#simon riley × you

[erstwhilezealot]

Boot Worship

《NSFW》 《Minors DNI》

Simon Riley × afab reader (they/them pronouns used)

TW: BDSM with no pre-set rules, consensual degradation, no after care

Words: 4,026

Some trashy smut by yours truly. Simon Riley catches you pleasuring yourself while clutching his shirt in the locker room and pushes you into telling him you want to be degraded by him. Title is pretty self explanatory.

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Simon always found himself frustrated with the non-comabt duties of being a Lieutenant, the monotony of paper-work and sitting at a desk making him feel like a caged animal.

He was able to avoid this for the most part, until he took a nasty fall during a mission, injuring his arm to the point where he needed a month of recovery.

Despite plenty of grumbled complaints on his part, he was taken out of commission and, even worse, saddled with a platoon of privates to train.

They were fresh, they were dumb, and Simon found himself taking his frustration out on any one of them who stepped out of line.

One Private in particular had caught his attention repeatedly. He wasn't sure what it was, but he found his eyes finding them day after day, berating them every time they fell over or held their gun slightly off.

He knew it was unfair, but something about standing over them and shouting them down was satisfying to him. The way they would quiver under his gaze as he got into their face, a pink flush spreading over their face.

He made excuses to himself, pushing it off as frustration or wanting them to do better. But every once in a while the thought nagged at him that maybe his focus on them was a little more then work related.

Sitting in his office one evening, trying to get some work done he glanced up to see them quietly walking past, a small bag held in their hand.

Just the sight of them and his frustration bubbled up, wanting to follow them and demand what they were doing up so late, walking past his office and distracting him.

He imagined it, thinking of how they would look as he planted a hand over them on the wall, growling at them about sauntering around the barracks at all hours, distracting him from his work.

He imagined their whimpered apology, imagined leaning closer

"If youre so intent on distracting me."

He would growl,

"Then come into my office and make yourself useful."

The image of them under his desk, that same flush on their face as they sucked him off pushed itself into his brain.

He could feel his cock pulsing as filthy images of them letting him push his hand into their hair as they soaked his cock with their saliva.

He pushed himself back from the desk with a start. Jesus, where did that come from? He admonished himself under his breath,

That's your subordinate, you sick fuck

The thought didn't do anything to dull the uncomfortable pressure between his legs.

He rose to his feet, deciding a cold shower would dispel the unwanted thoughts.

He made his way down the hall, glad to see it was completely empty as he made his way to the locker room.

Rounding the corner to the locker room Simon heard a sound that stopped him in his tracks. A voice, their voice coming faintly from inside the locker room.

He got closer, straining to hear what they were saying and he stopped dead as he realized they weren't talking, they were moaning. Their voice coming out choked.

"Sir, please."

Their voice was low and breathy, he could tell they were attempting to keep quiet but the echo of the locker room carried the sound to where he stood, filling him with a fiery rage.

Deep down he knew that he had no business deciding what his subordinates got up to while outside his training but this didn't stop the stream of rage fueled thoughts.

Who did they think they were, fucking somebody somewhere they could be heard so easily? And calling them sir? He was their superior officer, not whatever nitwit private was shagging them against the lockers.

He stilled himself, waiting to see if their was a response. His pulse thrumming in his ears. He was going to tear them and whoever they were shagging a new one.

There was a long silence, then a little gasp from their lips.

Simon rounded the corner, his vision too clouded with anger to grasp exactly how inappropriate he was being.

From over the lockers he could see the top of their head. Sat on one of the benches, alone. Simon couldn't see the rest of their body but catching a movement of their hand he realized with a start that they were touching themselves.

He told himself he should leave, that this was inappropriate. They weren't actually shagging anyone so he should just leave them to it. Or make a sound like he had just come in and not heard them.

But he didn't.

He approached them, moving with a practiced silence. He could see them now, back facing him, sat on a towel on the low bench. They leaned back in a position that didn't look fully comfortable, their shorts bunched around their spread legs.

He could see their hand moving in quick circles, the exertion spreading a pink flush over their back.

And over their nose was a shirt,

His shirt.

The thought landed just as he realized that his locker hung open next to them. That he must've forgotten to lock it that day after training.

Another quiet moan from their lips,

"Please Lieutenant."

Him,

They were thinking of him.

He did not think, before he acted. Purposefully setting a boot down heavy enough for them to hear.

Your POV

A sound that could only be described as a squeak fell from your lips as you heard a footfall behind you.

Scrambling you attempted to secure your shorts around your waist, as you turned your head.

As your eyes locked on a white skull mask your already sinking stomach hurtled to the floor. Another squeak, whilst you struggled to shuffle to your feet, shorts bunched low on your hips.

Snapping up to what remnants of a salute you could muster, you stared at him, eyes wide, entire body burning.

"Sir-"

You began weekly

"What were you doing private?"

His voice was low, dangerous. He eyes you, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"I- I'm so sorry sir. I shouldn't have- I should've..."

He took another step towards you,

"I didn't ask for an apology private. I asked you a question. What. Were. You. Doing?"

You couldn't dare meet his eyes, fuck you were done for,

"I was... touching myself Lieutenant, sir."

"Touching yourself."

He repeated you in a low, level tone.

There was a long pause and you wished that he would just take the gun from his hip and put you out of your misery.

"While holding my shirt."

It wasn't a question. You squeaked as you followed his gaze to your hand, realizing you were still holding the shirt. Your first instinct was to drop it but wouldn't dare let his shirt touch the grimy floor. You resigned yourself to your fate,

"Yes sir."

"Why?"

The single question was the worst possible thing he could've asked. Again, a bullet would be preferable to having to explain your feelings to the brick wall in front of you.

"Beacause I ah- sort of... like you... sir."

It sounds so lame, so fucking juvenile. He was your superior officer and you "liked" him.

He clicked his tongue, his expression still painfully unreadable.

"You like me, so you sit here and touch yourself clutching my shirt. S'that right?"

You nod pathetically.

"I'm out here cursing and shouting at you about trigger discipline, and you like me. Why is that private?"

This was hell, you were in hell. And he was here to torture you. God, you thought him torturing you would be fun. You were wrong.

"I... I dunno sir I guess I... like, that sort of... thing."

"You like it."

God you wished he would stop repeating you.

"So you think about me... what, shouting at you while you touch yourself?"

"Uhm, well not particularly."

"Then what?"

Was he asking you your kinks?

"Sir I don't think-"

He took another step toward you, and you could smell the scent of his aftershave.

"What do you think about private?"

You knew his low tone meant danger,

"You... degrading me... sir... calling me names."

"Names like what?"

Your voice was weak, the words hard to choke out,

"Like... you calling me, a- uh, slut."

Another long pause,

"Are you?"

"Wh-what... s-sir?"

"Do you think you're a slut? You, sneaking into my locker the one time I forget to lock it to get yourself off while you smell my shirt. Does that make you a slut?"

A whimper choked it's way up your throat,

"I... that is a bit um... slutty. Sir."

Another silence

"So you're a slut then."

Your breath caught in your throat, what was happening? He was supposed to be marching you out of here for a dishonorable discharge, not whatever this was.

"Sir?"

"Say it. Tell me your a slut."

Your stomach did a flip, pinned in his heavy, expectant gaze 

"I'm a slut... sir"

It came out as a question, as you tried to puzzle out what he wanted from you.

He sighed. Apparently that was the wrong choice.

"Like you mean it private."

God with every sentence he unraveled you mentally more and more. At this point you just wanted to run but his hulking figure blocked ant escape route.

"I'm a slut sir."

The words hung in the air, and you scanned his face, waiting to see if that was the right answer to this surreal game

"That's right, was that so hard private? How am I supposed to call you a slut if you don't even believe it?"

Your mouth opened and closed, air completely gone from your lungs.

"Is it just me you think about... or would you be touching yourself for any superior officer who shouts you down?"

"N-no sir. It's just you. You're all I think about."

He cocked his head, and with a panic you realized how that sounded. Like you loved him. You searched for the words to explain yourself, to remedy the damage. None came.

"S'that right?"

He closed the distance between you more, towering over you. His body was so close your legs started to quake a little.

"A slut just for me then?"

Tilting his head to the side, he placed a hand on your hip. The touch sending a jolt of electricity to your core. His fingers skimmed lightly over the curve, continuing to stare as if admiring it. You were breathless, your gaze only able to fixate on his hand as it made smooth motions over your hip.

"Seems a bit odd then don't you think? If you're supposed to be my slut, for you to be here, touching yourself without even asking. Helping yourself to my things."

His hand gripped your hip tighter and you gasped, his words settling on your chest like a brick,

"Seems like you might need to be taught to keep your hands off of things that aren't yours, hm?"

"S-sir... I- I don't understand."

He chuckled darkly,

"What's not to understand private? You said you wanted me to degrade you hm? So are you going to be a good slut and let me, or were you jus' playing with me? Cause' I don't take too kindly to being played with."

"N-no sir... I want you to."

"Then take these off."

His hands tugged at your shorts, still rucked halfway down your hips.

Your movements were slow and unsure, looking at him for reassurance as you hooked your thumbs into the waistband.

He sighed at your hesitancy, reaching out with a fluid motion and pulling them down around your legs. You gasped, the cool air highlighting just how exposed you were as you stood naked in front of him.

"Back on the bench again pet. I want to see what you've been doing to my property. And let's be quick about it, I don't like my time being wasted."

As if there was motor controlling your actions, you sat back on the bench with a small thump, kicking off your shorts from around your legs.

Staring up at him, you felt like a dog waiting for a treat, wanting his approval desperately.

"Spread your legs."

The simple command sent warmth pooling at your core. You didn't give yourself time to second guess as you did as he asked, pushing your knees apart.

"Feet on the bench pet. Need to see how wet you've gotten yourself"

God he didn't even have to touch you and you were already a pathetic mess for him, whimpering while you exposed yourself to him completely.

The silence was heavy as he cocked his head to the side, staring at you. Through you. Assessing your most private bits like a butcher about to slice into a choice cut.

After a long moment he reached out a gloved hand, still eyeing you as he reached two fingers to spread you open, leaning in to get a better view.

It made you feel like some sort of lab experiment. Him, fully clothed, assessing and prodding your naked cunt with a cold precision.

