poor girl. My omega. He closed his eyes, unable to stand the sight of them.

“By the end of the day, m’guessin,” Johnny answered, and Simon let out a deep breath. He knew he deserved it, but he was surprised the military was moving so quickly. Usually this kind of thing took months of wading through red tape and bureaucratic bullshit. “Price is gettin’ the paperwork taegether now.”

Simon felt like he’d been punched in the gut. His own Captain...

“He recommend me for a dishonorable?”

“Wha—” Johnny started, brows furrowed in confusion before realization donned on him and his eyes widened. “I meant from the feckin’ hospital, ye numpty!”

“But— the omega,” Simon replied hoarsley, stumbling over his words in a way that was entirely uncharacteristic for him. He blamed it on the sucking, pulsating void in his chest, the guilt and the self hatred and the desire to take a long fucking walk off a short fucking pier and let the ocean claim him and tear him apart. Just like he’d done to her.

“Aye,” Johnny said, face growing solemn, his scent—eucalyptus, chocolate, and a clean, cool aftershave, a combination that shouldn’t have gone well together but was the most delicious thing Simon had ever smelled—grew bitter with sadness. “The omega... she’s alive, Si. In rough shape, but the docs think she’s gonna make it.”

[mr-mandalorian]

ghost proposing, a little angst but very very sweet

they have the night off and he’d already be devouring her whole if she wasn’t so excited about going out. it’s a shit bar close to base, but she reasons it’s a good change of scenery.

and boy is it, terrible karaoke heard a mile away. the military wives, or rather soon to be, taken over. a bachelorette party of at least six women, loud and obnoxious.

soap and gaz find it to be the most hilarious thing in the world, applauding a brunette on stage over her disastrous performance of careless whisper. but ghost can’t help but watch y/n, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. throughout the night he silently dissects her, his assumption it being some sort of yearning for female company. but as one of the women come up to their table, asking if anyone from the squad could take a picture of the rowdy group, ghost swallows harshly. y/n jumps at the opportunity, congratulating the bride like they’ve know each other their whole lives.

they never discussed the nature of their relationship. hell, the word relationship was never even voiced out loud. but even a stranger could tell how they moved in sync, his reflection and her shadow. in their line of work it was best case scenario and simon never allows himself to think about there ever being more.

but that is until y/n asks to see the ring. it’s almost comical, the gigantic diamond blinding, making her squint. ghost finds himself scoffing behind the mask, he could easily read y/n’s compliment a lie. she would never wear anything like it.

the following months ghost finds himself ring shopping. fucking hell, what is he thinking, really? his tongue can’t even roll the world girlfriend. and yet here he is, glaring at the poor saleswoman like she’s supposed to know none of these expensive rocks are good enough for his y/n.

when the ring is finally chosen, he doesn’t quite know what to do. he’s horrified of y/n finding it so the ring stays on his person at all times, even in the field. he’s less talkative than usual, if that’s even possible, always looking for the right moment. brushing their teeth together in the morning, ghost buried between her thighs in the evening. he nearly does it one late night, y/n perched on the window sill of her room. swimming in moonlight, she looks ethereal. he’s done unimaginable things in his life, taken and saved lives. none of the gore ever phased him, but the sight of her has his stomach turning.

so he chickens out. regret begins to gnaw at him as the very next mission goes haywire. y/n barks at him through the comms, the sweetest sound in the world, even if she’s telling him to get out, explosives ticking in the building. he’s trying, he really is. his gear seems to get heavier by the minute with a broken rib threatening to seize his lungs. he can make out her silhouette by the exit, but it’s out of reach. the floor crumbles beneath him.

when ghost wakes up, he immediately spots soap pacing back and forth, as much as the tiny ward of the hospital would allow him. y/n is passed out in the chair next to his bed, his balaclava clutched to her chest.

“good to have you back, lt.” soap whispers not to wake the sleeping soldier. “how ye feeling?”

“was she hurt?”

“no.” soap shakes his head, knowing how important the answer is before he can move on to his long awaited teasing, pulling out a velvet box out of his pocket. “i suppose it was foolish to question who this belonged to then. didn’t take you for the marrying kind, lt.”

he wasn’t, but if it pleased y/n, he’d marry her a thousand times. and even though ghost wants to be annoyed with the sergeant, he’s already decided to promote him to best man for finding the ring before y/n could.

when ghost gets released, it takes time to find courage to open the velvet box. it’s barely holding together, taking most of the damage to protect what’s inside. the ring is chipped, the intricate band of petite diamonds has at least five distinct cuts. they’re surprisingly neat, but asymmetrical and obvious to they eye. he can only curse, what a fool he was to convince himself that there could be something more.

