Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You) pt. 3
tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, bad description of bong usage, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, jealousy, not edited, my current brain worm
prev. part | plug! Simon masterlist
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Simon thinks the worst part of you leaving his house is when he has to watch you bend over his bathroom sink and reapply your strawberry lip gloss.
For several reasons, of course. One of them being that he hates having to watch you leave like he wasn’t just inside you mere minutes ago. The other being that he hates the idea of other men staring at your lips the way he does, with a half chub cock in their jeans because they’re imagining them glistening around their tip instead.
The hardest though? The fact that he’s ready to fuck you again against his bathroom sink every time without fail.
You never seem to notice. You just turn around with a glimmering little smile on your glossed lips, pressing a kiss to his cheek that leaves an iridescent shape of your lips that he doesn’t wipe off or a lingering taste of strawberry on his lips that he tastes for hours.
It’s even worse because he doesn’t know the next time he’ll get a taste.
You send him a picture after a week without contact. A picture of you. The first you’ve sent. The rims of your eyes are red, blunt hanging loosely from your mouth, a lazy smile on your lips.
‘Rolled all by myself!! :)’
He saves it immediately.
‘Never gave you a blunt.’
‘Bought it to practice. Did I do good?’
Simon’s not sure why it matters when he always rolls for you anyway.
‘You bought from someone else?’
‘Not the point.’
‘It’s exactly the point.’
You don’t respond for a while and it makes his temples twitch.
‘Throw that shit away.’
‘HUH’
‘Probably tastes like shit anyway.’
He jerks himself off to the picture later that night.
You come over sometime that next week. You’ve got the skimpiest shirt on he’s ever seen in his life and it takes everything in him to keep his eyes on the bowl he was packing before you walked in.
“Hi, Si.” Si. He’s not sure when he became that.
“Hi, pretty.”
That brings a small smile to your lips.
“Will you teach me?” You ask, pointing to the bong on the table. “Never smoked from a bong before.”
He ushers you over with two fingers, patting the empty spot next to him on his couch. You plop down next to him, legs criss-crossed as you face his side.
“It’s easy enough,” He starts, “Just gotta light the bowl while inhaling, makes the water bubble until the pipe fills with smoke.”
He puts the bong to his lips, lighting the outer edges of the bowl while inhaling lightly before removing the bowl and breathing in sharply to swallow all the smoke. He turns to you when he’s done, blowing the smoke towards you. Your scrunched nose makes him chuckle.
“Then, just take out the bowl and breathe in all your smoke.”
You take it from him with a shrug, “Really? It always looked so much harder than that.”
He watches you start, a huff of a laugh escaping him when you struggle to flick the lighter that earns him a glare, but the caught lip in your teeth tells him everything he needs to know. You inhale for a much longer time than he did, and he watches you with raised brows before removing the bowl himself when your eyes widen. You slam your hand over the rim, puffs of smoke leaving your lungs so abrasively all you can do is cough, tears welling in your lashes.
“Jesus, bird. You’re not supposed to do that much.”
“You didn’t—“ Your sentence is broken up by coughs, “—didn’t tell me that!”
“Didn’t think I had to tell you not to take a giant bong rip!”
He hands you his water from the table.
“Shit fucking hurts.” You say in between gulps.
He laughs loudly that time, big hand coming out to rub your back.
“Wanna try again? I’ll tell you when to stop.”
You chew on your bottom lip, opening your mouth before closing it hesitantly.
“It’ll be smoother, I promise.”
You nod slowly after a few seconds.
“Slowly this time, yeah?” He murmurs, holding the glass to your lips.
You nod again, inhaling for just a few seconds before he removes the bowl. It’s a much smaller hit, but you still cough when you come up for air.
“I don’t think I like it.” You frown, handing it back to him.
He chuckles, “That’s okay, bird. We don’t have to do it again.”
You give him one of your shy smiles, the ones that make him want to dig his teeth into your neck.
He keeps his hands and mouth to himself.