You gasped as two fingers slid through your folds, slicking his hand with a thin sheen of your juices.

He held it up, regarding how you had soaked his glove, expression ever unreadable.

"Fuckin' soaked yourself, haven't you? Just the scent of my t-shirt and you're dripping wet."

He hissed a breath through his teeth,

"Absolutely filthy."

You gave a weak nod. He could say whatever he wanted about you, just as long as he kept talking like that. Kept looking at you like he was going to devour you whole.

Coming towards you again, he held his hand out toward your face.

"Clean it off."

Your face burned as you wrapped your lips around the fingers, meeting his eyes with a look that you hoped was sultry, trying to ignore the fact that looking directly into his face terrified you.

He rewarded you with a small grunt from deep in his throat and your insides felt like they would melt out completely.

Shifting the fingers deeper into your throat, he cocked his head to admire how deeply they pressed into your mouth, the rough tips of his fingers brushing over your tongue.

You sat up, reaching for him, wanting to feel the solid expanse of his chest through his shirt. But his bear-like paw caught your wrist, pulling it away.

"Tch, pet. What makes you think I should let you touch me? Without even asking nonetheless? This about teaching you to keep those filthy hands to yourself."

You gasped,

"I'm sorry sir. Please forgive me."

"Are you really?"

He dropped your wrist, and you wanted to whine at the loss of his touch.

"You don't seem sorry. You seem like a filthy little whore. Fucking yourself off in the locker room where anyone could see you. Gripping my shirt, touching your little cunt that belongs to me. Then as soon as I even touch you, you want to jump all over me. Fucking slut."

A pathetic whimper left your throat

"Please sir, I'm sorry. I can be good, I want to be good for you."

"Not sure if I believe you love. Might need you to prove yourself for me."

He wrapped a hand through your hair, tugging  gently at the strands, tilting it to the side.

"But what to do with you hm? I'm sure this little throat would look good bulging with my cock, but you need to earn that."

"Maybe, since you're so desperate for me. You can hump my boot hm? Prove that little pussy is mine by grinding it into my boot while I watch."

Another dumb nod as his words turned you into a puddle.

His voice was low and husky,

"Get to it then pet."

You hesitated.

"Uh, here sir?"

"Where else?"

His tone was impatient, like you were a child he was explaining something very basic to.

"Shouldn't we go somewhere more... private, maybe?"

He laughed,

"Well pet, I don't think you thought of privacy when you were fucking yourself here, hm? 'Sides, if anyone walks in I'll tell them to fuck off. Or..."

He smirked at you,

"Better yet I could let them watch.  Let them see what a little whore you are for your superior officer. It's my choice isn't it? Since you are my slut after all. So. Get to it."

Knees shaking, you dropped down in front of him, the cement floor cold against your bare legs.

You looked up at him, dark eyes drinking you in as you awkwardly shifted yourself to hover over his boot, trying not to grip his leg too hard. His expectant gaze heavy as you gave a hesitant grind into the leather of his boot.

The material was smooth and hard against your soaking cunt, the seams around the toe cap dragging across the squishy flesh in a surprisingly pleasant way.

You rocked yourself forward, attempting to find a rhythm against the unyielding leather but struggled to find purchase without clutching onto the Lieutenant's leg like a child.

You continued to grind pathetically, not daring to meet Ghost's eyes as you made your sad attempt to fuck his boot.

A hand in your hair, grasping a fistful of strands loosely,

"Harder pet."

Whining pathetically, you desperately tried to work yourself against the smooth leather harder, the slickness between your legs causing you to slip, ass meeting the cement floor.

His grip in your hair tightened a little and your mind went fuzzy with the firm pressure of his hand tugging at your head,

"Mm, this is pathetic isn't it? Can't even fuck my boot properly. Thought you were my slut, hm? Guess I shouldn't bother."

He made a motion to pull away from you, and the horror of loosing his attention made all attempts at retaining your dignity fly out the window.

Upon instinct, your arms locked around his leg desperately. Your face pressing into the rough material of his jeans as you shoved your hips against his leg sloppily.

"Please sir... I- ah fuck- I can do it sir. Plese let me."

Wanton whimpers fell from your lips as you rutted your hips against him, focusing on nothing but your slick cunt sliding over his boot.

He chucked darkly, pursing his lips at you, almost mockingly,

"That's better pet. Look at how desperate you are for me. Like a bitch in heat, aren't you?

"Mm, yes sir. G-god I need it."

You kept going, your cunt making obscene squelching noises as your slick coated his boot almost completely.

Another tug at your hair, pulling so your chin pointed up at him,

"Look at me while you do that pet. Wanna see how dumb your eyes look while you grind into me."

You already knew they did. It was like every braincell you had was melting out from your aching cunt and onto his boot. 

"Yeah, that's a good sight. Dumb little pet, humping my fucking boot. Down where you belong."

His hand unraveled from your hair to move to the front of his jeans,

"Now, pet. I'm gonna get my cock out, and I'm gonna stroke myself off. And you're gonna watch, an' keep fuckin' my boot so I can use that pretty mouth to cum, yeah?"

You nodded, desperate hunger plain on your face,

"Yeah, I knew you'd like that. Fuckin desperate to swallow me aren't you."

You swallowed thickly as he unzipped his jeans, pulling out his cock and running a hand over the thick length.

It was like you were studying a fucking art piece, tracing each raised vein under the slightly red skin with your eyes. You wanted to touch it, to feel the soft warmth in your hands, to see how small they looked wrapped around it. To hear his soft grunts as he pressed it into your throat. But you didn't dare try to touch him again, contenting yourself to grind your aching cunt over his boot as he began to stroke himself with quick, languid strokes.

"This what you've been wanting pet? To be my little toy to make do whatever filthy little thing I please?"

His words were intercut with soft guttural grunts, his hand moving over his prick with precise strokes.

You gasped out an agreement, clutching to him like he was a god you were worshipping with each rut of your hips.

"S'what I thought love, greedy little thing you are. Don't worry pet, now that you've shown me who that little cunt belongs to I fully intend on using it. Whenever I like."

He accented his statement by shifting the tip of his boot to press up, further into the folds of your pussy, drawing a gasp from your lips.

His words sent another gush of heat coursing through you. Your Lieutenant, Ghost, wanted to fuck you. Wanted to use you in whatever way he pleased. The thought sent you into a near frenzy, thrusting against his boot with quick, needy strokes.

You both set your own wordless rythym,  him pumping a single, strong hand over the length of his cock as you kept pace with your desperate grinds of his boot. Your small gasps and his quiet grunts the only sound passing between you.

He leaned his head back, his strokes becoming shorter and quicker as you could see his peak approaching. A single, large hand shot out and gripped your hair, pulling your face towards him.

"Open."

The single word was all you needed to stretch your mouth wide, your tongue outstretched and waiting for him.

He looked down at you, his dark eyes hooded.

"Fuck you look perfect like that. Little slut all ready to swallow my cum."

He pulled your face closer to his cock, tapping the head of it against your tongue a few times, his pre already leaking into your mouth.

He hissed out a shallow breath as a few more strokes brought him to his peak, ropes of his cum painting your tongue and lips. His voice was choked as his cock twitched, grip on your hair tightening with his unraveling.

"S'a good slut. G'na swallow me yeah?"

You nodded, the movement brushing his cockhead lightly over your tongue causing him a final twtch as the last of his cum dripped onto your tongue.

He breathed deeply, watching you as you pulled your tongue in, his taste filling your mouth.

"Mm, that taste good pet?"

You gave a swallow,

"Yes sir."

He smirked,

"You haven't finished yet though. Look at this mess you've made of my boot. Absolutely soaked it "

He nudged the glistening boot toward you,

"Clean it up."

Your hazed over brain couldn't comprehend his meaning. You reached out with a tentative hand to wipe your juices from the leather of his boot.

"Stop."

He sighed,

"You really are like a dumb puppy aren't you? Need me to spell everything out for you? Lick. It. Up."

A flush filled your face. Stooping, you pressed your tongue to the tip of his boot, the tang of your arousel mixing with the earthy taste of the leather.

Planting a hand on either side of the boot, you lavished long strokes over it, not wanting to chance not doing a good enough job. You didn't stop to look back up at him until you were sure you had reached every drop.

Meeting his eyes, you saw his head cocked as if he had been admiring the sight of you licking his boot.

"That's a good pet."

He knelt to your level, tilting your chin to meet his eyes.

"And now, you're gonna go back to your bunk to rest. And you're gonna keep those filthy hands off of my things."

He leaned in close, his voice low.

"Cause' if you lay a finger on that little cunt. I'll know. And I'll fuckin' wreck you. Understood?"

You nodded weakly,

"Thas right pet. Course..."

He tilted his head,

"I might just wreck you anyway."

He rose, his boots retreating from your sight as you lay on the cold floor, still breathing heavily.

[sh0esuke]

" The Church "

𝗠𝗲𝘁 𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗰𝗲̀𝗻𝗲 : Ghost

𝗥𝗲́𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗲́ : Après la trahison de Graves, Ghost, Soap et leur coéquipière sont en fuite. Ils cherchent désespérément �� se retrouver parmi les rues de Las Almas, fourmillantes de soldats armés. Sur le pied de guerre, Ghost et sa coéquipière, tout deux s'étant retrouvés ensemble lors de leur chute font tout ce qu'ils peuvent pour prendre des nouvelles de Soap, ils slaloment à la recherche d'un endroit où se cacher, où prendre repos. Ghost l'exige, surtout, après avoir vu les blessures inquiétantes de la jeune femme. Il n'a alors qu'un seul objectif en tête à cet instant : l'aider à se remettre sur pieds. Comme si il pouvait se permettre de la perdre...

𝗔𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 : référence au sang, blessure, douleur.

ENG : PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORKS. If you want to translate it, ask me first then we can talk about it. If you want to find me on Wattpad or AO3, my accounts are in my bio, these are the ONLY ONES i have. FR : MERCI DE NE PAS VOLER MES OS. Si vous avez envie de les traduire, merci de me demander la permission avant. Si vous voulez me retrouver sur Wattpad ou AO3, j'ai des liens dans ma bio, ce sont mes SEULS comptes

𝙽𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚜 : 𝟓,𝟓𝟗𝟐.

