it's ridiculous, given that you and him occupy the same space. his head has made an imprint upon your lap from how long he has been laying upon it, and your body instinctively curls over his as if to defend him — him, of all creatures — from the big bad things out there in the world.
it's a rare occurence, surely, considering the line of your work, and rafayel knows that he should feel some semblance of gratitude for you— but there is a selfish part of him that wonders why this is so rare. why is it that he should feel grateful that you only occasionally take time off to spend it with him instead of running after wanderer tracks like some headless chicken.
what irks rafayel the most is that even now, your mind is elsewhere; pondering about your next work day, your next course of action in your investigations regarding the aether core, everything in between— but never him.
"do you love me?" he blurts out suddenly.
rafayel hears you hum, and the dappled shade your frame casts over him where he lays upon your lap shifts as you look down at him. there's a soft smile upon your face, though your eyes shine with a glint of curiosity— puzzlement.
"of course i do," you say, as if it were obvious— as if rafayel could feel it.
and he does. he knows it, deep down in his heart and in his soul, that you love him as surely as the wave comes back to shore; you'll always come back to him at the end of the day, and rafayel thinks that it should matter.
it should matter. it should. that's what he tells himself then as he closes his eyes, turning his head to bury it in the soft of your stomach— and will all his wretched thoughts away.
summary: you and rafayel cover yourselves in paint and (redacted).
word count: 3450
warnings: porn without plot, smut, swearing, nsfw, mdni, fem!reader
tags: @keiva1000 @kindnessspreads @msbyomimi
a/n: my brain is rotting for this man so this is just self indulgent crap atp
You weren’t exactly an artistic person.
You just never indulged in art before. Of course, you admired the craft and thought it was extremely difficult to actually create meaningful art. But you didn’t think you were a particularly creative person, nor did you think you had an eye for such stuff.
Ever since you began dating Rafayel, you would say your appreciation for art had definitely improved. How could it not, considering he spent all day creating it, and in the time he wasn’t, his world was still colored by the lens of it. Rafayel saw art everywhere he went, in the gentle roll of the water where it rippled in fountains, or the timid but pinpoint light of a lone star in a dark sky. He loved describing it to you, and the way he put it would make you look around twice. He had really changed the way you viewed the world.
What you were about to do now wasn’t exactly the kind of art that made you think deeply of the universe, but hey, not all art can make you question your existence. Sometimes you need to create….. lighter pieces.
Stepping back, you stared down at the bed sheet sized canvas you had stuck to the floor, sure that you had used enough adhesive to keep it temporarily in place. The clock on the far wall of the studio told you that Rafayel would be home in a little while, which meant you needed to start the next phase of your plan shortly. But first things first, you needed lighter clothes.
After you had switched your jeans and button down shirt for a thin, short robe, you began pulling down buckets of paint from the storage closet connecting to the main studio. You chose only two, a light purple and a light pink. Both colors you knew Rafayel liked using in his pieces. You might not know a whole lot about art, but you knew him inside out. And you also knew he would love this idea.
You spent the next few minutes going over the canvas with the two buckets, pouring a few globs of paint over it. Small, but dense, with lots of blank canvas around them so they could be spread. You decided to only do two or three globs of each color. After all, wasn’t the art in how the colors would move and slide on the canvas? This should be enough paint for that purpose.
Your face was heating up at the thought of what was about to happen, and you felt almost giddy. When was he going to be home? You couldn’t wait to get started.
As if on cue, the door of the studio clicked open, not making a single sound as your boyfriend lumbered in, closing the door behind him. His white shirt was loose, black pants tight, and you couldn’t help but admire his ass when he turned around to shut the door with a light snap.
“Hey-” He stopped almost immediately upon seeing you, eyeing the half empty paint can you were setting down and the flimsy robe covering your body. A body that was definitely naked under it.
“What are you doing?” You saw his eyes flick over you and then behind to eye the massive canvas you had laid out, along with the little circles of paint looking fresh and shiny on it. You gave him a grin.
“I was hoping we could collaborate for your next piece.” You tugged at his shirt until you both stood closer to the canvas, taking special joy in how confused he looked. His eyes kept darting all over the place to try and make sense of what was going on, and you had to stifle a giggle.
You thought to elaborate on your suggestion by slowly unbuttoning his crisp white shirt. Rafayel raised his eyebrows but didn’t stop you, probably curious to see what you were cooking. You tugged his shirt off his toned shoulders, before going to work on his pants. His hand finally seized yours, tilting his head so your eyes would meet his.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” His tone was amused. You hummed almost in thought, pulling your hand away. You tugged on the belt of your robe until it slipped free, and the front fell open. You saw the tips of Rafayel’s ears turn red, and his expression blanked a bit.
“You have paint. You have a canvas. And you have me.” Your voice was a low whisper. You reached into the bucket next to you, palms stretched, until they were both covered in paint. Then you reached one hand up and dragged your fingertips over his bare abs.
The cool paint made them contract a bit, and you heard the way his breath hitched under the touch. Four long streaks of pink now stood out against his pale skin. Finally, you looked back up to meet his gaze, his face inches from yours.
Rafayel’s blush had extended from his ears down to his neck, but the corner of his lip twitched up into a slow grin. His hands were eager as he undid the button of his pants, and you felt a thrill run up your spine. You watched him undress quickly. He was slow, smooth, as he lifted one precise hand to tug on the shoulder of your loose robe until it was falling off your shoulders and pooling at your feet.
He looked around and his eyes caught the second can of paint. Purple. He dipped his hands into it, and you watched him walk back over to you.
“Where did you get this idea, baby?” His voice had lost its confusion, coated in honey now, sultry and low, nearly a whisper, and you shivered when his breath hit your bare neck. He took advantage of the fact that your hair was pulled up and away from your shoulders, tracing gentle lips over the slope of your shoulder. Instinctively, your hands smoothed over his torso, and you were reminded of the paint on them, still wet, now swiped onto the man before you.
Rafayel hummed at the feeling and proceeded to return the favor, his hands set on your hips. The paint was cool on your skin, and you almost jumped at the temperature if it weren’t for his warm hands taking the feeling away in the next second. Your boyfriend gave your naked bodies a gentle tug backwards until you were stepping on paper, slight crinkling noises hitting your ears.
Gentle lips now made contact with yours, and you sighed in relief. You had missed this, just the feeling of him kissing you. You had been thinking about it- and other things- all day, and you were so excited to start. Hands caressed over each other slowly but eagerly, and you couldn’t even begin to imagine how much paint you had managed to get on each other.