You’re mad at him a few days later and he has no fucking idea why. All he knows is you’re glaring at him from across the room, arms crossed over your chest, and brows furrowed. He can’t help but think you’re cute, all brooding in the corner of the party you invited him to.
‘Come here.’
He watches you read the text, eyes rolling so dramatically it makes him snicker.
‘Why don’t you just keep hanging out with your little girlfriend over there?’
‘I don’t even know who you’re talking about, baby.’
You squint at the screen.
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Pretty instead?’
He watches you fluster.
‘Shut up.’
‘You coming? Or do I need to handle it myself?’
‘Handle what?’
‘You.’
You avoid him the rest of the night. He takes you home anyway and you begrudgingly drag your feet across the sidewalk to his car, huffing under your breath how you had someone else to take you home.
You didn’t, never did.
The drive to your place is silent and there's this ugly knot forming in the middle of his chest that makes him dig his tongue to the inside of his cheek. You look at him in shock when he barges into your house after you tried to close the door on his face.
He’s too damn old for this.
His hand cups the back of your neck, tugging you towards him, so you stumble into him, forearms falling onto his chest. You peer up at him, wide-eyed, but you don’t say anything.
“You done?” He asks plainly.
You gulp, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Your eyes trail to the side, suddenly becoming interested in the color of your wall.
He drags you to your room then, and you follow along, like you hadn’t ignored him all night. He bends you over your bed slowly. He half expects you to kick out in refusal, but you let him, quietly falling and turning your cheek to peer at him over your shoulder.
One hand keeps you firm in place at the low of your spine, the other trails down the back of your legs, hooking a finger in the back of your heels, and tossing them to the side.
“Those were expensive.”
He flicks his eyes to yours, “Buy you a new pair.”
He bunches your dress to your hips, panties joining your shoes soon after that, and you open your mouth to protest despite the way you lifted your hips to help him.
“Didn’t agree to this.”
His fingers halt in their path. “You want me to stop?”
“That’s not what I said.” You mumble quietly, turning your head away from him.
He hums then, “That’s what I thought.”
He stamps a kiss to your shoulder, the bottom of your spine, right on the globe of your ass. His teeth dig into your cheek next because he simply can’t resist taking a bite and you giggle into the sheets.
The corners of his lips twitch because he knows you hadn’t intended to let that slip.
He cups your ass then, spreading you open so that he gets a pretty view of your pussy. His thumb drags from your entrance to your clit and you roll to your tippy toes in shock, fingers tightening in your flowery sheets.
He watches your pussy flutter around nothing when he rubs slow circles around your clit, watches you bury your face into your bed because you don’t want him to see the way your face scrunches up.
He keeps at it, thumb stroking your clit over and over again until it’s swollen, until there's an obscene amount of slick gushing from your pussy and down your clit, until he can see the way your shoulders tense to stifle the quiet noises you press into the blankets.
He slips two fingers in without warning and your head snaps back, a whine slipping past the tight confines of your lips. He finds the spot that makes your lashes flutter and your hips rock back far too quickly for your liking because he shouldn’t already know where it’s at when he’s only fucked you twice.
He strokes you with his thick fingers once, twice, before leaning over you, larger frame pinning you against the bed, and you squirm, whimpering because he’s so fucking heavy above you that it makes you a little lightheaded.
His lips press to your ear, “Been a real brat all night you know that?”
He thrusts his fingers with every word, pussy stretching with each stroke.
“Over somethin’ I can’t even control too.”
You lift your head to look at him and it’s the first time he’s seen you grit your teeth. You part your lips to argue, but he hooks his fingers just right and a strained noise leaves your throat.
“What’s that?” He smirks against your neck.
You don’t even try to say anything after, fucking your hips back onto his fingers until there's a trail of your arousal dripping down his knuckles, and your teeth caught in your sheets as you finish.