Commentaires, likes et reblogues super appréciés. Tout type de soutien l'est, merci beaucoup !! <33

« Ghost.. Ghost ? Simon ? »

Étourdie, la jeune femme papillonnait des cils. Tandis qu'un mal de crâne épouvantable s'était emparé d'elle, la forçant ainsi à froncer les sourcils, elle poussa une plainte étouffée. Ghost la balançait vigoureusement sur son épaule. Il avançait dans les rues malfamés de Las Almas, à la recherche d'un abri pouvant les protéger le temps de mettre au point une stratégie. Et puisqu'il ne pouvait ni voler de véhicule ni sortir au grand jour, il avait été contraint d'user le corps de la soldate en guise de sac à patate et de la faire passer au dessus de son épaule pour avancer.

« Angel, tu tiens le coup ? » demanda Ghost, un poil surpris.

La jeune femme se redressa ᅳson ventre plaqué contre son omoplate, et se saisit de son arme à feu fermement attaché contre sa cheville. Elle le chargea et le pointa immédiatement en direction de la ruelle que Ghost venait de nettoyer.

« C'est toi qui a fait ça ? » demanda-t-elle.

Elle dévisagea les cadavres fraîchement poignardés, ils étaient tous morts, trônant ici et là entre les nombreux recoins du lieu, c'en était stupéfiant. Ghost n'en avait même pas laissé un rendre son dernier souffle. Il le leur avait tous volé. La pluie effaçait le sang qui s'écoulait, ainsi que toute trace de leur passage ici. Ghost ne s'en préoccupa point. Car il était déjà occupé à chercher une sortie.

« Affirmatif. »

« Putain, lieutenant, t'es quelque chose. »

Ghost ne répliqua pas. Il entra dans une des maisons, refermant soigneusement la porte derrière lui alors que la lampe d'un Shadow les avait manqué de près, et s'empressa de rejoindre la salle à manger. Lorsqu'il déposa délicatement la soldate sur une chaise qu'il avait préalablement tiré, son émetteur se réveilla. La voix de Soap se mit à retentir. Ghost le zieuta curieusement.

« Ici Bravo 7-1, à l'aveugle... Tu me reçois ? »

La demoiselle gémit brutalement à la sensation immonde dans ses entrailles. Elle était blessée. Cette constatation lui fit froncer les sourcils tandis qu'elle jeta un coup d'œil horrifié à son estomac lacéré. La douleur était prenante, étrangement, elle ne s'en apercevait que maintenant. Elle ne put ignorer la flaque de sang dans laquelle elle baignait, ainsi que l'état dans lequel se trouvait son uniforme. Elle y apporta ses mains tremblantes, sous l'attention particulière du soldat accroupi devant elle.

« Ghost, ici 7-1, est-ce que tu me reçois ? » s'impatienta Soap.

« Comment tu te sens ? » demanda Ghost.

« Je cracherai pas sur un médecin là, sans te mentir. » se plaignit la soldate.

« Ouais. » il grogna. « On va te sortir de là. Évite de t'évanouir en attendant, ça risquerait de nous compliquer la tâche. »

Ghost se redressa. Il regardait la pièce, les vivres éparpillés dans la cuisine, les décorations brisées, le sang coagulant sur les murs, le sol, le plafond, et évidement les cadavres de citoyens. Cela lui fit grincer des dents. Il serra le poing, se jeta ensuite sur son émetteur et rappela Soap. Il le fit tout en se reculant dans la pièce, afin que, si jamais un Shadow se risquerait à trop s'approcher, il n'entendrait rien de leur discussion. Ghost laissa la soldate dans son côté, il s'éloigna de trois mètres d'elle, se fondant dans la pénombre. Il conserva tout de même ses yeux sur elle. Il n'osa point les détourner.

« Soap, ici Ghost, tu me reçois ? »

Aucune réponse.

« Johnny...? »

Aucune réponse.

Ghost grinça des dents. Il voyait la demoiselle non loin de là se tordre de douleur. Une flaque d'eau s'amassait sous elle, à travers ses vêtements trempés. La chaise sur laquelle elle était assise grinçait. À chaque fois qu'elle se tortillait de douleur, le bois s'écriait, et la flaque d'eau sous elle finissait par se ternir d'un rouge bordeaux. Son sang joignait le tout. Elle compressait ses bras sur sa fine taille, dans le but de stopper son hémorragie. Cela la blessa plus qu'autre chose, mais elle sentait que pour l'instant, en savoir plus sur la situation de Soap était une priorité. Elle ravalait alors ses larmes et étouffait ses plaintes dans une expression déchirée. Ghost soupira. Il ferma les yeux et reporta finalement son attention sur leur coéquipier.

« Johnny... Tu me reçois ? » tenta-t-il une énième fois.

Cette dernière tentative ne sembla pas tomber dans l'oreille d'un sourd. Immédiatement après son appel, Ghost reçu une réponse. La ligne grésillait et la voix de Soap était étouffée, coupée par sa respiration haletante et ses plaintes, mais elle était là. Signe qu'il était en vie, Soap avait survécu.

« Cinq sur cinq. »

Ghost fixait sa main gantée pressée contre l'émetteur.

« Je pensais t'avoir perdu. » avoua le soldat.

À travers la pièce, malgré les grésillements sur la ligne, la soldate parvint à entendre le cri de douleur que poussa Soap. Ce fut soudain, il s'était sûrement heurté à quelque chose. Cela attira l'attention de Ghost. Le soldat se mit à le questionner.

« T'es blessé ? » il demanda.

« Ça va. » répliqua Soap.

Ghost se cala contre le frigo de la cuisine. Zieutant à répétition la jeune femme dos à lui, toujours assise et baignant dans dans toute sorte de fluides ᅳeau, sueur, sang, il fronça les sourcils.

« On va voir si c'est vrai. »

« T'es où ? »

« Je suis en route vers une église. On a qu'à se donner rendez-vous là-bas. Tu vas devoir improviser pour survivre. »

Une église se trouvait à côté de l'habitation. Ghost l'avait remarquée dès qu'il était arrivé à la sortie de la ruelle, malgré qu'il ait bifurqué dans la première maison venue. Elle était immense, protégée par une poignée de Shadows éparpillée un peu partout autour du site. Ghost avait déjà trouvé un chemin, il était prêt à y faire temporairement sa base. Mais, avant tout, il avait besoin de s'assurer que Soap allait bien. Qu'il n'allait pas les abandonner mi-chemin.

« Graves et la Shadow sont entrés dans une folie meurtrière. » murmura le concerné, hébété.

Ghost continua de discuter avec Soap. Il lui conseilla de se fabriquer lui-même ses armes et de rester sur ses gardes. Soap l'écouta et prit en même temps des nouvelles de la jeune femme. Pendant ce temps, la soldate, elle, avait enfin constaté les pertes conséquentes dans son uniforme. Non seulement elle avait perdu son arme, mais aussi le reste de son attirail. Il ne lui restait pas une seule balle, le reste était déjà dans son arme. Sa dernière. Elle avait quelque couteaux, mais face aux armes de la Shadow Compagny, elle sut d'ores et déjà que le combat était perdu d'avance. De plus, elle était blessée. Elle fixa avec incrédulité le canon de son pistolet, puis, dans un soupir semblable à un pleur, rangea le pistolet à sa place originelle. Elle l'abandonna et se tourna en direction de Ghost.

« Comment va Soap ? »

« Il tient le coup. » répondit le soldat. « Il nous rejoindra à l'église. »

« Tu veux dire l'énorme bâtiment gardé par l'armée de Shadows dehors, là ? » s'étonna la demoiselle.

Ghost n'eût point besoin de suivre la structure qu'elle pointait du doigt du regard. L'église était parfaitement visible depuis la fenêtre du salon, tout comme les nombreux soldats présents. Ghost savait que c'était risqué, mais qui oserait penser qu'ils étaient dedans ? C'était aussi fou à penser qu'à y croire, ça valait le coup.

« Affirmatif. »

La soldate se mit à glousser. Elle fut néanmoins contrainte de se stopper, les secousses se répercutant dans son estomac lui arrachant une violente expiration. Ghost n'avait pas trouvé de quoi la recoudre depuis la trahison de Graves. Ça faisait long, il en était conscient. Il avait eu le temps de stopper l'hémorragie à l'aide d'un bout de tissu de son uniforme mais depuis, il s'était retrouvé imbibé de sang, de sueur et de pluie. La jeune femme souffrait le martyr, son flanc éraflé par la balle d'un des Shadows et un œil au beurre noir éclosant petit à petit sur sa paupière lui faisaient perdre la tête. Comme elle avait pu, elle s'était débattue. Elle souffrait terriblement, mais c'était bon. Car ça signifiait qu'elle était en vie. Et c'était toujours mieux que d'être morte.

« Simon. »

Ghost avait mal au ventre. Il avait une forte envie de vomir, voire de dégommer le premier homme venu. De lui exploser le crâne contre une fenêtre et de lui faire bouffer les morceaux de verre qui allaient avec. Il s'imaginait le forcer à avaler les éclats à l'aide de sa paume de main et cela lui fit desserrer la prise qu'il exerçait sur son propre poing. Lorsqu'il relevait ses yeux perçants dans ceux de la jeune femme, après qu'elle ait de nouveau prononcé son prénom, il arrêta de respirer.

« T'aurais pas un couteau ? »

Le soldat secoua la tête.

« Donne moi en un. C'est une maison, ils doivent forcément en avoir un. » insista-t-elle.

Après avoir fouillé dans les tiroirs des plans de travail, Ghost lui en proposa une petite panoplie. La soldate lui offrit un fin sourire en retour et saisit le tout, elle les rangea dans son uniforme, là où elle pourrait aisément les saisir.

« On va éviter d'attirer l'attention de Graves avec des armes à feu. Autant se faire discret. » affirma-t-elle.

Les yeux de Ghost s'écarquillaient lorsqu'il vit la demoiselle tenter de se lever. Elle prit appui sur le dossier de la chaise et, dans un gémissement étouffé, se redressait. Lorsqu'elle chuta en avant, Ghost la rattrapa. Il passait son bras juste devant sa poitrine et la replaçait droit comme un pique. La demoiselle poussa un soupir confondu par un grognement. Les traits de son visage s'étaient durcis, elle peinait à garder ses yeux ouverts. Elle avait mal, terriblement mal, elle en suait à grosse gouttes. Elle en haletait.