Your kisses became more hurried, more firm, and you could feel Rafayel’s body temperature rise a bit. His breath stuttered when you moaned into his mouth, tongues dancing together in a synchronized battle. He nibbled at your bottom lip and you arched deeply into him, nails digging into his biceps.
“Fuck, the paint is drying.” You managed to gasp out when your lips separated, his mouth finding the skin behind your ear immediately. He sucked hard on it, until you shivered and let out a long, shaky breath. Your knees were so weak, and you were glad for his strong arms wrapped around your waist, since it was the only thing currently holding you up.
He hummed against your skin, not letting up on the marks he was marring it with. You had discovered pretty early on that Rafayel was a biter, and marks on your skin was another way he created art. It just so happened that you enjoyed the feeling more than you could ever think to describe.
“Good thing you laid more out for us then.” He responded, referring to the globs just below your feet, before tugging you down until you were sprawled on the canvas below you. It was cool under your skin, and you felt something wet just under your shoulder. Oh. Your eyes met Rafayel’s before they finally traveled down his body for the first time since you two had started. You gulped in a deep breath.
His pale skin was covered in purple and pink streaks, like smooth color streaked over brilliant porcelain. The ridges and bumps of his muscles stood out even more under the paint, and you could tell in a few places the exact route your hands had taken, pink running over his waist and down his V-line. The remnants of the journey your fingers took stood before you, proud on his skin. You felt a thrill run through you at the sight, something stirred in your core.
“This is turning you on.” Rafayel observed, a light smirk resting on his face. You felt your body burn at the teasing lilt of his voice.
“As if this isn’t something you’ve dreamed of doing.” You retaliated, opening your legs so he could fit himself between them, resting his elbows on either side of you so your faces were a hairbreadth away. He hummed and sighed, lowering his body until his erection grazed right over your center, making you gasp.
“Believe me, I’ve dreamed of this.” He sighed, reached for the paint to the left and just above your head. You watched him cover his palm with it before he reached down, hooking a hand under your knee and pulling it up until it folded against your torso. The paint was wet on your skin, and you were learning to love the feeling more and more. His cock prodded your entrance, now on full display for him. He gave you another mischievous smirk.
“Baby I’m about to ruin you so bad.”
The first slide of him inside you had you crying out and arching into him, his cock carving its way through your unprepped hole and bringing with it a burn so delicious it made your head spin. When he bottomed out, he moaned unabashedly into your ear, hot breath hitting the shell of it and sending shivers through your spine. Your core clenched and unclenched rapidly, trying to adjust to the glorious intrusion. Your brain screamed at him to move, to slide in and out, do anything at all. You needed to feel him rock into you. Your hips twitched and jerked, making your boyfriend moan before he finally started moving.
His thrusts started out languid, smooth, gliding in and out of you at a reasonable pace. You sighed, head leaned back and reveling in the feeling it brought, leg tensing under his grip. Little tendrils of pleasure zipped up from where you were connected, heavy cock stretching you open until your pussy was adequately wet, ready to take the pounding you knew was inevitably coming your way.
And oh, did you receive it.
Slowly, steadily, Rafayel picked up the pace until his hips were smacking hard into your pelvis, knocking every breath from your lungs. You cried out, one arm thrown over his shoulder while the other seeked desperate purchase under you, used to the feeling of silk sheets but now met with nothing but smooth, stretched out canvas and the wet sensation of sticky color. Rafayel used the grip he had on your knee to twist your leg out further, inviting him to hit that one spot that made you see stars. A broken wail left your mouth and your back arched impossibly high, hearing a low moan hit your ear when you clenched tight around the cock pounding into you.
“F-fuck, Rafi-” His head lifted, just enough to connect your lips in a desperate slurry of rushed kisses, sucking and biting on your lips as his pace didn’t so much as stutter. Your moans dissolved straight into his mouth, little pornographic ‘yeah, yeah, yeah’s slipping out with every thrust. You didn’t bother muffling them, knowing exactly what the noises did for Rafayel’s ego, and with how he was ravishing you currently, you were okay with giving him a little ego boost.
(You would deal with the consequences of that later.)
“Gonna cum-” You managed to choke out just as your orgasm rammed into you with no warning, effectively silencing any other words as you cried and shook through it, muscles seized tight and legs kicking in the air.
“God- fuck,” Rafayel’s first words. “There you go. Fuck, that’s it.”
He fucked you through the last vestiges of your high before his arms slipped under your arched waist and lifted you up, rolling over until you were perched on his hips, throbbing cock still nestled inside you. The change in position made him slide in deeper, and you let out a broken moan. Your orgasm was still lingering around the edges, encouraging you to prolong the feeling, to chase after it again. And so you did. You rolled your hips, placing your hands on Rafayel’s abs as leverage to push your body up and down. You finally took a good look at your boyfriend.
His chest was heaving with exertion, shining under the glow of the lights above you, catching on the swirling mixes of purple and pink. Under the paint, his skin glistened with sweat, tensing and straining under his movements. The paint had reached all the way up the side of his neck, and even into his hair, blending with the purple tresses. The purple complimented his eyes, half lidded and heavy with lust, his lip was tucked under his teeth.
He was a vision.
“Baby, you’re so fucking beautiful.” His voice was fractured and strained, and in your staring you had forgotten that you were also the object of his gaze. You couldn’t imagine how you looked right now, slathered with paint and hot under the stimulation you were receiving, strands of hair leaving your bun and trailing down over your face and neck. You rolled your hips and tightened hard around his cock, watching the way his jaw slackened and eyes rolled shut. Another zip of pleasure ran through you, and you couldn’t help but keen, pushing yourself to go faster, to make him feel even better.
“I’m- I’m so close.” You could feel your vision swim, tears gathering in your lash line as his cock dug deep into your core, prodding into your spongy walls in all the right ways. Rafayel grabbed both your wrists off his chest, pulling them behind your back and then tugging you down until your body was pinned tight against his. You let him do as he pleased, planting his feet on the canvas before he started thrusting hard and fast up into your sopping cunt.
You screamed and arched, body tensing at the pace he set, chin resting on his shoulder and head thrown back as you let him carry you face first into another orgasm, gushing around him until the sounds of his thrusts grew impossibly wetter, sloppier than the paint around you and covering you, blabbering incoherent phrases and curses as tears poured from your eyes. With every thrust, the ecstasy prolonged itself, like an endless high that came with intense drugs, except all you needed was him, and he would get you there if it was the last thing he did.
Your perspective was shifting, Rafayel’s cock leaving you until you felt cold and empty. He maneuvered you onto your hands and knees, or rather, arms and knees since you felt that you couldn’t even hold yourself up at this point. A firm hand pushed on your back until it arched to his liking, spreading you until he could slide his massive length back into you with little to no resistance. You whimpered pathetically, eyes rolling unhindered in your head, cheek smushed into the paper beneath you. Briefly, you felt like you could almost taste the paint, but the thought left your brain faster than cigarette smoke dissipating on a windy day when Rafayel started moving again.