Your head falls back against the mattress, legs wobbly under you as he slips his fingers from your cunt. You don’t even have time to mourn the feeling, not when Simon’s cock takes their place so quickly. He doesn’t even have to wait for you to accustom yourself to the shape of him when he sinks to the hilt in one go.
You cry out, rolling to your tippy toes again, thighs already shaking against his hips. His hand wraps around your throat, the other around your hips and arches your back so your head rests against his shoulder and your feet dangle above his.
He fucks into you swiftly, your ass making a loud noise each time his hips meet the fat. Your hands scramble to the one around your hips in a panic because the position has the curve of his cock slamming brutally against your cervix, and all you can to do is clamber for any control.
“For no fucking reason too.” He grunts it against your temple.
“Simon, I— wait, please.”
You find yourself on your back in an instant, your head next to the plushies you have on your bed. Simon’s already between your parted thighs, cock sliding in so easily you have to squeeze your eyes tight.
He turns soft so quickly it practically gives you whiplash, one arm resting beside your head, his lips hovering above your cheek.
“Don’t gotta act like tha’.” He whispers it so softly you feel it in your chest. “You’re all I want, baby.”
His thrusts become sweet, pressing real deep with each draw of his hips, and your toes curl by his thighs.
“Okay?”
When you don’t respond, his thumb finds your cheek, tapping lightly because he wants to hear it.
“Okay?”
You blink at him a little deliriously, “Yeah, okay.”
johnny getting so transfixed on the sight of your thong peeking out of your pajama shorts.
you’re both sprawled out on the living room couch, johnny on his back, and you lying stomach down on top of him with your cheek resting on his chest. your knee is hiked up a bit over his hip just enough to be comfortable. he’s holding a book up in the air with one hand.
he’s not the biggest reader, but simon recommended it, and he has trouble saying no to simon.
his other hand explores you absentmindedly. nothing inherently sexual yet. but then he feels the waistband of your thong that had ridden up the curve of your hips from the position you’re in. he calls it serendipitous.
it’s not in a place where it’s bothering you at this point, just a slight bit of pressure. he can’t help but tug the cotton up just a little bit, waiting to see if you’ll flinch.
he pretends he’s still focused on his book when really he lost his place about five minutes ago.
you shift, readjusting and cramming yourself further into johnny’s chest, if that’s even possible at this point.
you murmur a tired “stop it,” and johnny’s hand move up your back and away from your underwear. a few more minutes of johnny pretending to read pass, and you’ve reentered that floaty state between sleep and consciousness.
he feels your breathing even out, and his hand wanders back to the band of your underwear. this time he gives it a firm yank upwards.
you screech, shooting up from his chest, now straddling his hips. you can feel his cock chubbing up through his trousers and groan in disgust.
“ugh! johnny you are such a freak, you know that?” you slap his chest, and he grabs your wrists to stop your swatting before it reached his face.
then you’re storming off, yelling one last “disgusting!” his way.
i love the idea of Simon sending you pics of bones; dead animals, lumps of dirt or leaves or a sheet that kinda looks like a buried body; a blurry image of a deer standing frozen outside of his windshield, an empty lot, a dilapidated, overgrown house; a shaky image of an angel on a tombstone, a field, and just captioning each one with "made me think of you" and nothing else.
and of course it keeps you up all night wondering what he means by that. is it a threat? why is a dead deer in the woods making him think of you? why does he keep giving you little figures whittled into what is obviously bone (and a piece of a gravestone that's been chiselled into the lumpy shape of a heart).
this is crazy. he's insane. you should call someone. immediately.
but unfortunately for you, it's not like you could even bother getting a restraining order on him—if you think a piece of paper is enough to keep him away, then he'll just uno reverse and get a marriage certificate instead. problem solved.
part of seconds; a weird soulmate/reincarnation horror thing.
tags: noncon, abduction, references to violence and suicide
This time, Simon finds you without looking.
In fact, he is not yet aware of you at all. He has not felt that familiar wrenching sensation low in his belly, that grand shifting of perspective—no rug yet pulled clean out from under another perfectly ordinary life by the universe’s perverse sense of timing.