« Doucement, sergent. T'es encore blessée à ce que je sache. »

« Bordel, Simon, c'est comme ça que tu soignes quelqu'un blessé à mort ? Autant demander à cet enculé de Graves de finir le travail. C'est terrible. »

Ghost attrapa son poignet et la laissa passer son bras autour de sa nuque.

« Non, Simon. Arrête. »

Ghost la dévisagea.

« Je peux pas marcher. Tu comprends ? Je suis un poids mort. J'arrive à peine à garder les yeux ouverts. »

« Hors de question que je te laisse ici. »

« Je te parle pas de m'abandonner abruti. » pesta la soldate. « Trouve un meilleur moyen pour m'aider à avancer. Fais moi monter sur son dos. »

« Tu te fous de moi ? »

Ghost le sentait, il était à deux doigts de la laisser se démerder et de s'en aller. Le temps n'attendait pas. Il avançait. Il courait. L'église avait besoin d'être nettoyée, c'était maintenant où jamais. Il ne pouvait pas la laisser derrière ᅳil n'aurait jamais pu, mais elle commençait à lui taper sur les nerfs.

« Je sais que t'es déjà pas discret, grand bonhomme. Mais je peux pas faire autrement. Désolée. Je te le revaudrai, promis. »

Ghost souffla.

« T'as intérêt. » grogna-t-il.

Pressant ses bras en dessous ses fesses, Ghost la fit grimper sur son dos. La demoiselle enroula ses jambes autour de sa taille, ses bras autour de sa nuque et s'y accrocha férocement. Pour rien au monde, elle ne se serait laissée glisser de sa position. Elle déposa sa tête dans le creux de sa nuque et hissa furieusement à la sensation du dos de Ghost pressé contre sa blessure.

« Je m'occupe des Shadows, toi, tu nous fais rentrer à l'intérieur de cette putain d'église. »

Ghost grimaça en poussant la porte d'entrée de la demeure. La porte claquait derrière lui. Le temps que quelqu'un s'en aperçoive, le duo était déjà en train de pousser l'entrée du grillage entourant la propriété de la maison de Dieu. Ghost était passé sans encombre et la jeune femme sur son dos avait réduit au silence deux Shadows qui, quelques secondes plus tard, les aurait repérés. Elle les avait durement poignardé, pas le moins du monde embarrassée par les mouvements de Ghost. Elle avait sorti deux couteaux, avait visé puis, leur avait coupé le souffle. Ils étaient morts quelques secondes plus tard. Ghost l'avait félicité, honnêtement surpris par la concentration dont elle faisait preuve dans sa condition. Son flanc devait lui faire un mal de chien, mais elle était efficace. Pour rien au monde elle n'aurait voulu décevoir son lieutenant.

L'averse qui leur tombait dessus les aidait à se fondre dans les coins d'ombres, elle masquait leurs traces de pas, ainsi que leur respiration haletante. Les gouttelettes d'eau glissaient vigoureusement sur leur peau, et trempaient tous leurs orifices. C'en était étouffant. Leur uniforme leur collaient à la peau. Et, collés l'un contre l'autre, ils furent rapidement agacés par cette sensation.

Ghost montait les marches menant à l'intérieur de l'église. Il n'y en avait pas beaucoup, sachant qu'il passait par l'entrée des artistes. La porte boisée était trempée et la poignée, une simple boule métallisé, empestait le rouillé. Elle grinça sous la poigne du soldat. Il la tira sur la droite et poussa la porte d'un coup de pied. Elle ne résista pas longtemps. Une fois ouverte, Ghost fit son entrée dans l'église et laissa descendre sa collègue de son dos. Une fois sur la terre ferme, elle grogna, contrainte de s'être appuyée sur sa hanche blessée. Ghost la regardait. Il croisait son regard au moment où elle releva son visage dans sa direction. Son masque lui fit face. Son horrible, terrifiant, mystérieux masque. Un crâne charcuté, donnant l'impression à ses yeux d'être globuleux, monstrueux.

Ghost raffermissait la prise sur son arme, plus précisément sur sa gâchette. Il zieuta l'intérieur immense de l'église. Des bruits de pas retentissaient ici et là. Camouflés par l'averse, il parvint tout de même à les entendre. Une dizaine de soldats étaient présents, leur but ; empêcher les civils ᅳoù plutôt; "suspects/complices potentiels"ᅳ de s'y réfugier.

« Je m'occupe de nettoyer l'intérieur, reste ici. »

« Simon. »

Avec panique, elle avait saisi son avant-bras.

« Je vᅳ Je peux t'aider. » affirma-t-elle.

« Pas dans cet état. » il contesta. « Attends mes ordres et reste cachée. Si ils te voient, on est fichus. »

« J'ai une arme aussi. »

« Ça change tout. »

« Te fous pas de moi. Je suis peut-être blessée mais pas handicapée. » elle s'impatienta. « Tu prends le côté droit et moi la gauche. »

Ghost grogna.

« Tu donnes des ordres à ton supérieur ? C'est nouveau ça. »

« Depuis qu'il est devenu incapable de prendre des décisions rationnelles, ouais. »

Ghost retira une main pressée sur son arme. Il serra les doigts de manière à mouler une forme de poing et frappa sèchement l'estomac de la soldate.

« Cou-couche panier, sergent. » ordonna-t-il.

Le souffle coupé, la jeune femme tomba au sol. Son dos heurta violemment le mur de pierre de l'église, elle glissa jusqu'à que ses fesses ne touchent le sol. Ghost la toisait d'en haut. Il admirait l'expression d'horreur peinte sur son visage. Elle ne respirait plus. Ses poumons brûlaient. La bouche grande ouverte, elle n'avait pas cligné des yeux depuis déjà une minute.

« Sérieux ? » elle s'emporta dans une quinte de toux.

« Hors de question d'avoir ta mort sur la conscience, Angel. » conclut Ghost.

Le lieutenant disparut la seconde suivante. Il allait se cacher derrière un banc et, tout seul, mis hors d'état de nuire l'armée de Shadows aux ordres de Graves. La dizaine d'hommes mourut. Ghost vola leurs munitions, récupéra ses couteaux sur leurs corps inanimés avant de refaire le tour et de s'occuper de barricader grossièrement l'immense porte d'entrée. Un silence de plomb était tombé sur la maison de Dieu. Il était camouflé par l'averse qui s'abattait depuis l'extérieur. Las Almas était immergée, aveuglée par cette obscurité peu rassurante et cette pluie abondante. Une fois le lieu sécurisé, Ghost revint vers sa collègue. Il enjambait le corps des Shadows qu'il avait assassiné, leur portant peu d'attention, ses yeux rivés sur sa silhouette tordue de douleur.

Incapable de le voir s'approcher, la jeune femme, dont les yeux s'étaient fermés depuis que Ghost l'avait abandonné, se tortillait dans tous les sens. Elle avait la mâchoire serrée. Les mains pressées sur le sol rocheux frigorifié et le corps dégoulinant.

« Comment tu te sens ? » demanda Ghost, arrivé à sa hauteur.

« Comme quelqu'un qui s'est prise une putain de patate, lieutenant. »

Ghost sourit. Il croisait son regard.

« Je vais bien. Désolée de m'être emportée. » murmura-t-elle, embarrassée. « Tu avais raison. Je suis plus en état de me battre. »

« Content de l'entendre. Aller, approche, je vais voir ce que je peux faire. »

Ghost attrapa son bras et le fit passer autour de son épaule. La soldate gémit gravement. Sa blessure lui faisait un mal de chien. Elle brûlait, se déchirait à chaque fois qu'elle bougeait. Insoutenable. C'était Insoutenable. Sa chair ensanglantée et rouge était tel un morceau de tissu qu'on déchirait. Ghost la recoudrait, la soignerait, mais cela mettrait du temps à guérir. Cette simple pensée suffit à la faire grincer des dents.

Ghost l'accompagna jusqu'à un banc. Une vingtaine d'entre eux étaient présents. Longs, anciens, solides. Ghost l'aida à se débarrasser de sa veste d'uniforme, de son surplus de matériel. Il le faisait de manière efficace. Il ne perdait pas de temps. Il lui fallait à tout prix jeter un coup d'œil à sa blessure. Sa veste était imbibé de sang, cela ne pouvait signifier que le pire. Sous les yeux d'un Jésus sculpté, les surplombant de toute sa splendeur et grandeur, Ghost déshabilla la soldate et lui apporta des premiers soins plus efficaces.

« J'en ai eu un. » parla Soap.

Les doigts de Ghost se stoppèrent. Il saisissait son émetteur et lui répondit.

« Pas mal. »

« Je lui ai piqué son arme. »

« Bien joué. Tu entres dans la cour des grands, Johnny. » déclara-t-il. « Choisis bien tes cibles. Y'a rien de moins discret que des coups de feu. »

La jeune femme frémissait à la sensation des gants de son supérieur frôlant son nombril. Elle serra les dents. Ses gants étaient trempés, glacés. Elle ne se sentait pas mal à l'aise, mais pas confortable pour autant. Ghost le remarquait. Il retira sa main et détourna le regard.

« Qu'est-ce que je donnerai pas pour un silencieux... »

Les propos de Soap firent souffler du nez la soldate. Elle riait faiblement.

« Faut être futé et faire avec les moyens du bord. » répliqua Ghost.

« Angel, c'est toi ? »

À l'entente de son nom de code, la demoiselle rouvrit les yeux.

« Qui d'autre ? » elle le taquinait.

« Content de te savoir en vie. » il grogna. « Comment tu te sens ? »

« Mal. »

Ghost traça une ligne sur son corps. Partant de son décolleté jusqu'à sa hanche charcutée, il y fit glisser son doigt. Ce geste méticuleux lui valut d'attirer l'attention de la soldate. Hébétée, la jeune demoiselle le dévisageait.

« Désolé de l'apprendre. »

« Ne le sois pas, Johnny. » elle le coupa. « Le médecin qui s'occupe de moi est vachement craquant. Je me sens entre de bonnes mains. »

Soap étouffait un rire.

« Sérieusement ? » rit-il.