“Stop me if you can’t take it.”
You could never, would never stop him, not when your pussy keened at the feeling of his cock filling you up to fulfillment once more. Especially not when he planted a foot on your side that gave him leverage to thrust harder and stronger into you. Your body buzzed and reveled under the feeling of being used like this, basking in the sounds coming from Rafayel getting heavier and choppier as he finally chased his own orgasm instead of yours. You wanted nothing more than for him to warm you up, fill you with his seed until you couldn’t take any more of it. Your depraved mind was wiped blank of everything else except that crushing need.
“Cum in me.” You managed to whine, clenching hard around him. Rafayel moaned and his hips stuttered.
“Fuck. I’m gonna- I’m cumming baby, take it, take it, take it, take it-” Your body jostled at the strength of his thrusts, once, twice, and then he was slamming his cock deep into you and holding it there, hot spurts of cum hitting your walls. Painting your insides white like your bodies had painted your outsides purple and pink.
Your entire body collapsed on itself when Rafayel pulled out, dropping onto the paper heavily as you tried to catch your breath. Your vision was swimming and so was your head, unable to do anything but focus on the faint buzz in your muscles. You could hear shuffling somewhere behind you before you were being lifted into strong arms. You sighed and curled into them, seeking the warmth of your boyfriend after the beating your body just took. And he was happy to provide it- in the tub he ran for you while both of you settled into warm water.
You dozed in and out of sleep as Rafayel cleaned you up, giggling and humming along with whatever little anecdotes he was telling you. He knew you would barely remember most of it later, considering how dopey and spacey you got after sex. You pouted and leaned up to him every few minutes, stealing tiny kisses from his lips. And afterwards, you let him pat you dry and put you to bed in the usual “princess treatment” he gave you after one of your sessions. The only time he backed off from teasing you relentlessly and instead doted on you properly.
You couldn’t tell how long you slept, but you woke up feeling well rested. The bed next to you was empty but still slightly warm, and you could hear quiet shuffling outside in the studio.
Your muscles screamed when you forced them to move, your hips and thighs feeling like particular sore spots. You ignored the feeling in favor of pulling a shirt off the floor to throw over your body, realizing it was your boyfriend’s when it fell all the way to your thighs. You trudged out of the room while rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You saw him standing with his back to you, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. The muscles of his bare back shifted as he moved, now clear of all the paint you two had slathered on it. Oh right, the paint.
Your eyes shifted behind him to the canvas, which Rafayel had propped up against the wall now, and was observing silently. You walked closer to admire the streaks of pink and purple on it, watching it carefully. Somehow, the choppy strokes showed your desperation, your passion, and you felt your face heat up at the thought.
“Looks pretty.” Your voice was slightly rough. Rafayel turned around at the sound and gave you a soft smile, pulling you closer and wrapping his arms around you from behind as you both stared. You settled into his warmth as you swayed gently back and forth.
“Why’re you thinking so hard about it?” You asked.
You turned your head to watch as he huffed and pouted a bit. He looked so cute, you bit back the urge to squish his cheeks.
“Pretty sure there’s some cum in there somewhere.”
Aaaaaand the urge was gone.
You smacked his chest hard, making him jerk back and laugh, but not releasing his hold on you.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Not more than you.”
He kissed you before you could land another smack, hand cupping your jaw to tilt your head back. You fought to keep a grin down, but failed when you felt his lips stretch with a smile of his own, erupting into giggles.
''Cold and detached Simon'' this, ''rude and distant Simon'' that, give me a Simon that was made for soul-crushing devotion.
Simon Riley, who dreads every moment away from you and the only thing he wants to do is to come back home to be back in your warm embrace.
Simon Riley, who never planned anything for the future, yet he finds himself looking up land in the English countryside while you're asleep next to him.
Simon Riley, who brings you souvenirs crafted for you by locals of every country he visits, always paying more than extra because no amount of money will ever compare to your pretty smile when he brings you something new.
Simon Riley, who holds your hands when you're making love, hips rolling slowly into yours while he rubs your engagement ring, face buried on the crook of your neck and mind completely blank, fully lost in how good your tight cunt feels wrapped around his cock.
Simon Riley who gets your initials tattooed over his heart, but not in the conventional way.
The idea of getting your full name spooks him, cause what if he gets captured and some enemy agent sees? It's just too much of a risk for him. But initials are safer. Twice as much if they're hidden behind roman numerals.
So he reveals his new ink one day, during a quiet moment a few weeks after he gets it once it's healed up. He explains what the roman numerals are (they correspond to letters of the alphabet: A would be I, B is II, and so on) and what they mean, and you spend so long marveling at Simon's dedication that it takes you a minute to notice something... strange.
"There's no number for my last name."
He takes your hand, puts it over the numbers, and puts his forehead on yours.
"That's cause I'm hopin' you'll let me put the number 18 there, love."
Men who act cold and brooding in front of everyone else but are desperate lovers, eating you out from behind and grabbing every single inch of flesh they can touch as soon as they come back home to you >>>>>
You felt his gaze, since the moment you walked inside the dimly lit room, through out the entire debriefing. Laswell introduced you, Soap and Gaz smiled, Price shaked your hand, and Ghost just stared at you with crossed arms. Soap made a joke and told you to not take it personally, he was an arsehole with everyone and that he soon would warm up. You doubted he was capable of such thing as warming up, but Soap was being so positive trying to make you feel welcomed that you didn't want to contradict him.
His staring continued even when Price was talking. You stared him back with no shame at all, if he was going to forget all manners so would you. He was ridiculously tall, making you look tiny in comparison, with big muscles and an imposing skull mask with bone matching gloves. It was summer, they were stationed in a base in the middle of a desert and yet he was covered from head to toes, except for his eyes. Dark gorgeous eyes, with which he was burning holes in you. You locked eyes with him, defiant at his attitude and then turned to pay attention once again, ignoring him for the rest of the meeting.
Once everything was said and done, Ghost almost ran out of the room, door clashing against the wall, without saying anything to anyone.
Yeah, he definitely was never going to 'warm up to you', he disliked you for sure, but as long as he remained professional you couldn't care less.
-------
Sounds disappeared the moment you walked in, there was nothing else for him to focus but you. You robbed him of any oxygen for few a seconds, his fists clenching over his biceps.