“what’s that?” y/n is right next to him, her stealth impressive as she appears unnoticed in his room.

he can tell her awe for the ring is genuine, eyes eyes lighting up at the piece of jewelry. she pries it out of his hold, standing close to the window to examine the gems reflecting daylight. she disregards the cracks completely, telling him it adds character to it. the sincerity of her smile makes it hard to breathe.

“so who’s the lucky girl then?” she asks, never once trying on the ring.

“who- who’s the lucky girl? bloody hell woman, who do you think?”

they’re both dumbfounded, y/n by the answer and ghost by the question. and ghost knows he said the wrong thing as y/n shrinks in her spot, her gaze glued to the floor.

“i mean- i- i really don’t know.” she stutters, growing shy likes he’s never seen her before.

“try it on.”

“what?“

“come here.“

y/n allows him to hold her hand, sliding the ring on her finger with utmost care. it fits perfect, just her size and taste. her eyes jump between him and the ring, mind going a mile a minute.

“what do you reckon?“ his voice is low and quiet, and that’s all he says. it dawns on her that he’s really doing this, proposing in the most simon riley way possible.

“i didn’t even know we were dating.” she can’t help the jaw numbing smile that overtakes her, gently squeezing her hand in his.

“‘cause we’re not. we’re engaged.”

[leviathanleva]

Part 2 for this blurb!

Ghost coming back from deployment beaten, tired and mentally scarred.

He hears the sound of little feet pattering his way. A toddler stands facing him on the other end of the hallway. He freezes midway while taking off his boots.

They stare at each other, both wide-eyed. Until the toddler screams bloody murder and bolts to the kitchen crying.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

You appear with the little thing weeping in your arms and Ghost sees you biting your bottom lip to keep from laughing.

"Sweet Pea, it's just daddy, look!" You coax the toddler who wipes at her eyes.

Of course, she didn't recognize her dad with the mask on.

[sterifels-blog]

simon "ghost" riley

The first time Simon saw your boyfriend, he knew.

Oh, he knew. Not in that “you’re too good for him” way you half-expected your protective, burly best friend to behave. No, Simon hated him with a ferocity so immediate, so visceral, it made his blood hum a little sharper. He didn’t just hate him. He despised him. Abhorred him. Wanted to roll his sleeves up and grate him into the damn carpet with the sheer force of his forearms alone. And if that wasn’t enough, he wanted to spend the rest of his natural-born life proving to you (and to himself, if we’re being honest) that he was better.

Tighter shirts. The flex of his fists when your boyfriend spoke in that grating voice Simon privately referred to as "discount Casanova." The subtle, almost casual cracks of his knuckles whenever the man dared to open his mouth about you in any way that wasn’t pristine worship. Every time your boyfriend laughed at you instead of with you, Simon would let out a low, bone-chilling chuckle of his own— a rumbling thing, gravelly and sharp, because he wasn’t laughing at all.

And then there was that one night.

It wasn’t like Simon was trying to hover. He wasn’t. He didn’t need to be your babysitter. You were strong, capable, smarter than everyone Simon had ever met— except, apparently, when it came to that bloody waste of oxygen you called a boyfriend. But when he saw the way your smile dimmed just a little too much at something the guy said, the way your fingers tightened around your glass as if to crush it, something ancient and primal roared inside Simon’s chest.

He stayed behind when you went home. Watched the fool stagger out into the night like a walking bad decision. Simon followed him with the quiet, measured gait of a shadow given form—leather jacket snug over his frame, boots heavy, but silent as sin.

Simon wasn’t poetic about what happened next. He didn’t need to be. There was no artistry in the precise, methodical lesson he taught your boyfriend in a dim alleyway under a broken porch light. (Broken now, thanks to your boyfriend's skull, if Simon were feeling particularly cheeky about it.) He made sure the man knew exactly why he was being "affectionately" restructured. And when the lesson ended, Simon left without a single word but with a vivid reminder that would stick for weeks:

stay the hell away.

The next morning, your boyfriend broke up with you via text message. A single line of lukewarm cowardice you barely had time to process before Simon was at your door, arms laden with snacks, beer, and the sweater you always stole anyway.