He’s simply walking home from work.
A road closure has forced him onto a different route. Funny, really, how often it comes down to something so dull. He’d wager seven out of ten times that the circumstances of your meetings are mundane. Hardly ever any fanfare. Today, it is a burst water main. Whole area’s cordoned off. Fate, when it bothers adding color to the details, lacks imagination.
He’s a couple beers deep, smells like it too, entwined with stale fryer oil from the basket of cheap fish and chips he wolfed down outside the site. His shirt and work vest cling to his chest and back, soaked through with sweat. The back of his neck splotchy and burnt pink from another day spent baking in the sun. He lumbers along, flat-eyed and bone-tired, every few steps rolling a shoulder, flexing a wrist, tipping his head to one side in futile attempts to work the knots from his body.
The street Simon’s been shunted onto is livelier than he reckons it usually is. Tree-lined and somehow mostly untouched by the new developments he helps put up. A mix of cozy Craftsmans and bungalows, single-story brick storefronts with hand-lettered signs. Patios are starting to fill for happy hours. A cluster of people funnel down the basement steps of a church for a meeting. Teenagers with nothing better to do try to look older as they loiter in front of a convenience store. Frantic streams of displaced commuters pound the pavement, staring down at their phones as they try to figure out bus reroutes or how to reach the next station.
One by one, though, instinct tickles the back of their necks, and their heads lift. They veer around him when they spot him, granting him the wide berth they might afford to say, a grizzly bear that wanders too close to civilization.
You do not.
Half a street away, you waltz straight across his line of travel with the complete, astonishing obliviousness that seems to follow you from life to life. If there’s one constant beyond the fear that follows you, it’s this: you never notice his arrival until it’s far too late.
You emerge from a shop carrying a sandwich board, swing it open, and step back to check it. A chalk arrow points toward the door that you disappear back into.
And how could it not be a sign? It literally is. The universe’s sense of humor is up there with its timing.
In an instant, the sum of his desire swells and breaks loose. A pendulum dislodged from the crater it’s beaten into a wall, now hurled hard in the other direction. Pulled by a change in his gravity.
All he ever needs is a second, a glimpse, for it all to come rushing back.
His hand on your nape. A tight fist around a braid or a ponytail, when you have hair. White knuckles glued on a lead. Your eyes—whatever pretty color they are at the time—big and glassy, looking to him with every emotion laid bare.
He can practically hear it:
No, the tremble of a lip and a dimpling chin.
Yes, the curl of a cut lip, ‘s me, bird. One an’ only.
He stops dead on the pavement, staring at the black hole of the doorway. His whole body thrums with sudden energy. The week’s fatigue sloughs right off. Minutes ago, he’d been thinking about a shower, a wank, and falling asleep in front of the television in his recliner. Now he feels as though he could hike the mountains north of here. You’d come too, of course.
He’d find the next truck parked on the street, toss you in it. Drive out into the woods, use bolt cutters to open up a logging road, and travel as far as he could down it. Give you a good scare in the cab or truck bed first, work you up to the brink on a couple of fingers before slapping your flank and sending you out running, wet between the legs. The customary headstart and then he’d give chase, just like old times.
The roar of blood in his ears recedes after a few deep breaths, the clenching and unclenching of his fists. When he feels like he can keep himself together, he starts walking again. It’s so abrupt that a woman who’s been carefully edging around him toward her parked car startles and yelps, dropping her keys.
Simon doesn’t so much as glance at her. His vision’s tunneled. As far as he’s concerned, for the next hour and maybe longer, there’s no one else in the universe. Only you.
The shop isn’t much to look at, ‘least that’s what he thinks this is. He didn’t actually read the sign.