« Mhh, mhh. »

Ghost ne répondait plus de rien. Il n'arrivait plus à bouger. C'était fou. Fichtre que son cœur battait vite. Il avait l'impression qu'elle l'entendait. Oh. Peut-être qu'elle l'entendait ? Peut-être que ce n'était pas que lui, peut-être que c'était réel. Peut-être qu'elle lui faisait vraiment cet effet, qu'il ne l'exagérait pas. Ghost ne savait plus quoi penser. Alors, à la place de réagir au quart de tour, il restait là. Il restait pétrifié sur place, ses yeux plongés dans les siens taquins. La soldate, elle, lui souriait.

Entre la vie et la mort, elle laissait ce mystérieux soldat la sauver. Armé d'un masque de squelette et d'un lourd passé, il l'avait désinfectée, pansée, sauvée. Après l'avoir supportée jusqu'ici. Obscurité, pluie et soldats s'étaient mis en travers de leur chemin. Ghost ne l'avait pas une seule fois abandonnée. Et alors qu'elle se trouvait là, allongée sous lui, le bassin ensanglanté, et les yeux entrouverts, car elle commençait à perdre connaissance, il ne l'avait jamais trouvé aussi éblouissante. Les bougies allumées aux alentours, sous les pieds de la statue de Jésus illuminaient les traits de son visage. Ils y apportèrent des reflets chauds. Elle serrait les poings, agacée par la douleur dans son flanc. Plus elle se tortillait et plus elle avait mal, mais plus elle restait immobile et plus cela la démangeait.

Soap mit fin au silence installé. Trois lourdes minutes s'étaient écoulées, le sergent en avait profité pour avancer et davantage s'approcher de l'église. Lorsqu'il reprit la parole, il forçait Ghost et Angel à détourner le regard. Leur contact visuel ne sut y survivre.

« Comment vous vous en sortez ? » il parla.

Ghost termina de scotcher le pansement de la demoiselle. Il appuya sur les bords de son pouce, minutieusement, de peur de la faire hisser de douleur. Ce qu'elle ne fit point. La soldate avait gardé la bouche fermé. Ghost n'avait pas remarqué la façon dont sa mâchoire serrée avait été à deux doigts d'exploser, ni celle dont elle avait serré le poing. Lorsqu'il releva ses yeux dans les siens, elle lui offrit un doux sourire; soulagée que cette torture soit enfin finie. Ghost battait des cils, prit par surprise.

« Ghost, comment ça se passe de votre côté ? » répéta Soap.

« Angel se remettra de sa blessure, je m'en suis occupé. Mais elle pourra pas nous venir en aide. »

« Tu parles. » s'esclaffa la concernée. « Je me sens comme neuve. Même cet enculé de Graves ferait pas le poids face à moi. »

« C'est ça qu'on veut. »

« Tu l'as dit, Johnny. »

Ghost grogna.

« Arrête ça. »

La demoiselle clignait des yeux. Le son grave de sa voix l'avait prise par surprise. Elle hoqueta. Ghost raffermissait sa prise sur sa cuisse et se rapprochait de son visage.

« T'es même pas en état de piailler. » pesta-t-il.

« C'est pas gentil ça. »

Soap riait.

« J'en ai eu un autre. » déclara-t-il peu après.

« Continue sur ta lancée, Johnny. On t'attend. » conclut Ghost.

La jeune femme se redressait. Elle frôlait de prêt son lieutenant qui, lui-même, se redressait. Son estomac replié, une vive douleur alla se propager en elle, à la vitesse et dureté d'un choc électrique. Elle en grimaça. De son côté, Ghost rangeait les outils qui avaient servi à la recoudre, la désinfecter et à la panser. Il jetait le tout dans un coin de la pièce, juste à côté d'un des cadavres à qui il avait volé des munitions. Il se retournait ensuite vers elle.

« T'es pas blessé toi ? » murmura la jeune femme.

Elle cueillit son menton entre son pouce et index, s'attirant la surprise de son lieutenant. Ghost la toisait.

« Des bleus ici et là. » avoua-t-il.

« Tu as eu le plus de chance. Tant mieux. On dirait que seulement moi et Johnny avons frôlé la mort, ce soir. Cool. »

Ghost se relevait. Il s'extirpa de l'emprise de la soldate pour s'en aller en direction de l'entrée de l'église. Il ne lui laissa point le temps de répliquer ni de s'exclamer. Elle, se contenta de le regarder s'en aller. Son cœur se brisa légèrement. Encore une fois, il refusait ses avances. De nouveau, il ignorait l'affection folle qu'elle lui portait. Ghost raffermit sa prise sur son arme et se plaça dans la commissure de la porte, de manière à observer les rues de Las Almas sans être aperçu. Il pointa le canon de son arme à l'extérieur, discuta avec Soap, et laissa une dizaine de minutes s'écouler. La jeune femme l'avait regardé faire. Elle n'avait pas arrêté de le regarder. Pas une seule fois elle avait osé détourner le regard, quitte à en avoir les larmes aux yeux et la vue floue. Parfois, la voix de Ghost s'élevait jusqu'à elle. Elle l'entendait grogner, pester, railler et se plaindre. Cela suffisait à la faire soupirer.

La soldate se relevait une fois suffisamment agacée. Elle se rhabillait, enfilant sa veste d'uniforme sur son débardeur et replaçant le reste de ses accessoires sur son corps. Son uniforme était fermement installé sur ses épaules. Il était trempé et glacé, mais il ne faisait qu'un avec elle, il fondait sur sa peau et sa chaleur corporelle fit le reste du travail. Elle attrapa son arme et traînait des pieds en direction de son lieutenant qui n'avait pas bougé.

Le corps de Ghost se tendit à la sensation d'une main sur son épaule. Le geste fut doux, hésitant. Cependant, cela suffit à Ghost pour faire volte-face en direction de la demoiselle et saisir son poignet.

« Ghost, tout va bien ? » s'inquiéta Soap.

La soldate le regardait avec de grands yeux. Elle peinait à respirer. Son cœur battait vite, trop vite. Elle chercha à se défaire de l'emprise de Ghost mais celui-ci vint raffermir sa prise sur son poignet et l'attirer contre lui. Un hoquet de surprise s'échappa d'entre ses lèvres. Elle papillonna des cils. Ghost grogna lorsqu'elle heurta son torse. Il lâchait son poignet et attrapait sa mâchoire et sa gorge de la paume de sa main. Il n'en utilisait qu'une, l'autre attachée à son arme.

« Simon.. »

Son prénom s'échappa délicieusement de sa bouche. Il glissait sur sa langue. Tel du miel, avec son côté sucré et enivrant. Il glissait de manière onctueuse jusque dans sa gorge dans un râle de plaisir. Elle en soufflait d'aise. Ghost la contempla faire. Il ne clignait même plus des yeux. L'expression de son visage le prenait de court. Il l'avait à peine touchée. Il s'était contenté de la saisir, de la foudroyer du regard, et voilà qu'elle donnait l'impression d'être au bord de l'extase, d'être sur le point d'exploser. Elle se pinçait les lèvres. Sa prise sur son arme se faisait faible. Elle la raffermissait soudainement. Elle s'y accrocha. Elle s'y accrocha désespérément, de peur que, sans ceci, Ghost ne l'emporte à tout jamais dans les abysses d'un plaisir infini. Elle lui fit les yeux doux, la tête penchée dans sa direction, son corps la surplombant et son regard sévère dirigé droit sur elle.

« Concentre toi. » râla Ghost.

La jeune femme gémit.

« Tu délires, retourne t'allonger. »

« Simon, j'aiᅳ »

« Tout va bien de votre côté ? » s'inquiétait Soap.

Ghost s'apprêtait à répondre mais la jeune femme déposa sa main sur son avant-bras. Sa prise sur son arme faiblissait. Il le sentait, il sentait la façon dont ses entrailles gémirent d'union et celle dont son cœur rata un battement. C'était inhabituel pour un homme comme lui. Un homme qui en avait trop vu, qui en avait trop su. Mais alors qu'elle papillonnait des yeux, qu'elle s'accrochait désespérément à son avant-bras tatoué, il fut incapable de résonner convenablement. Ghost perdit la raison. Elle la lui vola sans remords.

Soap avançait de son côté. Il ignora la tension sexuelle qui émanait depuis l'autre bout du fil pour continuer d'avancer dans le café. Il y était entrée cinq minutes plus tôt, avait le plein de ruban adhésif, de pièce de ventilateur, ainsi que craqué le code d'un coffre fort. Il s'approchait minutieusement de la sortie. À travers l'émetteur, l'on pouvait entendre sa respiration erratique, le bruit de ses bottes heurtant le sol et les mouvements de ses doigts sur "son" arme. Mais le tout était masqué par la propre respiration erratique de la soldate, ainsi que par les faibles couinements qui s'échappaient d'entre ses lèvres. Toute tremblante, elle s'accrochait à Ghost. Elle déglutit. La flamme intense dans son regard la rendit toute fébrile. Elle brillait. Elle scintillait. Ghost la dévisageait avec indifférence et elle en devint folle. Elle fut submergée par un désir fou de s'offrir à lui, ici même, sur ce champ de bataille. De lui offrir son âme, et de périr dans son regard.

Ghost caressa le bout de ses lèvres de son pouce. Le tissu de son gant se frotta à ses jolies lèvres gercées. Il s'y coinça, mais Ghost ne s'y attardait point. À la place, il préféra battre vigoureusement des cils, puis déporter ses caresses sur le bord de sa mâchoire. Délicatement. Tendrement.

« C'est pas le moment de batifoler, lieutenant. » pesta Soap. « Je vais sortir du café, je vous rejoins. »

Ghost s'extirpa de sa transe. Il cessa de dévisager les lèvres de la soldate. Ce fut brusque, comme si, violemment, l'on venait de lui secouer les épaules. La demoiselle avait cessé de respirer. C'était elle. C'était elle qu'il avait regardée ainsi. C'était elle qu'il avait ainsi caressée. Ghost pointait son arme en direction d'une habitation. Dans l'action du moment, son coude avait poussé la soldate. Son coude avait heurté son menton et l'avait forcée à reculer. Elle ne s'était point débattue. À la place, elle en avait profité pour jeter un coup d'œil à l'église.

« Merde ! » pesta soudainement Soap.

Ghost tira un coup de feu.