You curled up next to him on the couch, face half-hidden in the collar of that massive gray hoodie, and let out an exhausted sigh. Your voice was soft when you mumbled- sniffling with a stuffy nose from your previous sobs, “I just don’t get it, Si. I thought he cared..”

Simon didn’t answer right away, gaze fixed on the screen as Finding Nemo played in the background—a film you’d insisted on because you needed something light and harmless. Of course, to Simon, it wasn’t harmless at all. He frowned as Marlin yelled at Dory, the tiny blue fish babbling nonsense with frantic, short-term determination.

“'Course he didn’t care. Idiot didn’t even notice he was playing chicken with a shark,” Simon finally muttered, his deadpan delivery laced with something so dry you almost didn’t catch it.

You looked up, confused. “Huh?”

“Forget your boyfriend,” Simon said, tone flat as a blade. “This is why I don’t swim. Can’t trust anything with gills. Bloody sharks, jellyfish, clownfish...all useless. Why d’you think they call it Finding Nemo? Should’ve named it Simon Was Right: Stay Out of the Water.”

You snorted, unable to help yourself, and Simon glanced down at you, lips quirking upward just enough to show the barest hint of satisfaction.

And there it was. That warmth. That comfort. Simon didn’t need to say it, didn’t need to spell it out for you in big, stupid letters. You could see it in the way his arm stayed firm around your shoulders, in the way he made sure your blanket covered your toes, in the way his ridiculous commentary on Finding Nemo somehow made you feel whole again.

Yeah. You'd find your own way to thank him later.

[alkalineapparition]

Sneak Peek | Ghost x Reader

Jaws

Chapter 12

"RIPPER, NO!"

This is the moment that will stay with Simon for the rest of his life. Someday, when he watches his mistakes play back in frantic strokes of color against the blank canvas of his eyelids, this is what will haunt him most.

You, for all your ferocity, gift him one last look. Soft, apologetic. No intention of heeding his command. When he reaches for the handle on the back of your vest, you slip through his fingers like water. Gone.

Just. Like. That.

[beloveds-embrace]

The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting faint, flickering light across the bedroom walls. Outside, the winter winds howled, clawing at the windows of the inn like a restless spirit, yet within these walls, everything was still. Simon lay on the bed, your steady breaths against his naked chest a comfort he didn’t think he deserved or will ever deserve.

And then he dreamed.

The other version of himself, a man he didn’t want to acknowledge as real, stood coldly at the edge of the grand dining table. That Simon was distant, detached, and unfeeling. His eyes swept over the figure sitting at the far end- you- your dress, not from him, crumpled, your face drawn with exhaustion. You were speaking, but your voice was hollow, words whispered into a void he couldn’t reach. The Simon in the dream didn’t even glance at you. His attention was elsewhere, his mind consumed with matters he thought were more important.

Simon didn’t think anything in the world would ever be more important than you, their precious and lovely Duchess. He didn’t understand his other self- didn’t want to ever have that careless view of you.

When you rose to leave, Simon’s nightmare-self didn’t stop you. You’d excused yourself so quietly that no one could have accused you of disturbing the silence. You left, head bowed, retreating to the dark halls of a cold, lifeless manor this Simon couldn’t relate to John’s lively manor.

Yet that Simon didn’t care. He returned to his work, to his whispered conversations with John, to the loving, fleeting glances exchanged with Kyle and Johnny.

Why did you let her leave?

But you- you grew smaller with each passing day. The halls that should have been filled with your laughter were silent. The dresses this Simon had carefully chosen for you did not exist, and thus you were left in dresses old and patched and unfitting, untouched by his hands. You faded, retreating into yourself, and the whispers of the staff about the “mad Duchess” grew louder.

The staff would never talk about you like that. Why did you let them, Simon?

Simon saw it all. He saw the way you flinched when no one looked at you. He saw the way you hesitated to enter a room, unsure if your presence was welcome. He saw you stop eating, stop dressing, stop existing.

The nightmare was a world of suffocating gray.

Simon stood in the grand halls of their shared home, but it wasn’t the home he knows. The walls were stark and barren, the warmth of family portraits and soft candlelight replaced with cold, lifeless shadows. Dust lingered in the air, undisturbed for weeks, maybe months, blanketing everything in the same muted despair.

There were no portraits of you, beyond the singular one of your marriage to John. Your face had been ripped off it.

He searched for you.

Room after room was empty, yet his heart pounded with dread. The dining table was set but untouched, the once vibrant dishes left cold and congealed. In the study, his desk was stacked with neglected lettersa some from you, written in a trembling hand, pleading for his attention, begging for his care. Each word burns itself into his mind: “Am I so unworthy?”