He feels gigantic in it. If he could stretch both arms out to his full wingspan, he’d come a few inches shy of touching both walls. Beneath his feet, old timber floors disappear under a thick woolen rug, probably concealing water stains that match the ones on the ceiling. A freestanding counter sits in front of a doorway partitioned by a beaded curtain that forms a sunset. It smells vaguely herbal and musky, old incense and laundry detergent. Somewhere past the curtain, soft and wordless music plays.
He’s trying to decide whether or not you’re some kind of masseuse or counselor when the beaded curtain rattles, and you reappear.
You’re wrapped in muted colors, flowy linen draping off all your limbs. All very easy to peel or rip off.
“Hi, sorry, I was just setting up for the evening.” Your voice is pretty. Always is. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” You smile easily, politely—but he sees you swallow when you tilt your chin up to look at him.
“No, you ‘aven’t.” You would’ve fled the country if you had, he thinks. “‘M takin’ the scenic route ‘ome.”
“Oh,” you peek past him, almost hopefully, as though expecting any other customer to materialize behind him before your attention returns. “Are you…interested, then?”
Yes. “In?”
“A reading? A palm reading? …Unless,” Then, and your eyes light up at this, “you’re here for a spiritual reading.”
Simon bites his cheek to stop from laughing when he realizes you’re serious. Serious enough at least to sell it.
So, this is what you are this time around. A charlatan. A cheat. A little swindler gaming hardworking—probably lonely and desperate—people out of their money by telling them what they want to hear. Looking at their hands and faces, spinning stories out of thin air. This is new. He can’t recall a single time when you pulled a stunt like this.
His amusement bleeds away a bit. He searches your face, eyes narrowing as he tries to make sense of it. What happened to you in the years before this? What sort of life steered you here, into this dingy shop, leading you to smile at strangers and pretend to see the future? Because if anyone should know how impossible that is—it’s you.
Simon huffs and rakes his nails over the buzzed hair on his head. He’s got his work cut out for him. You need help remembering how good you can be.
An equally laughable, unbelievable, and eye-watering two hundred dollars later, he’s wedged into a velvet armchair in a room smaller than the lobby. A two-person table separates you, but only barely. Your knees touch underneath it.
(Reminds him of the time you met at a circus. Him, a lion. You, an equestrienne whose horse he gutted to reach you.)
“You need to relax, Simon,” you gently encourage, rubbing your hands together. They’re slick with hand sanitizer, and the lavender fragrance it is mixed with does nothing to blunt that medicinal note. Cuts into the ambiance of the place, in his opinion. “I know that’s probably easier said than done given your, um, work.” You smile through a wince.
His scent must be worse in this glorified closet. The heat’s trapped inside, insulated with the convenient soundproofing. He knows he’s ripe. It’s no coincidence when you fiddle with the vase on the table, stuffed with what he thinks is eucalyptus and some pale purple flowers.
“‘m relaxed, bird.” The pet name slips out from years of habit. He catches your flinch and grins, knowing full well that the sight of his smile does nothing to reassure you. He does you the courtesy of wiping his damp hands on his jeans first before offering them. He plants his elbows on the table, making both it and his chair creak when he leans forward.
You inch backward on your own chair in return, but even so, your eyes fall to his hands.
“Rough,” you murmur, hesitating a moment before leaning closer as well for a better look.
They’re crosshatched with old scars. Thick white lines earned from his honest day-to-day, the others from what pays better on the side. Split skin stitched over knuckles that have been broken several times. At a whirl of your finger, he turns them over, palms up, and wonders if the callouses on the meat of them make your ‘job’ any harder.
His cock twitches against his thigh when you finally touch him.
One at a time, your thumbs gingerly wander over the creases of his palms. You squint, hum to yourself, ask meandering questions, hedging your comments when he peppers in a couple what could tha’ mean.
To Simon, your fishing could not be more transparent.
Sneaking peeks up at his face, tossing out broad enough statements and ideas that anyone with a pulse could see themselves in. It is cute, how you clearly think you’re getting away with something.
You tap the tail end of a line beneath his pinky. “So, there’s someone, or there was someone.”