Ghost was well aware that the new teammate that had been recruited was a woman, he had worked side by side with plenty of them before, it was nothing out of the ordinary. And yet when you smiled after being introduced, his brain stopped working. What a terrible thing to not warn him before hand that you would be this lethal. Your soft voice buried like a knife between his third and fourth ribs, straight to his heart.
He couldn't simply stop looking at you, there was something about you that called him like a siren luring sailors to their certain deaths. Price's voice was muffled, he tried multiple times to pay attention but Ghost just couldn't. His gaze raked over your body, he noticed how your hair moved softly at the breeze of the air conditioner, how you were sitting, the way you crossed your legs, how you observed the room with eagle eyes absolutely aware of everything around you, how you chose to stand where you had visual access to every door and windows paying attention to your exits, not too far but not close.
Ghost wandered what were you thinking, what information you were gathering from your observant gaze. And for some reason or another, his mind ended up curious about whether you liked tea or coffee. He hoped tea, he wouldn't mind sharing some of his with you.
Then, your eyes locked with his.
Later on, Simon would recall this moment as the one that had defined the rest of life.
Knife in his heart now twisting and pulling, you had no mercy whatsoever. So cruel. He tensed under your scrutiny. Your pretty lips pouting ever so slightly and he wondered what other sounds they could make, if they would taste just as soft as they looked, and the way they would move as you screamed his name.
The moment Price dismissed them, Ghost left as fast as he could before anyone could notice how hard he was from imagining all the ways in which he wanted to take you.
Locked in his bathroom, Simon realized as he finished himself that your name would sound so much better with Riley at the end.
《🌙•🌙•🌙》
My sweet killing machine doesn't know how to socialize outside of military bs, like a normal person. He will stare until you give up and marry him. A marriage, which by the way happened 100% thanks to Soap and his nosy matchmaker skills, bc he was getting so tired of neither of you making a move
You're not his girlfriend, but don't you dare to have a date with someone else. If he only has eyes for you, so do you.
You're not his girlfriend, but Soap no longer wraps his arms over your shoulders like he used to do when he wanted to tell you a secret. And neither Gaz spars with you, he jokes that it's because he is tired of beating your ass. But you don't notice how he looks over your shoulder, to where Ghost is.
You're not his girlfriend, but he schedules his leaves to synchronize with yours so you two can spend time together outside of work.
You are not his girlfriend, but you live with him because rent is expensive and a waste of money as he had said.
You are not his girlfriend, but Price and Laswell ignore any signs they see or complaints they might receive. They make sure their best operatives are protected for as long as it doesn't affect their work.
You're not his girlfriend, but the last time someone flirted with you at a bar they ended up with broken fingers.
You're not his girlfriend, but he fucks you in his bed almost every time. He says it's because his room is far away from the rest, so that no one will hear you. Your moans are his, and only his. He doesn't want people to hear how he ruins you for any other man as you scream his name. Making you come more times than you can count until you're fucked stupid.
You're not his girlfriend, but Ghost wraps his arms around you when you try to leave and he whispers "stay".
You're not his girlfriend, but he never wears his mask around you.
No, you're definitely not his girlfriend, but there's a black little box with his mother ring hidden in his closet.
god i love doomed romances because it’s like. “what is grief if not love persevering” but the grief and love are happening at the same time. how do you grieve something that’s still alive? how do you love something that has always been dead? and the answer is just. intensely.
simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader
summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.
an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%.
word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here
simon ghost riley masterlist
You love the rain.
Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit.
But, at home, it’s refreshing.
It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next.
Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.
It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called.
On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices.
At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat.
Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather.
Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.
You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts.
Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.
You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.
The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.
When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.
That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them.
Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness.
It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.
It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock.
Short. Deliberate.
Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door.
When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them.
Only to see him.
“Ghost?”
He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face.
His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.
You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.
Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.
“You lettin’ me in?”
Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it.
Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks.
He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second.
Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“
“Someone broke into my place.”
You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was.
Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back.
“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?”
“Not sure.”
Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”
He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain.
“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper.
As if it’s so rarely ever said.
You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything.
He’s Ghost.
Silent. Quiet, Ghost.
Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound.
Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?”
Silence.
A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.”
You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.”
He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to.
“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.”
You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him.
But you’re more nervous.
Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is.
Him being here.
And yet, not that odd at all.
“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.
He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him.
His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit.
“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add.
Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show.
And then, he says, “It’s nice.”
“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”
“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly.
“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.
Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.”
His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table.
“It’s not what I expected.”
“You’ve thought about my place?”
Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down.
You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward.
“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”
You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement.
“You were closer.”
Oh.
Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason.
Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months…
It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.
Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat.
“I had to see if you were okay.”
You don’t place the plates down, not immediately.
Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat.
He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue.
Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you.
“Well, I’m fine.”
“Had to be sure.”
You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.”
His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.
“Tea?” you ask.
Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips.
“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”
You make him snort.
And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.
If anything, it adds to it.
Shit.
Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.
“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand.
You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him.
Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between.
He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it.
It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down.
That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room.
He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes.
You cannot die.
Why?
But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again.
Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost.
Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm.
“What?”
Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’.
You forget how good he is at reading people.
Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle.
Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart.
Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat.
Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.”
Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk.
But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you.
Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.”
“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.”
“How then?”
Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit.
“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.”
You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name.
Your real name.
Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier.
“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”
“It?”
You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense.
“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?”
Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you.
He’s silent.
So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it.
Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.”
You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.
For what you’re not sure.
Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination.
So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.”
He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.”
But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape.
Go back.
Go back to him.
Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.
He came to check on you. You.
Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak.
It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.
It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again.
His hoodie is gone.
Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.
Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin.
“Tell me to go back to your living room.”
Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side.
You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again.
As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined.
“Words, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you.
“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.”
Speechless, your lips part.
Yes. Please, yes.
Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—
His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality.
“Simon…” you manage to whisper.
Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough.
He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.
Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips.
Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed.
He smells different than usual.
Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough.
“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?”
His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for.
“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up.
His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.”
If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it.
All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.
And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do.
“Wait.”
It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you.
Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.
And he smirks.
The devious bastard smirks.
Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him.
“Fuck…”
“Part them, sweetheart.”
And you do.
You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back.
The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.
You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big.
Almost too big.
The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans.
He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers.
You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him.
The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side.
“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours.
Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you.
“I want you.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”
“I hope you fucking don’t.”
His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.
You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds.
You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.
“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.”
“Simon…”
Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched.
He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you.
You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows.
“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.”
It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.
He does ruin you.
Not the first time, the second, but on the third.
Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom.
You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.
A painting in colours of his own design.
You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care.
Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe.
You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.
"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.
Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.
Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.
“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”
He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move.
Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building.
"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."
His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.
"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."
You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.
Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.
“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.”
Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.”
You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart?