« Nom d'un chien. Ghost, c'était toi ? »

La jeune femme plissait les yeux, observant une curieuse lueur rouge dans l'obscurité. Raffermissant sa prise sur son arme, elle colla son dos contre celui de son lieutenant.

« Qui d'autre, sinon ? Aller, bouge. » ordonna Ghost.

« Vous voulez pas me laisser souffler deux minutes ? Ghost, tu me reçois ? »

La jeune femme pointa le viseur de son arme en direction de la lueur. Elle tira un coup. Un coup ferme, loin d'être hésitant. La seconde suivant, un corps s'effondrait au sol, passant de l'obscurité à la lumière. En réponse, l'on ouvrit le feu sur elle et Ghost.

« Johnny, on de la compagnie à l'église. » informa le soldat. « Et ils sont pas venus prendre le thé. »

« Je m'en charge, lieutenant. » affirma la demoiselle.

Activant sa vision infrarouge, elle s'arma de patience, mais surtout de son pistolet. Elle élimina le plus de soldats possible, les voyant sortir un à un des moindres recoins du lieu. Ils étaient cinq, peut-être sept. Ils étaient immobiles, discrets, elle avait du mal à les voir. Ghost fit volte-face, juste au dessus de sa tête et ouvrit le feu. Il couvrait ses arrières en s'occupant des soldats du haut tandis qu'elle s'occupa de nettoyer le rez-de-chaussée.

« Rejoins nous dans les escaliers. » parla Ghost à travers deux coups de feu.

Soap grogna, lui-même prit dans sa propre embuscade. Il répondit ensuite.

« OK, lieutenant. »

La jeune femme souffla.

« J'ai dégagé le haut. T'en es où, Angel ? »

« Il en reste un, Ghost. »

Mais il n'y avait aucun bruit.

« T'es sûre de toi ? »

« Affirmatif, lieutenant. »

La jeune femme ignorait la douleur vive au niveau de son flanc. Elle serrait les dents, peu importait si cela lui faisait un mal de chien, si c'était inconfortable. Son instinct lui hurlait de rester sur ses gardes. Alors elle resta sur ses gardes. C'était aussi simple que ça. Et ce fut pourquoi, lorsque le Shadow sortit enfin de sa cachette, se pensant en sécurité, il fit froidement abattre. Une balle entre les yeux, la soldate lui avait coupé le souffle.

« Église dégagé, lieutenant. »

Elle se tourna vers Ghost, un fin sourire sur les lèvres. Elle encontra son regard glacial et son sourire vint s'agrandir. Elle lui fit les yeux doux, malgré son oeil au beurre noir.

« Bon travail, sergent. »

Ghost baissa son arme et apporta une de ses mains en direction des immenses portes boisées de l'église. Il en attrapait la poignée et tira la porte jusqu'à lui.

« Allons-y, Johnny nous attend. » il ordonna froidement.

La jeune femme se pinça les lèvres. Elle traîna des pieds jusqu'à son supérieur, osant à peine détourner ses yeux de son regard si envoûtant, si intense. Lorsqu'elle arriva à sa hauteur, elle ne put s'empêcher de frôler délibérément sa cuisse de sa main. Ghost sursauta. Dans un pur geste instinctif ᅳou de colère, il lâcha la poignée et enroula ses doigts autour de son poignet. Ça avait été brusque, sec. Instantané. La demoiselle fut durement tournée face à Ghost et, son visage se rapprocha du sien. Elle hoqueta de surprise.

« Concentre toi. » aboya le soldat.

La jeune femme gloussa.

« Je suis concentrée. »

« Vraiment ? »

« Très. »

Approchant sa main libre de son visage, la soldate frôla l'étrange squelette cousu avant d'enfoncer la pulpe de ses doigts sur le tissu de son masque. Elle huma, satisfaite par la légère chaleur s'en échappant, signe qu'elle n'était pas la seule à haleter.

« Concentrée, oui. Sur la mission ? On peut dire ça... » plaisanta-t-elle.

Ghost raffermit sa prise sur son poignet.

« C'est pas le moment pour tes conneries. »

« Dans ce cas là, la prochaine fois, tu demanderas à Price de me mettre avec lui. »

Ghost la voyait se rapprocher de lui. Elle se mettait sur la pointe des pieds et se penchait jusqu'à son visage.

« Impossible de penser à autre chose quand je t'ai à côté de moi, lieutenant. »

Une ombre apparut soudainement dans sa vision périphérique. Elle ne fit cependant rien. Curieuse à l'idée de savoir si Ghost avait remarqué le Shadow, elle le laissa s'approcher.

« Pas professionnel, oui je sais. » elle grommelait.

Pointant brusquement son viseur en direction du Shadow s'étant pensé discret elle lui planta une balle entre les deux yeux. Ghost fit volte-face dans sa direction, les yeux légèrement écarquillés.

« Mais le job est fait. »

La conclusion de la soldate se termina par un baiser. Un tendre et rapide baiser qu'elle claqua sur la joue de son lieutenant. Elle s'était ensuite reculée de lui et s'était extirpée de la maison de Dieu, apercevant ensuite Soap de l'autre côté du grillage et le salua avec enthousiasme. Le soldat avait une blessure similaire à la sienne, mais au bras, cependant. Ghost le remarqua à son tour lorsqu'il rejoignit ses collègues.

« Content de vous voir en un seul morceau. »

La jeune femme sautait par dessus la grille et atterri difficilement aux pieds de Soap. Le jeune homme l'aida à se relever tandis que Ghost fit de même.

« Pareil ici, Johnny. » sourit la jeune femme. « Tu tiens le coup ? » elle lui demanda en plaçant une main sur son flanc, zieutant son bras ensanglanté.

« Faut bien. » il murmura.

Ghost grinçait des dents.

Il zieutait les deux amis dans un silence alarmant.

« On bouge. » siffla-t-il. « Il nous faut un véhicule, on fonce. »

Angel et Soap échangeaient un regard. Soap fronça les sourcils. Angel, elle, haussa les épaules.

« Qu'est-ce qu'il a ? » demanda-t-il tandis que Ghost dévalait déjà les escaliers de l'église.

« Il boude. » rit la soldate.

Et c'était vrai. Ghost boudait.

[robinthisbank]

TikTokers are such pussies when it comes to ships. “B-but they’re not canon 🥺🥺🥺😭😭😖😖” honey back in my day we shipped characters from entirely different medias uphill both ways in the snow

[sunni-stuff]

P2 P3

Reader who gets pregnant off of a one night stand with some soldier during armed forces day, showing your appreciation for his service a little too well.

You had a support system, friends who joked about you having way too much fun, hence your predicament, others already offering to buy things for the baby and your parents who couldn't be happier to meet their grandchild.

But what about the father?

Well, it's not exactly like you could track him down. Fuck, you didn't even know the man's name, only how he made you feel, his filthy words strumming in your ear, big hands tight around your waist, hips slamming away in a desperate chase.

Let's forget how you leg-locked him.

When your daughter was born, everything changed, and time slowed down. She was a quiet baby, barely crying or having any outbursts like a normal child would but outspoken in her own little way. That chunky thing came out of the womb with a glare. Brown eyes staring down anyone and everyone but you.

That's something she definitely got from her father. You vividly remember how his umber eyes watching you from across the bar. He was like an eagle waiting for the perfect moment to strike his prey. A perfect soldier.

So, you named your daughter Adira in memory of his strength. That's one thing he could have.

Adira loved to be by your side. Her chubby cheeks pressed into the nook of your neck, holding you close with strength of a thousand babies. Your clingy little thing was a koala, always by her mommy's side, never straying far no matter how curious she got. When she learned to walk, her favorite thing became to hug your leg, especially while in stores. She hated people, wearing a tiny scowl whenever customers passed by tucking herself closer to you.

Maybe it was a good thing her father wasn't around. Having to compete for her first words would've been a bloodbath.

You spent two years in bliss. The fact that you were a single mother an afterthought to raising what you considered a blessing.

With Adira's second Christmas coming up, you wanted to do something special. She loved trains and found them absolutely amusing, often mimicking the honk as she ran around your apartment. Thankfully, there was a train ride for kids around the park during this time of year.

Here, you stood in line, bundled up to the nines. Big poofy coat, warm gloves, and fuzzy boots. As the crowd moved, Adira clung close, arms wrapped around your leg, glowering at any passerby with an annoyed look on her rosy cheeks.

That one was new. Maybe something else she got from her father.

The two of you took steps in tow, keeping Adira close and comfortable as the train came into view. Her expression shifted, excitement palpable. "Twain!" She squealed, jumping up and down.

Before you could respond to Adira's childlike joy, a man bumped into you by accident, nearly stumbling over his own feet. He turns to look at you, blue eyes meeting yours, but you were too focused on the weird ass Mohawk on his head.

People wore still those?

"Sorry bout that lass." The man starts to apologize, a Scottish accent lacing his voice.

That breaks your stare, laughing awkwardly to mask your wandering gaze. "Oh no, it's fine. You should be careful. you might slip on ice."

He nods, giving you a kind smile. The Scottish man starts to leave, but the look your kid was giving him sent shivers down his spine.

Little Adira was giving him a fierce stare down from behind your leg before ultimately cutting her eyes at him as if he were merely a nuisance.

"Next in line! Mctavish!"

The man doesn't stay after that. You assume that it was him they were calling with the way he hurried off. Hope he doesn't fall, seemed like a nice guy.

Soap can't help but do a double take when be gets to the front. The little rascal was wearing his Lieutenants face, hawk eyeing anyone who dared got to close. It was like looking in a mirror.

He nudged Gaz, making a gesture to look back without making it obvious. "See the lass and her bairn in line?"

Gaz gives him a raised brow, looking back for a second before turning around. "There's a lot of kids with their mother's, Johnny."

Soap glances back, double checking to make sure you were still in line. “The lass with the wee one—she’s got the same wicked look as Lt. You cannae miss her.”

Gaz rolls his eyes but humors Soap by looking once more, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on a little girl already mean-mugging him from a distance. He swiftly turns around, blinking in surprise, trying to comprehend what he saw. "Uh..."

Soap only nods in agreement. That was Ghost's face, on a kid no less. He wastes no time, elbowing Roach and getting him to look back as well, leaving the other Sergeant in the same shock as Gaz. "That is not a face a kid should have."

"Agreed." Gaz added, shuddering at the thought.