“Yeah.”
Your brows lift a hair. “It ended badly?”
More times than he can count. Knock-down, drag-out fights, messy divorces, suicide pacts. Bleeding out on the steps of a temple or face-down in blood-soaked fields, each of you finding the other too late. Putting you down in a veterinary clinic and, in turn, you making him your dinner after fishing him out of a river.
The good times are fewer. Those memories smear in his head. Don’t stand out as much.
“Y’could say that. Last time I saw ‘er, she told me to—she was leavin’.”
“You really love her?”
“With all my ‘eart. She’s my other ‘alf.”
You nod, then pull his hand closer with a sympathetic and close-lipped smile. If you feel an ounce of guilt, the dollar signs in your eyes dampen it.
“Let’s see if there’s hope for a happy reunion.”
Your chin dips as you inch your fingers across the line, eyes moving rapidly like you’re actually reading something profound.
He flexes his thighs under the table. He’s hard, cock trapped and leaking into his boxers. Aching to give you something real to wrap your hands and head around.
“It’s…Huh,” you finally speak, the confidence in your tone audibly wavering. Your smile’s weak when you glance up at him, then quickly back down. You wet your lips, head slightly tilting as though the angle might change what you’re seeing. “This here says that you will, uh, see her again. That…”
“That?” he prompts.
Simon sees the gears in your head turn. A ghost slips across your eyes. The tiny muscles around your mouth tighten, forehead creasing. A shiver runs through you, to the hand holding his, traveling like an electric current. He feels it in his chest.
“That you’ve…y-you hurt–?” Your gaze snaps up to his. “I don’t…How do I know–”
At last, realization hits. You jolt away from him, hands pulling to your chest. Char legs scraping across the narrow floorspace as you thrust yourself backward, chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.
There you are—Here I am.
Simon watches your pupils grow, taking in the threat, and not just a threat, but the threat. Not the only predator you’ve ever met, but the apex. Singular in its appetite.
Recognition follows, and your hands jerk in quick succession. A twitch toward your hip, then up to your shoulder. Down to your thigh and ankle.
He delights in their familiarity. He’s seen them before. Grabbing for a revolver strapped to your hip. Nocking an arrow from horseback. Drawing a knife underneath a tablecloth at dinner. Every little thing you do, every nervous look or restless fidget, they’ll tell him what you’re about to do. He’ll read you like you’ve pretended to read palms.
So when you shove the table at him and lunge for the door—he’s already there, full weight thrown against it. Suddenly, there’s nowhere left to run but into him.
You shriek when you collide with his chest. He grabs your arms, holding them up as you twist and kick violently. It amounts to nothing. It is nothing. He gathers you against him, glad to collect your bruises, and buries his face in your neck. He breathes in deep and smells home. He doesn’t even mind when you bite his fingers, pressing the same horrible palm to your mouth to shut you up.
It’s short work to bend you over the table and kick open your legs. Your struggling jostles the vase, tipping it over, cool water sloshing over the wood. Eucalyptus wreathes your head when he pins your wrists to the small of your back and thrusts a mitt down the front of your cotton pants. He folds over you when your thighs start to shake, rutting against your arse while you whimper. He groans filth in your ear, relishing the pulse of your terrified cunt around his fingers. He doesn’t care that he spills in his jeans. He’ll have you lick it out later before he pops them in the wash.
You’re always more cooperative after an orgasm. Less whiny. But you’re still a flight risk, so he tethers you to the armchair with his belt while he generously locks up. You glare at him through the crack in the door. Must not be feeling very grateful yet.
He finds your car keys and wallet in your bag, and reclaims his two hundred dollars. He scans your driver’s license. The address makes him chuckle, though it feels close to injury. All this time, you’ve been living a handful of blocks away. Just outside his orbit. Walking the same streets, breathing the same fucking air. You’ve passed like ships in the night. All those near misses.
Thank fuck for burst pipes and other accidents.