His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.
“The latter.”
You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.
Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.
“You make shit tea, though.”
read part two
a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!
simon ghost riley x f!reader (reader!helen)
wordcount: 5.3k (i have zero self-control)
summary: he never wanted to get married. he’s not sure when you became the exception. an: mention of loss, blood. smut. emotions. angst. fluff (usual jo-shit)
simon ghost riley masterlist
++
He never wanted to get married.
Marriage meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leads. Leads led to death.
Not just for him, but for the poor soul he’d chain to him. The one who he’d rather not have than know their life was ended because of him. Because he’s supposed to be dead.
He’s not sure when you became the exception.
Unsure when you buried yourself so deep into his veins he needs you more than blood, oxygen and bullets.
++
Shit hit the fan.
Some missions were worse than others. Some leave more than scars and nightmares.
Today was bad. Even he knew that.
Alpha 0-3 lay on the floor, unconscious proof of it.
Half the soldiers they’d gone with—dead, KIA.
His jaw is tight, almost cracking as he stares at Johnny—unsure how they’ve walked away from it. How they’re both here, surrounded by silence as the few who have survived try to process.
He almost says something, spits it out. But then he hears it—your orders.
They’re piercing and direct. Coming over the radio as the blades overhead slow, guiding them down to the ground. He feels it—the itch to get to you. To bury his hands in your hair and pull your face to him.
Ghost makes do with meeting your eyes when the rear opens, your eyes scanning him, the briefest mist of relief over your lips, cheeks and eyes before you nod.
“Later?”
Later.
He responds in the same silence, puncturing it with a nod.
The two of you had your own spoken language—something he’d mastered quicker than he had any other language. But then, speaking Helen had more pros than cons. More benefits than listening to enemies talk shit about him and his mask.
All he could do was watch as you followed the carried body.
Unsure what version of you he’d find later—what fragments of you he’d have to scoop up. If there would even be pieces left where they were supposed to be.
Secretly, and selfishly, he just hopes the pieces of him match with the pieces of you. Praying they slot together until the two of you can both return to some semblance of a whole.
It’s then he has to remind himself it’s a luxury having you. War takes so much—the darkness takes so much more.
It’s a reward to pull you close to him after a shit show like this; it’ll be a gift to feel your breath on his chest. Even more so for your fingers to draw those bloody shapes on his side—dancing over healed scars and your needle stitching.
“C’mon, Johnny,” he snaps, filling the air with something other than failings, disappointment and held breath. “Briefing. Now.”
+
You crumble.
Lost it. Lost them.
Losing is part of the war, part of the battle. But, it doesn’t sting any less, doesn’t make it easier to swallow.
Call it.
But—
I said call it.
Your gloved hands clenching and unclenching. Desperately clinging, digging your toes into your boots as you try to not unravel. You could do it alone. When they’d left. When the room was emptied and there was only you and your failure on the table.
They moved to leave. Quickly. Announcing they’d check the others—the ones who had wounds but still had air in their lungs. Your eyes blinking, the machines turning off, their boots squeaking before the door to the theatre squeals.
That’s when you look at their backs, firing a quick, but soft thank you. Something those above you didn’t do when you were in their position—when you were them, head hung down, feeling the weight of another loss.
Both of them meet your eyes, and you reward them with a smile, one which tells them it’s not on them—a smile which says you can’t win them all. Something you don’t believe, have never believed but can understand why it’s a comfort.
They nod, and they leave.
Not knowing you’re ticking, that you’re a bomb. Emotions bubbling, fizzing and hissing. Time ticks as you wait. For what you’re unsure.
Silence? The moment to snap?
It would have needed a miracle. The damage was extensive—you knew that, you’d already calculated it before you’d begun. A life, was a life. A person had people.
You stare at the corpse—the one which had a beating heart minutes ago, the one which had the slimmest chance, but a chance all the same.
You could feel it crushing you. The weight of loss. The failure pecking at your bones—good soldiers lost. Gone.
Because your fucking hands weren’t quick enough.
++
You’re not in your office.
Not in the infirmary or the utility cupboard you often hide in.
The one he’s somehow crammed himself into when you’ve needed a minute—hands grasping at his belt buckle.
He’d counted the bodies hooked up to machines.
Realised quickly, but not quickly enough. The soles of his feet hammer down, and it dawns on him how shit shit was.
He’d felt the thrum in his chest earlier. The knot of something undoing—his gut telling, screaming and kicking that something was wrong. Now he knows what.
Because he knows you. It’s why he cuts down corridors and passes soldiers who almost flatten themselves to the wall as he passes.
Doing so until he finds you, and finds you he does.
If someone told him he grasped his chest at the sight of you, he’d have crushed their windpipe with his palm. But, as he stepped through his open door, spotting you pressed into the corner of his room, he unclenches his hand from his jacket.
You’ve been broken. A shattered raft out at sea, lost and delirious in grief.
But this is worse.
His foot closes the door, waiting for a reaction—finding none. Nothing. Not an arch of your brow, not a snort.
Your knees remain bent, elbows hanging over them. There’s a distant, empty look in your eyes. Both of them almost glazed over, like the light in them has been snuffed out.
Exactly how Johnny had described them to him when he’d come looking for him, having passed you…
But, it’s that plus the fact your bloody apron is still on, your blue gloves crumbled before you—boots removed, white sock-covered feet flat on his floor.
The only way he can even tell you’re alive and awake is from the slow rise and fall of your chest—the occasional blink here and there.
He knows how often you’ve taken care of him. You’ve stitched him. Stapled him.
You’ve listened and you’ve sat as he had shouted.
Most of all, you have looked for him—found him. You’ve saved him from falling into a hole. Even going as far as to find him behind the mess, cold ebbing at him as your fingers snake under his mask—not to remove it, but to touch the back of his neck.
I’ve got you. Ghost, I have you.
Simon.
Simon, I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.
Your eyes staring into his, saying those words over and over until he can blink a little easier—he can move your hand under the mask to his lips so he can kiss them.
And he knows it’s his turn now.
He crouches, sliding a glove from his hand, brushing his finger over your cheek, watching your eyes flicker—registering him, acknowledging.
“Helen.”
Your lips twitch.
The name usually does that. The one he uses more than your own. At this point, he’s unsure if you truly hate it or just hate that you love it. He prefers it, personally. Not because he dislikes your name, but because he’s the only one who calls you this. The only one who gets that glint in your eye, that twitch of your lips.
His fingers trace down your cheek, running to clutch your chin. You’re cold, so impossibly cold, watching your teeth nip at your lip, watching for the tremble, the quiver he knows is due to come. Not taking his eyes from you as they stare back at him, all sunken and sad, but still somehow more beautiful than any fucking sunrise he’s ever seen.