"Where's the cap?" Soap asks, the train ride no longer feeling like fun now that he’s discovered the jackpot.

"Market place with Lt. for cigs," Gaz knowingly remarked, remembering that Price had run out on their way here.

"Well, let's go show them a Christmas miracle," Soap shot up from his seat all too eagerly.

The sergeants just got their Christmas present.

[hidingwhere]

Husband Simon Riley who has scared the shit out of you so many times and so badly that on certain occasions you’ve almost cried.

He doesn’t do it on purpose; he swears. He’s just so silent when he moves that you don’t even realise he’s right behind you until you turn around and let out a loud scream.

One night, you’d gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet. You couldn’t be bothered to turn the light on in your on-suite but as you were washing your hands, your saw a massive figure in the doorway. You let out a blood-curdling scream, only realising it was Simon when he switched on the light and looked at you as if he were crazy.

However, when he saw you tip your head into your hands and saw your shoulders shake, heavy with emotion from fear and shock, he knew he had messed up. He gently pulled you into his arms, carrying you back to bed and apologising profusely.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you that bad.”

“Should’ve spoken so you knew I was there, yeah?”

He makes it up to you eventually and promises to start speaking whenever he walks behind you in the future.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who from the moment he laid eyes on you, has only ever referred to you as his wife

You, this sweet little thing, running through the halls on base one day when you turn a corner and nearly run headfirst into the Lieutenant, who’s walking alongside Soap

“Oh! Sorry about that, sir.” You told him, never slowing down in your hurried pace as you snuck around his large frame and continued down towards whatever you were evidently late for

The only reason his gaze had followed your retreating form, was that unlike everyone else, you had met in his eyes when you spoke, even smiled warmly up at him

That one smile and he was done for

“Who was tha’?” The sergeant had questioned, seeing Ghost’s attention still fixated on you.

“Think that was my wife.”

“Yer what?!”

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who makes it a point to let everyone know that you are in fact his wife

Well, everyone apart from you apparently

He would certainly never abuse his position as a Lieutenant, but some new recruit had the audacity to whistle at you as you walked by? Well 100 laps around the base don’t exactly run themselves

Another soldier saved you a seat next to him in a briefing? He can enjoy scrubbing toilet seats for the next week in that case

Someone actually had the bollocks to ask you for your phone number? Perfect, he needed a volunteer for demonstrating hand to hand combat to the recruits, medics on standby of course

By the time he properly introduces himself to you for the first time, it’s understood by everyone else around that you are, for all intents and purposes, Mrs Riley

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who listens to you tell him your name in a voice that resembles music to his ears, hardly bothering to remember your last name, seeing as it’ll be changing soon enough anyway

“You can call me anythin’ you want, love.” His deep, gravelly voice had sent shivers down your spine, cheeky smirk widening beneath his mask. “So long as you call me, that is.”

By the end of your first date, (you were sitting alone in the dining hall and he wordlessly joined you what do you mean this isn’t a date) he’s wondering if you’ll insist on a ceremony or if he can sweep you away to the nearest courthouse and make this official, slipping a ring onto you finger and his cock into you

You had laughed when he put his number into your phone and named himself ‘Husband’, certain that the man was only messing with you, some kind of hazing that you apparently weren’t aware Lieutenants played on the new communications hire, but it was only fair seeing as he’d saved your contact under ‘Wife’

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who is over the moon every time you play along, even if he knows you believe you’re only playing

“Ach, thanks Lt. Just what I needed.” Soap said, seeing Ghost’s approaching form enter the common room, holding a steaming cup of tea in each hand

“S’for my wife. Get your own.” The older man gruffly replied, sliding the mug onto the side table next to where you’re curled up on the couch, reading a book

“Aw, thank you honey.” You giggled, smiling up as him with an expression he thinks would taste even sweeter than honey if he were to run his tongue across your upturned lips

“Happy wife, happy life, sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, ignoring the other man’s pout, landing next to you and reaching an arm behind you across the back of the couch

“God, maybe I really should keep you.” You’d laughed, reaching a leg out to dig your socked toes into his muscled thigh, teasing him

Grasping your foot into his large, strong hands, he began massaging it, uncaring that you were only two of the many people in the common room, not when you looked at him like that, smiling together as though you truly were nothing more than a married couple

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who surprised you one day, insisting he needed your help with something crucial off base, and drove you to a local shopping outlet to look at none other than dresses

“Is there some sort of party happening?” You’d questioned, confused out of your mind

“Suppose you could consider it a party.” He’d answered, leading you through the many racks of dresses, you noticed were all, very conveniently, white

“Now while you’re lookin’ through dress sizes,” he’d added, taking your left hand in both of his. “You know your ring size? Got my own shoppin’ to do ‘round here.”

Series masterlist

[maskedbyghost]

when simon wakes up in a hospital, the last thing you expect is for him to grab your hand, pull you close, and say, “hey, there you are, love.” his voice is so soft, so sure, it leaves you speechless. you stare at him, half in shock, because this is ghost—simon riley, the one person who’s kept every feeling locked up.

“simon, do you… do you remember anything?” you ask, testing the waters.

he blinks, looking at you with confidence. “of course, i remember. you’re my wife.”

you freeze. his wife? this is new, and you’re not sure where he got the idea, but before you can correct him, johnny walks in, taking one look at the two of you and biting back a grin. he leans in, whispering to you, “maybe just… go with it for now, eh?” he’s got that teasing glint in his eye, and something tells you there’s no harm in humoring simon for a bit, if it can be helpful for his recovery.

so, you go along with it. and to your surprise, simon doesn’t act confused—in fact, he’s more open with you than he’s ever been. suddenly, he’s holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, always looking for you, keeping you close, calling you “love” or “darlin’” in front of everyone. he’s even got that soft smile every time you catch his eye, one that makes it hard to remember this isn’t real.

the team’s amused but supportive, playing along with the whole story. simon keeps asking you little things, like what your favorite meal is, or how you usually spend your days when he’s away, as if filling in gaps in a life he believes you share. you find yourself answering with things that feel so genuine, and the way he listens—focused, attentive—feels more intimate than anything you’ve shared before.

one day, you’re patching up a minor scrape on his hand, and he just watches you, eyes soft, like he’s memorizing every detail. “i don’t know what i’d do without you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. it’s so genuine, so open, that for a second, you forget it’s all just part of his memory loss.

then, one night, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours, eyes serious. “do you ever think about us?” he asks softly, like he’s trying to get at something just out of reach. “how we’d be if things were… different?”

you’re not sure how to answer because there’s no script for this. “sometimes,” you admit, feeling a pang of something deep and unspoken. and for the first time, you’re almost grateful he can’t remember—because maybe, just maybe, it’s the only reason he’s letting himself be this vulnerable with you.

as the days pass, you start catching little glimpses, small things that make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on. he catches you watching him once, and instead of asking why, he just gives you this little smile, one that feels like he’s in on the secret. and just when you’re starting to think this is all some kind of twisted dream, he pulls you aside.

“i know i’m supposed to remember,” he whispers, “but i don’t want this to end. not yet.”

it’s in that moment you realize the truth. he’s been aware all along—he’s been pretending just as much as you, holding on to this fragile, temporary illusion because, maybe, he needs it just as much as you do.

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

hii!! i'm backkk!! send some requests plsss, byee <333

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving

[pricesprincess]

smut mdni

werewolf! simon who posts videos of him fucking other creatures such as other werewolves, vampires, pixies, really anything he can get his paws on that get really good views that is until he meets you, a little trinket fairy.

he sets up the tripod, and you're standing next to him, only ending at his massive hip. you're waving and smiling so cute and sweet too.

you're plump with extra to grab and simon loves that.

que ten minutes in the video and you're being bounced up and down simon's fat cock, the knot nudging against your gaping entrance.

the camera was high quality, able to get an excellent view of the way your pussylips swallowed his impressive girth.

your slick gushing making simon's glistening dick and fat sack that was swollen and drip with your creamy cum that made a mess between his thick and powerful thighs.

simon had his hands tucked underneath your knees to keep your legs spread open as he used you for his own pleasure like you were a toy.

and in a way you were.

the way his tapered tip kissed your cervix you squealed with pleasure and pain that blended together in an intoxicating haze as you gripped his biceps letting your head bounce around.

he fucked into you so deep that you swore he was in your throat, simon was everywhere and there was no escaping his hold or his dick.

comments and hefty tips flowed in the more your pussy gushed that sweet essence which wafted up to his snout that he pressed into your neck. each thrust jingled your trinkets noisily.

your sweet cries brought in the most viewers simon has ever had, sure everyone else he fucked was good but you? you're better.

the way you cling to him trying to tap out after your third orgasm but simon wasn't done. "you promised me love to finish this video, now be good and let me cum in your wet hot cunt "

his knot swelled before he pushed you all the way down making your pussy swallow him whole. "simon! fuck!" you wailed loudly.

a thick load of cum filled your quivering cunt which only added to the wet sticky mess between your legs as simon read the comments petting your hair and kissing your cheek.

"i think you'll just be a regular from now on."

comments and relogs with tags are really appreciated <3

[leafavleo]

GHOST uses to workout quite frequently, because of his job in military. He never admits it loud, but he likes to be in good shape. He likes the glances that you’re sending him when he’s taking off his shirt on purpose to present you his muscular back, covered in black ink tattoos.

There’s only one thing that he hates during his daily routine — push ups. He doesn’t know why he dislikes to do that workout, it’s just happen. He prefers other exercises, but while he’s at home, without the gym equipment, it’s just what’s left for him to stretch those arms muscles more.

But fortunately, recently you’ve got an idea of how to make this workout more pleasant for him. You find yourself on the floor, underneath Ghost while he’s grunting and sweating. It’s not what you think it is, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t making you feel in a certain way.

You like the view from down there. He’s shirtless and the only piece of clothing that he wears are the grey sweatpants. The way he’s looking and sounding makes you want to wrap your legs around his waist and just keep him down.

“Don’t try to give up, because you’ll squish me.” You giggle once Ghost makes another push up, giving you a quick kiss in meantime.

“Not gonna, doll.” He says back in breathy tone, pushing himself back up. He grunts again and lower himself down, giving you another kiss.

You make this exercise quite enjoyable for him.