He crouches in front of you, hand skimming up your thigh then jumping up to your cheek.
“Gonna bring the car ‘round, bird,” he informs you, thumbing the keys in his hand. “Then we’re gonna go on a ‘oneymoon. You a beach girl now?” You shudder in your seat, a shaky breath escaping through your nose. The corner of the silk scarf he jammed in your mouth flutters with it. “Don’t fret,” he pats your cheek. “We’re gonna make the best of our ‘appy reunion.”
over the dead sea, keeping you company.
simon ghost riley; smoke breaks with simon riley
he can hold his world between his palms.
a desire, really, mundane effects of being overly human for the past few days has him softened, edible in a sense. you can mold him into any shape you like, break his ribs a little, tear off his limbs. worship. vengeance. love. it's the latter one you'd believe, which lets him be an open book to you, with ink faded along time, unable to read except the few pages where the ink still remains strong.
the smell of cigarettes, an odor you have come to hate yet make peace with, it's stagnant in the air around you– you think it would have been better if you could start a coughing fit, fist over your mouth, making a dramatic face as you cough your lungs out. pulverise your sanity for this man, who's beside you, in his human skin even if he's something vile inside.
something that has made him believe that he's all rot and not enough flesh, decaying nerves and organic matter scattering his vicinty. the pungent smell of flesh, dead hangs in the air as he enters the room, you would have believed the same if the smell of earth and rot made you uncomfortable, made the insides of your stomach churn with bile and a strange auction of helplessness.
but you're as deranged as him.
or so you'd like to believe.
"stop smoking" you grumble, fingers wrapping around the small butt of the cigarette, a failed attempt to pull it off his lips. you would have pressed yours to his, maybe get him addicted to the stupid cheap flavour of your chapstick, or your own taste. you haven't reached there yet, it's a big cleft between you two and you don't think you'd ever cover it up.
fingers prodding at old wounds, salt being rubbed against the open gashes over his corroded skin. regret and formaldehyde sticks like sap over his being and he smells too strong of rage. fingers prodding at his wounds, eyes up at his, lips in a quirky smirk as his fingers wrap around your wrist to get you off. it's a mere thought, poignant wanton want of wanting him to snap it, the pain would be closer and much more rewarding that this fluttering ache between your heart.
"limits sergeant" he grunts, fingers digging into your skin, it will bruise, leaving an ache similar to the one between your chest, under your ribs, inside the small piece of flesh that accelerates its own speed each time he's near. it's very similar to your first meeting with him, annoyance lacing some kind of respect– a gun to your head as he tells you that you lose.
he's mean, because he thinks being mean makes him look stronger.
and perhaps, in a sense the world does see him as a monster more than human, eyes void of any emotions staring back at you all those months ago, something tangled inside your heart, a thought of being broken by him even if it may hurt you.
he's not a good man, and you're clearly not chasing good here.
you think you have known him life long, acrid need to be correct always.
you have known him. the cold kisses your skin, cheeks tinted pinks and lips turning down in a pout. he's not looking at you when his fingers unwind against your wrist and let your limb drop. the cigarette now crushed between his teeth, an annoyed downturn of his lips, clear displeasure on being touched by you.
a failed attempt.
as always.
a great star always needs to collaspe.
if life wasn't cruel to him, he would have been a better man if not this. whatever mangled being he has made himself into. it's cruel, in the way where you'd pity a dying wolf. it's cruel in the way you'd hold his face between your palms and tell him it's okay, but you can't.
the scant need to hold him against you is physically and metaphorically impossible in this world you both have built around yourself.
because at the end of the day, you're a replacement, some cheap plaster he's using to keep his heart intact. death has been an old friend, and it has taken him away in bits and bobs, chipped at the demons inside his head and ate him whole. it feasts on his grief and rage, his want to be more human than a monster that he claimed himself to be.
simon riley is a dying star, albeit failed.
he's the test subject of god, the experimental way of twisting a human just to have fun and see how long it takes from them to break, and simon does break, over and over again until it's all bones and bile for him and not much flesh to hold his heart. until his ribs crack underneath the rot and insect gnats eat him up wholly.
you're here, but you really can't stick around. can't hold him, can't wish to because this star will burn you and you're already fading.