Your bedroom- no, your prison- was the last place he searched. He was afraid of what he’d find, yet he couldn’t stop his feet from carrying him forward. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight as if the light itself has abandoned you. You were there, curled up on the grand bed, your frail frame dwarfed by the heavy, oppressive canopy above.

You looked… so small. So still.

Simon’s heart ached.

Why did you do this to her?

“Love,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he knelt beside you. His gloved hand reached for your cheek, but it was cold. So cold it sent a jolt of terror through him.

You stirred, just barely. Your eyes fluttered open, dull and glassy, but there was no recognition in them.

“Simon?” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible. “What… are you doing here?”

The question was a knife to his chest.

Why wouldn’t I be here? What has my other self done to you?

“I’m here for you, sweetheart,” he choked out, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. You were too cold; Kyle would never leave your room this freezing; Johnny would never let you go to bed hungry and bereft of warm food. “I’m here now.”

But you pulled away, weakly but resolutely, as if his touch was poison.

“You’re always too late.”

The words echoed in the cold, empty room. He tried to protest, tried to pull you into his arms, but you collapse against the pillows, your breath shallow and fading, fading like smoke until-

And then you were gone.

The weight of it crushed him. The silence was unbearable, suffocating, and all he could do was scream your name into the void that took you from him.

Simon woke with a start.

The gasp tore from his throat before he could stop it, his hand flying to your side. You were there- warm, breathing, alive. His chest heaved, sweat beading on his forehead as the remnants of the dream clung to him like cobwebs.

You stirred, your soft murmur of his name breaking through the haze of fear. You sounded soft, groggy- so full of life it nearly brought him to tears. “Simon?”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, so close that your sleepy protest was muffled against his chest. “Go back to sleep, love.” He whispered, voice rough. But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to.

Hours later, when the sun began to rise, Simon was still awake. He had been watching you, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as he memorized every detail of your face. The soft curve of your lips, the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the warmth of your skin beneath his touch. You were alive. You were loved. You weren’t-

The dream wouldn’t leave him.

In the morning, when you were fully awake, you made no mention of how tight Simon’s arms were around you. You made no mention of how he asked you again and again if you were warm, full- his arm around your waist in a gentle hold that felt like it was more for his comfort.

You said none of it; but you made sure you kisses him enough until that fear in his eyes slowly dissipated. You and him had come to this inn for a bit of break, and you didn’t want to return to the manor with any sadness clinging to you or Simon.

When you returned to the manor, Simon still made no mention of it.

He didn’t speak of it, though John noticed how Simon hovered closer to you than usual. He didn’t bring it up during lunch, though Johnny commented on how quiet Simon had become, his usual sharp wit dulled. Kyle, perceptive as ever, caught Simon lingering in the halls outside your favorite sitting room, his eyes clouded with something between guilt and sorrow even though looked no different than usual.

But it wasn’t until late that evening, as you sat before the fire with a book in hand, that Simon finally broke.

You didn’t hear him approach at first. He was silent as a shadow, and when you glanced up, startled, he was already kneeling before you.

“Simon?” you asked, concern flickering across your face. “What’s wrong?”

His hands found yours, cradling them as though you might disappear if he let go. For a long moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze tracing every feature of your face. And then, in a voice low and strained, he said, “I saw a world where I lost you.”

Your brow furrowed, but he didn’t let you speak.

“You were there, in the manor, but… no one saw you. Not properly. Not me. Not John. Not Kyle or Johnny. You were alone. Lonely.” His grip tightened on your hands, though he was still gentle. “You withered away, and we didn’t even notice until it was too late.”

The raw emotion in his voice took your breath away. “Simon, it was just a dream,” your voice was soft, though your heart ached at the pain etched into his face.

“No,” he said fiercely, jaw tight. “It wasn’t. It… it felt too real. Like a warning. Like something I could let happen if I wasn’t careful.”

You leaned forward, cupping his face in your hands. “But it didn’t happen, Simon. It won’t. You’re not that man. None of you are.”

His eyes closed, leaning into your touch like a man starved for warmth. “I won’t let it happen,” he murmured. “I’ll never let you feel like that. I’ll make sure you know how much we love you. Every single day.”

You smiled, brushing a kiss against his forehead. “I already do, Simon. You don’t have to worry. Stay with me for now, alright?”

And he did; he would not deny you of anything.