[khioneee]

simon’s first instinct was always to protect you—before himself, before anyone or anything else. whether in dangerous situations or small, everyday moments, his reflexes kicked in without hesitation. every action was a subtle yet undeniable promise: i’ll always keep you safe.

sidewalk rule? it was non-negotiable. he always made sure he was between you and the street, shielding you from traffic. if you drifted too close to the curb, his hand would find the small of your back, guiding you firmly to his side.

“stay here,” he would murmur, his tone gentle yet resolute, as if daring the world to try anything.

whenever the car came to a sudden halt, simon’s arm instinctively shot out in front of you, bracing against your chest. the seatbelt should’ve been enough, but he never trusted anything more than his own reflexes.

“you alright?” he’d ask, his hand lingering just a little longer, scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

in a crowded space, simon always led the way, carving a path with his broad frame. his hand would stay on yours or at your back, making sure you stayed close. and on a full train, he caged you in without hesitation, using his size to shield you from the press of strangers. his arms rested casually against the poles, but his stance was clear—no one would get too close.

whether you were climbing into the car or walking through a door, simon’s hand would always reach out to guide your head, ensuring you didn’t bump it. in the kitchen, he’d gently tilt your head away from open cabinets, all without thinking. it was pure instinct—small actions that spoke louder than words.

one night at 3 a.m., a car backfired down the street, the sound tearing through the stillness. before you could even react, simon had you pinned beneath him, his body shielding yours entirely. his heart raced, convinced it was a bomb. even after realizing it wasn’t, he didn’t let go, whispering against your ear, “i’ve got you, lovie.”

you could wear whatever you wanted—simon never cared. he wasn’t possessive, but confident. no one would dare glance too long in your direction, not with him at your side. and if anyone was foolish enough to try, one sharp look from simon was enough to make them think twice.

with simon, protection wasn’t just instinct—it was devotion. in every gesture, every glance, every step, he ensured you knew: your safety will always come first. because to simon, loving you meant keeping you safe—always, no matter the cost.

[beloveds-embrace]

Telling Ghost/König you are too heavy for him to pick up or sit on his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first so you think he just accepted it even if your heart kinda twinged a little in pain because you know you are just not skinny enough-

Only for him to send you a video the next day: in the gym, looking mighty hot in a compression shirt and sweatpants just a touch low on his hips, and lifting a bar with ease. On a closer look? The weighs attached to the bar weigh far more than you do. And he so easily maneuvers and controls and manhandles it…

Between the heat curling in your stomach, face pink and thighs clenched shut, you almost miss the incoming text.

Never too heavy for me, doll.

[oceantornadoo]

simon riley AND reader who are absolutely terrible at dating.

he ghosts you after the first date. you thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime connection with unmatched banter and crackling physical tension. guess not. you lose a couple of nights of sleep over it and chalk it up to men ain’t shit and move on.

simon who can’t stop thinking about your date as he gets shipped out the next day. runs through an op quicker than ever, barking at soap more than usual, toeing the line of unprofessional. every day that passes is a day he can’t touch his personal phone, leaving your text thread abandoned.

you get a text a month later. “you around?” have to check the thread to remember who it was, finding yourself absolutely shocked, struggling to remember the hulking mass of a man who made you giggle so much over that one dinner.

simon shows up to your picnic date with apology flowers and a new leather jacket. explains why he was gone without prompting, a gruff monologue as you find yourself getting distracted by the new scratch on his eyebrow and the scruff on his face. unconsciously, your fingers brush it barely, wanting to make sure it was real.

simon stops mid-sentence, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. the shock of what you did hits you, profuse apologies spilling from your lips as you try to explain and tug your wrist back. he won’t let you though, keeping it in place, your soft skin against his worn calluses.

“‘s okay, love. jus’ ask next time. still jumpy from work.” you finally snatch your hand back, embarrassment warming your body as you nod your head in acknowledgment. he thinks about letting the awkwardness settle and take roots, adding a string of failed dates to his black book.

instead you make the choice for him, attention catching on a nearby curious toddler. you give the little bugger a wave with your biggest smile, sticking out your tongue to make the kid laugh. simon decides then and there that he’s going to keep you.

[sigh-tofm]

when they come home drunk…

… price

- thinks it’s important that he loudly tells you he’s married while you steady him upstairs to bed. points to his ring incessantly, slurs on and on about his perfect wonderful wife with the big ass and soft tummy. you roll your eyes and can’t help but smile when he doesn’t let you hold on to his arm to support him. something about protecting his virtue for his wife, as if you’re not standing right beside him. proceeds to lock you out of your own bedroom when you finally get upstairs, telling you his wife will be home soon so he can’t have a strange woman in their bedroom (but still remarks on your wonderful ass). you decide it’s too early in the morning to persuade your drunk husband to let you in, so you go down to sleep on the couch. you wake up with price sleeping soundly on the floor beside you, having gone to find his wife when she never showed up in his bed the night before.

… kyle

- gets sappy and apologises for being away. loses all concept of time when he’s drunk, says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to be away so long, he was thinking of you the whole time, the guys pulled him along and he couldn’t say no. while he’s on his knees at your feet, pressing his face to your thighs and mumbling into your marbled skin, almost making you lose your balance with his fervent apologies, you gently remind him that you were the one who made him go out with the boys because he needed to unwind after a stressful weekend of combat drills, and that he had left with them less than two hours ago. he refuses to hear and only hugs your thighs closer, so much so that you have to support yourself on the wall. turns out all he needed to relax was you.

… johnny

- is horny. almost starts drooling when he eyes you at the top of the stairs, after struggling to close the entrance door for a good minute, causing you to investigate what made all the noise. gets a wild look in his eyes when he sees you in just his t-shirt and makes you scream and giggle as he chases you back up the stairs and to the bedroom. being absolutely shitfaced, he has the coordination of a tranquillised moose and stumbles head over heels across the floor, catches his foot on the doorway and narrowly misses the edge of the dresser with his head as he falls. still, his little soldier is courageously tenting his pants when you worriedly lean over him and he gets a good look right into the collar of your shirt.

… simon

- is emotional and clingy. can’t get enough of you, won’t leave you alone. you can’t make out half his words when he’s had this much to drink (and the mancunian in him breaks out too, making it ever harder to make out the words), but you play along, smile and nod and let him sit on the closed toilet seat and talk and talk while you do your night routine in front of the mirror. so lucky to have you, luv. how could’a lug like me get a pretty one like you, luv. his melancholy statements of love become comfortable background noise for you as you remove your makeup and apply moisturiser. lets you wash the sweat and grime of the day off his face with a washcloth, closes his eyes while you massage your floral-scented moisturiser into his skin, never once stopping his little speech. ambles after you out of the bathroom, holding on to the hem of your shirt, when you’re all finished and ready for bed. his devoted mutters only let up when be falls asleep next to you.

[lxvvie]

Simon who married your family when he married you.

He wasn't used to it, the open affection your relatives showered him with. He would die before he admitted it, but he was nervous as shit when he first met them. First impressions sometimes created lasting impressions and he didn't want you to feel torn if shit went left.

And then he met them and "Welcome to the family!" That's the first thing that your mother said when meeting him. Okay.

"Well sit down, baby. We don't bite none," is what your grandmother greeted him with. Sure, why not.

And then it snowballed from there.

He'd never been one for pet names. Didn't really care for 'em until you came along, but every time your grandmother calls him Baby he melts. He bloody fuckin' melts. A huge puddle of goo. Simon realizes why you're so protective of her and he becomes the same way, too. He's her Baby and she's his Girl. He doesn't make the rules, he only enforces them. You can only roll your eyes and shake your head as your grandmother gleefully continues to indulge his sweet tooth.

Your parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings weren't any better, calling him Son, Brother, Nephew, Cousin and similar, clapping his back, including him in things, inquiring about his wellbeing, and bloody fuckin' hell Simon realizes he actually has a family now whether he likes it or not.

It didn't truly hit him until you two wed and your parents, your mom with tears in her eyes and your father beaming with pride, declared that they had a new son to love.

A new son. A new brother. A new nephew. A new cousin. A new baby.

A new family all his own.

And fuck if Simon didn't feel the lump forming in his throat.

[frogs-crackcorner]

It's nearly one am when Simon stumbles out of the bar. The team was in Berlin for an operation but they had wrapped that up yesterday. Their flight home wasn't scheduled till the next day so they had decided to enjoy the sights and activities. And you can't visit the beer capital of the world without getting a pint, Soap had pointed out. So they stopped by the pub. One pint turned into two, two turned into three. Now he was, staggering down the streets of Berlin with only one goal in mind.

He needed to get home to the missus.

Simon didn't get very far away from the bar before Soap noticed his absence. Soap gently steers him back to the bar. Simon loosely swats at him.

"She'll be u'set if 'm naw home," Simon slurs at him. Soap chuckles and nods.

"I know. But you canny just waltz out on us," he says, pushing Simon into a seat. Simon huffs and begins to stand again, wobbling just a bit.

"Sit yer ass down. We'll call the missus, right?", Soap offers. After fumbling his phone for a minute and trying to get the password typed in, Soap helps Simon call you.

"Hi, honey. How is it going?", your voice rings through the phone. Simon gives you a drunken grin.

" 'llo love," he slurs. You giggle at his love drunk expression.

"Hi baby. Had a bit to drink?," you chuckle.

"He near tried to walk himself home," Soap shouts to you. You laugh harder. Simon wrinkles his nose at Soap, still displeased with being kept there.

" 'm sorry, love. I won't be home in time for dinner," he rumbles. He looks so sad. Big brown eyes staring down at the phone, lip poked out in a small pout. You wipe a tear of laughter from your eye.

"Oh honey, I think it's past dinner time."

[likeawillowtowind]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley who's just, so fucking happy to hear you complain.

like the tap is dripping? yes ma'am he'll fix that straight away, because a tap that drips long enough to annoy you means he's got a home.

the grocery store has changed the layout? that means you've been there long enough to notice.

there's construction for an ugly building down the street? you're clearly planning to stay.

he left the toilet seat up? he'll kiss your face all over until you giggle, promising he won't do it again, he might, just to hear you complain about it.

he's just so giddy when you complain about mundane things, he's so happy you don't have to worry about blood and war and death, you get to live in peace. even if that peace is disrupted by a stupid toilet seat.