He whispers your name—your real name, stroking the skin under your chin as he feels you swallow against his little finger.
“Y’know why Price likes you?”
He wraps his other hand around your arm, feeling you move with him—allowing him to lift you to your feet. Your plastic apron is crinkling, feet shuffling until he can lift you with ease.
“Cause I’m cheap for saying I’m good with a scalpel and a PC?”
Ghost shakes his head, wanting to chastise you—but he assumes you’re doing that enough to yourself for the two of them.
Instead, he forces his fingers to lift your chin. “Because you give a shit, Helen.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
Your hands gently clutching his mask-covered cheeks, staring into his eyes as you silently stare. Not saying anything with your lips, but plenty with your eyes.
“What do you want, hmm?”
You. I want you.
His hands take your wrists, holding you, not letting go.
“I don’t want to think. Just… make me forget, help me not give a shit, Simon.”
And he knows what you need, what you’re too afraid to ask for. Fuck me like a whore, Ghost. Fuck me until I'm whimpering and begging cause I can't take anymore.
You have said those words once. Albeit drunk, confidence propped up with vodka and fruit juice. But, if you had that same confidence now, he imagines it’s what you’d ask for. And who is he to say no? How could he?
You’ve looked up at him from your place between his thighs, knees on stone and dirt as your hand wrapped around the base of him. Let your tongue swirl over his tip, tasting him, hollowing your cheek, sucking, teeth grazing down his shaft when he needed it the most. When he needed something so similar.
Some drink to forget the bad days.
The two of you fuck until your raw, till you’re both full of something other than regret and sadness.
He’s aware he shouldn’t, not this time.
Ghost should hold your cheeks, stare into those pretty eyes he’d happily burn the world for, and take you for a shower, washing the day from your skin and bones. Because you’re crumbling, the parts of your confidence withering—hoping and needing to feel good, to be good.
And he can prove that to you without fucking you senseless. He can name an infinite amount of fucking things that prove you’re good, that you’re kind, and that you can do what you can do.
Because you’re you.
You've wormed your way inside of him, flooded the darkest parts of him with light and made a slither of him think he deserved you.
Your hand presses to his chest, cold and timidly. All of sudden so aware of how delicate and thin your fingers are, how small and delicate it is next to his scarred, worn skin.
“Please, Simon.”
And he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your scrubs at the whisper of his name—feeling you hold his shoulders as you kick them into some distant corner.
You silently thank him when he rips the disposable apron, balling it before tossing it. Letting your fingers, those soft, slightly calloused, healing fingers slide under his top—run over his skin, over the places you’ve stitched.
He doesn’t move, even if he wants to. Letting you brush over the hair on his stomach, run your nails over the lines of his muscles. Letting you read him as if his scars are Braille, allowing yourself the reminder of the times you’ve saved and healed.
And then he pulls your chin up.
++
“‘You sure you want this?”
Ghost is rarely gentle, but Simon sometimes is.
The man you have in front of you is some hybrid of the two—masked up, but with the eyes of Simon. All blue, like the ocean, willing to drag you down.
Sometimes they’re like the water you’d expect to be licking a sandy beach, and sometimes they’re so dark you’d fear what breathed under the watery depths.
Sometimes, it’s hard to breathe when he looks at you. When his eyes—all swirls of blue surrounded by charcoal black—curl into you. He’s big, broad and tall, and so much more than you could have ever known you’d have.
He makes heat pool between your legs with one look, and makes you feel safe by just being close. Even if he doesn’t see it—doesn’t fathom it at all—you’d throw away all your values and beliefs of saving people, and rip them apart with your hands to get to him.
You feel his thumb flutter over your scar, the one on your hip from a bullet meant for him. He hates it, and yet always strokes it. A memory forever embedded into your skin he can’t help but press play on, even if he knows how it ends.
You shouldn’ have done that, Helen.
I’d do it again.
Stupid, woman. You’re a fuckin’ idiot.
Only for you, Ghost. Only for you.
Your hands move to his belt, undoing it—the clang of metal piercing the air.
“Helen?”
You look at him, meet him in those beautiful blue eyes. Don’t ask me to talk, Simon. Your lungs are tightening, aching, as if each emotion you’re holding in is made from molten ash.
You crack his belt like a whip with the speed of releasing it from his hooks, eyes holding his more firmly, blinking away the weakness—the emotions, the fucking audacity of the day.
“Be my reason,” you say.
To breathe. To keep fighting. To get up.
++
For his sins, he’s gentle.
Both in the way he lays your naked frame on his bed and the way he runs his fingers over the inside of your thigh.
He wants to devour you, plunge his tongue into your cunt and taste everything you’ll give him. He almost does—instead he breathes over you, watching your hips try to wiggle, his other hand holding you in place.
He lifts his head, watching, earning the sights he’s about to behold as he eases two fingers inside of you. You’re wet, warm—but it’s the way your lips fall that makes his hip roll against his mattress.
With each movement, he watches for your reaction. Like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and you are.
You whimper. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter, and your mouth falls open. And it’s all for him.
With each rise of your chest, breath hitches, and he runs his mask down your abdomen. Feeling how slick you are against his fingers, how you whimper, both pleading and breathless. Even through the mask, he can smell your arousal, how you want him to take you apart—practically taste it all in the air.
He curls his fingers, watching as your hand grasps his forearm. More, Simon. More. Your other knotting his sheets in between your fingers, a root, something to grip until space, time and life crashes into you and makes your throat sore as you moan his name around his room.
He wants it too. He wants to earn his name, coax it from your beautiful pink, swollen lips and wear it with pride.
But, Ghost also wants something else.
Normally, he’d give you everything you want, and more. From the feral look in your eye, you want to be turned away from him, for him to be rough—and normally, fuck he’d want that too.
He’d want to split you apart, know that you’ll be thinking—feeling—him for the next fucking three days.
He admittedly also likes the sight.
Something about getting to see your arse while holding your tits, and having the ability to suck red and purple welts on your neck. The best, though, is when you try to wiggle to see him—catch sight of him. Your eyes pressed into the corner of your sockets, hands gripping nothing as he takes you apart with his cock.
Ghost likes fucking you like that—likes fucking you when you have nowhere to go. Pinning you. Locking you in place.
Not that you ever want to go, he knows you don’t.
You’re so fucking big, Simon.
You clench around him like you never want him to stop filling you. A vice on him that he never wants to rid of either.
Because Helen likes to be pinned, to be smothered by his body. You like him looming over you, dwarfing you; like him lifting you and fucking you against walls, doors and even fucking windows.
He suspects it’s because you like to surrender control, like for it to be taken from her. So used to being in control, needing to be, and people depending on it. to be taken away from her.
Your thighs quiver, soft protests as he slides another finger inside of you. Stretching you.
“Fuck… Simon, fuck.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know.”
He doesn’t lessen, listening to each whimper and moan, lifting his mask so he can kiss your skin—teeth grazing as he curls his fingers, thumb swiping over your swollen clit as your hips try to cant against his hand.
The sensation of your fingers in his hair, makes him groan as he captures your lips. All teeth, tongue and messy, both pushing your legs wider and pulling your hips to him all in one movement.
Needy. Desperate. Hungry.
And then you're clenching, hips tensing before a hand grips his mask—and then you come, hips spasming, thighs shaking.
++
Often, you let him leave the mask on—partly.
You like to kiss him, like to bury your moans against his mouth. You’ve seen him, know him. You know the shape of his cheekbones and the silver scars.
“Your eyes are enough for me. Never take them from me.”
“Never.”
He's being a tease.
Sliding inch by inch of himself into you. His tongue in your mouth, your focus on the fiery stretch he provides as he buried himself to the hilt.
He rears his hips back until he fills you all over again, faster, sharper, more purposeful. And it’s sinful. It’s fucking bliss and a high you don’t even deserve. Not as you begin to meet his thrusts with a squeeze, a clench. Hearing his hiss, watching him place his mask-covered forehead against yours.
Because he’s deep. So fucking deep.
Sheathed inside of you at an angle you’ve not known before. Almost unsure what your body has had to adjust to accommodate him. Not that you care, you never fucking care.
You want him to claim you, mould himself inside of you. Because the sting passes, the size of him is something you never prepare for. Your nails are in the back of his hair, your lips almost meeting him as he ruts into you. Your eyes gazing down, watching where the two of you meet, and you’re not sure you’ll ever tire of it—of him.
You imagine each muscle of his, tightening and flexing—especially as he rocks into you at alternating speeds, your eyelashes fluttering, feeling beads of sweat build at your brow.
He’s everything.
He’s fucking fire and ice, both dusk and dawn and everything in between. Your eyes blink open, seeing his own truth—seeing it as he grunts and his hand tightens on your hip as he seats himself deeply into you.
The words are like licks of fire up your spine, mixing and blending with searing pleasure.
I love you. I love you.
You know.
Fuck you know.
Your lips crash and swallow the words he hasn’t yet said. Feeling him shake, as your toes curl, red-hot pleasure desperate to smother every inch of you and spread along every single nerve.
His hips losing their rhythm, hammering the head of his cock against that spot which makes the sound of him filling you so damn deplorable.
You whine for him.
Biting down on his lip as it slams into you, snapping you, tears spilling down your eyes as his name storms past your lips as he holds you in place.
Fucking you through it.
Holding you, pinning you—until he fills you, his hips shuddering, fingers bruising until they slowly unclench from your hip.
++
If someone cracked his head open, they’d see that one of his favourite things is holding you.
He won’t admit it.
Not even under the worst of tortures.
But it is. It’s simple. Homely. Something he knows he doesn’t fucking deserve, and yet, has all the same.
“You wanna talk?”
“No.”
You’re quick. The short, sharp no filling the small space between his face and yours. Mask gone, the lamp on his desk smothering the room in soft light.
But he knows you do want to talk. So he gives it a minute.
He lets his fingers draw shapes on your ribs, waiting, letting you settle against him, hearing your mind begin to turn and churn.
And then you talk, as he suspects you will.
Because he knows it’s what you need. Even if you beg him to fuck you into his mattress, even if you tell him to fuck off, you need to talk. The thoughts building otherwise, stealing your confidence, your belief, your fucking hope.
He needs silence, and sometimes needs to be alone. Sometimes, he needs both.
You need to be touched, to be rooted, and to talk it out. Let the thoughts run from your tongue and meet the air—even if you repeat yourself, even if the same thought comes up time and time again. He will just listen.
You’re rambling, talking about the clinical-ness before you move into how there was nothing you could do. So much blood. Too many bullets. You’re good. Not that good. You lost one, and then the other.
On another day it can be more, your hands not good enough today, but will they be tomorrow?
“Simon…”
He doesn’t breathe. Feeling, watching your eyes lift up from your place on his chest, scorching into his. “…They didn’t have a person, Simon. Not one. No Ghost. No Helen. Not this… Not that we’re each other's person. Not like how I mean.”
“How do y’mean?”
Your eyes tilt down, and he wonders if you can hear his pulse.
“I have no one to alert that they’re dead. Not a wife. Not a husband. No children. A parent, yes. But… not a person. They died without…”
You lift up, his fingers falling to your chin, feeling your lip quiver. Tears in your eyes, making them shimmer—a single tear hanging from your lash, dangling, waiting to drop.
“It’ll be the same when I die… no one to legally inform. No one to...”
Then it drops. The tear.
Falling and cascading down your cheek before it lands on his chest. It bleeds out, mixing with the dried sweat and forgotten kisses you’d left before.
And then, like all downpours, more follow suit. Dancing down your skin, too many for him to catch even if he tries.
He’s ashamed it takes him a minute.
Wondering what the hell you even mean until he realises—no one knows. Not officially. Not even fucking unofficially. A secret, one which flickers inside of him and inside of you. Something shared in quick looks and private moments, but never where else.
You shake your head, lifting up from your position on his chest, wiping your cheeks as you try to put on a smile. “I’m… ignore me. Just being daft.”
You’re not.
But he doesn’t say that.
He says nothing, eyes falling to his vest in the corner before landing back on you, watching you shimmy and shift to the end of his bed.
“I should shower,” you mumble, hand brushing hair from your face as you stand.
His hand wants to lift, to take your wrist and pull you back to him—to kiss you, to tell you so many things. But his throat goes dry, silence filling the space his voice should be.
++
It’s odd, what the two of you have.
Far more than a situation, and way more than convenience.
It’s trouble, difficult—often the hardest thing you could have chosen to do, and you stitch wounded soldiers for a living.
But it makes sense.
He didn’t seduce you. Wasn’t the best out of a bad situation.
He was dry and dark humour and had beautiful fucking eyes that you’d suspected were meant to strike some fear in you, but you’d weathered worse storms than him. You’d first kissed him because you had to—a niggling feeling inside of you that had to know if his lips were soft or whether they just looked it. You’d kissed him again because he stopped you from thinking, from crumbling.
Simon made you feel like you were falling, happily.
His hand taps on your door, clicking your pen as you look up at him. He’s all casual, a sight to fucking behold. Dark grey joggers and a long-sleeve tee—and from the look in his eyes he’s on his way to training which only sparks more sinful thoughts in your hectic mind.
Initially, way back when, it had been about sex.
About providing to yourself you could take him, having felt him, having felt how heavy, thick and long he fucking was. Then, it wasn’t.
Now it’s something big—bigger than his cock. It’s feelings and need, it’s desperation and imissyous wrapped in something you’re not sure you can live without. Now it’s about everything else, it’s about the small things and the fact you can feel yourself wanting to smile just because he’s here.
“Lieutenant, what a surprise! How can I help you?”
You wonder how often he smiles behind the mask.
His reputation of being cold, difficult and sometimes an arsehole—depending on who you ask—is widely known. But you know a different person. One who washes your hair when you’re too tired to stand, one who brings you the milkiest tea on cold mornings, ‘Because you’re fuckin’ bitch without a tea in y’, Helen.”
It still surprises you when he holds it up. It shimmers, sparkles and gleams between a bare thumb and his index finger.
“For this situation, I think you should be callin’ me Simon.”
You narrow your eyes, even if your heart is already pounding. Panic. Dread. Your mind racing, unsure what you’ve done—half-worrying if you’d lost one, even if you never wear jewellery. Not here. Not on base. Suddenly questioning whether you’d drunkenly told Soap to buy you something again, a dare gone wrong.
You hum.
Hiding as best as you can that you’re lost, and confused.
“Are you going to call me by my name?”
“No.”
Snorting, you fold your arms. “Didn’t think so. You going to explain why you’re holding a ring?”
“I think you know.”
“Humour me.”
Because my brain is running away from me.
He’s not romantic in terms of red roses and sweeping you off your feet. He’s romantic in ways like tapping your arm twice, letting you know he’s missed you. Letting his eyes land on you across briefing rooms, nodding—you got this, Helen. You can do this.
Ghost is sweet in ways others don’t see. His hand on your lower back when he can tell you want to leave somewhere, a silent offering to walk you back; bringing you a thicker pair of socks when snow is landing on the sill of your office, knowing you hate being cold.
So, this… him standing holding a ring, could mean many things.
“C’mon, Helen.”
You pull a face, shrugging.
“Be my person.”
Your brows furrow, eyes frowning.
Your mind explodes with a sea of things, darting, trying to remember, thinking of that exact phrasing. It takes a second, and then…
His eyes have that shimmer, that fucking obnoxious twinkle. Likely having watched you come to the same realisation—letting you take your time, proudly standing in your smile and glittering eyes.
“You want me… to be your person, person?”
“Be the one they tell. Yeah.”
It would be easy to get ahead of yourself.
It could be a formality, something small. A gesture but not the actual question.
“I know you liked what I did with my tongue last night, but I didn’t know I was that good at giving head—“
“Helen.”
It comes out warningly.
It makes your lips clamp shut, looking down before meeting his gaze—his fiery, intense fucking stare.
“Look, I know I was upset, but you didn’t need to go steal a ring for me.”
“I didn’t steal it. I had it made.”
“What?”
He shrugs.
He fucking shrugs.
“When?”
It comes out high-pitched. The tone surprises you. So much so, you clear your throat. Repeating it, in a more normal and appropriate volume as you stand, gesturing to close the door behind him as you look at him.
“Does it matter?”
“I think it fucking does.”
“Last time I went home, home.”
You glare.
Wishing you could see his smirk, already imagining it there all the same.
Your fingers take it from him, looking over it as you admire it, feeling how warm it is. He’s been holding it, likely pressed into his palm on the walk over here. Your fingers turn it, feeling the ridges of it.
Mostly, you’re trying to recall when he went home.
The last time, you two had both been released home at the same time. Having half-joked that you’d combust without his cock, that he’d have to visit you, come ruin the countryside with you—only for him to offer to come with you. Come home. See your place—ensure you didn’t die from lack of being fucked senseless.
Your fingers won’t do shit, Helen. Not now, anyway.
You’re a cocky shit, Riley.
And you’re a whore for my cock.
His hands are buried in his jogger's pockets, questioningly staring at him as you hold it. This little thing, that means something big.
“It’s made from a bullet. One you took out of me.”
Your lips part.
“Not sure if you remember? You told me to keep it as a reminder of what good hands feel like.”
“I remember…” you lick your lips, unable to stifle the way your heart hammers into your ribs—pretty sure he can hear it, the entire base for that fact. “I also remember you showing me how good yours were.”
“Enough.”
You silently apologise, looking at it again before meeting his eyes. “You’ve really had this the whole time?”
“In my vest.”
He says it so plainly like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
As if your mouth shouldn’t be falling open in surprise again, that you shouldn’t be staring up at him in the way you are.
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s you and me, Helen. Sometimes we’re the only thing that makes any fuckin’ sense.”
“You know what giving me this means, right?”
He nods—fucking formally at that.
“Ghost—“
“Simon.”
You smile, lips tight. “Simon. Does this mean what I think it means?”
“If you think it means that it needs to go on your finger on your left hand, then yes.”
He’s looking at you, pleadingly.
“I think you should ask.”
“I just fuckin’ did!”
You laugh, watching his large chest rise and fall in annoyance.
“Fuckin’ hell, you’re a pain in my arse—“
You say your name.
Sharp, but sweet. Watching the parts of the mask around his nose flex in and out as he snarls and sighs.
“Simon… out there, I’m Helen, I know. But, here… holding this, I think you should say my name too,” you whisper, more fragile, quieter than he’s likely known you to be for a while.
And then he nods.
Taking the ring from your palm, sliding it over your fingernail, on that hand, on that finger—hovering it close to the knuckle.
And he asks—using your name. Will you be my person?
characters who view themselves as tools/weapons first and people second... characters who martyr themselves for a cause because they think that's the only way they can be worth something... characters who push themselves past their breaking point again and again and again... characters for whom devotion and masochism are inseparable... characters whose self-sacrifice becomes self-annihilation...... what was my point again? i had a point. anyway.
hey !! i just wanted to let you know that not your babe played a pivotal role in my development, i remember when i first joined quotev i was OBSESSED with your work ! it’s been about a years since, but I still go back and read them when I need inspiration. just as you aspire to be Eric Andre, i aspire to one day become even half the writer that you are ! thanks for everything !!
if your goal was to make me cry, youve succeeded.
i am absolutely floored omg, thank you so much for sticking around all these years and for this message. it is such a wild and crazy concept that theres people who enjoyed my content during a time where i was trying to shuffle along through a rough patch in my life.
thank you so so so much! and i hope that you'll surpass me with where i was/am! you've all kept me grounded and inspired me to push through just as much as i've inspired those to write.