"it's bad for you," you mumble, voice soft, too tender for the war hardened soldier military has made you into. simon gives you a look, something borderlining on ignorance, mock ignorance– he does this often, when he wants you away but not really. "lived long enough to know it won't woman" he grunts.
woman, the words echo inside your skull, more like an insult than a term of recognition.
woman, girl, child–
you're everything but those you'd think, in your head you're a vessel. silent. still. abandoned in the way women are. you could have named a few more, few more things that crawled under your skin.
Retired!Simon who buys a small, old fixer-upper place when he gets out.
And with that old place comes a distrustful, mean old cat.
He doesn't dare kick her out. He's the one invading, after all.
She makes this clear from the first morning. He comes downstairs to find her sitting in the middle of the kitchen. She's a grey-muzzled tabby, one ear half-gone, the other swiveling toward him as he hits the bottom step. When he gets too close she goes flat and still and shows him her teeth. And then she watches him take a step back and seems to find it acceptable.
He learns the rules fast.
The back room is hers. It's barely more than a mudroom, a catches-all kind of space with a window that's never quite shut right, but it's an easy in and out and she's been using it long before he arrived.
It's simple, he stays out. He rarely even looks in when he passes. If he forgets himself and drifts too close she materializes just inside the doorway, spine up, and plants herself between him and the room until he backs off.
He backs off and he keeps to his part of the house and she keeps to hers and that's how September goes.
He leaves food by the back door. It's good stuff, not the cheap kind. Water too, changed every morning.
He stops standing around waiting to see if she'll eat it and goes back to the hallway floorboards that need sanding, or the bathroom tiles to be redone, or the roof leak and the damp patch in the corner of his bedroom that needs cutting out before it gets worse.
The house has a lot wrong with it. He works through it room by room. The days fill up without him having to think too hard about it. He likes it. Something to do with his hands. Mending, not breaking.
She starts appearing at the far end of whatever room he's in as September tips into October. Sat on top of the kitchen cupboards or at the end of the hallway, watching him sand or replaster or measure twice and cut once.
He doesn't acknowledge her.
She doesn't acknowledge him.
He cracks the kitchen window a few inches because she seems to like being able to come and go and the house could use the cool fall air anyway.
She disappears in the second week of October.
He notices on the second day. The food bowl sits untouched by the door and he changes the water and goes back to the living room, which is nearly done now. The floors are good, walls are good, the second hand and garage sale furniture he's cleaned up and repaired, the shelving either side of the fireplace that took him the better part of two weeks to get level.
He works. He fills the days. And he tries not to think about the cat.
On the fourth day of her absence, he does the mudroom.
He finds himself stood in the doorway looking at it—the cracked window, the cold coming in under the sill, the general unloved state of it—and before he's really consciously decided anything he's got his jacket on and he's at the hardware store.
He works fast, not knowing if when she'll be back.
He patches the worst of the damp. And puts a proper seal around the window frame so it holds out most of the draught while still sitting open. He builds a small den space along the back wall, nothing complicated, and lines it with an thick, old jumper and extra fabric he doesn't need. He sweeps the floor and hangs string lights from the ceiling. He puts a second water bowl in the corner and leaves it clean and full.
He stands back and looks at it for a moment, then goes and makes himself a cup of tea.
He's in the kitchen four days later when she comes through the window.
She's thinner. He sees that straight away. He turns back to what he's doing and gives her a minute, then gets up and puts fresh food down by the outside door like usual for her.
On the way back from the hardware store that afternoon he stops and buys a rotisserie chicken. He pulls it apart at the kitchen counter, and puts a bowl of it by the door. She's waiting there just beyond the light of the house. When Simon goes, she eats the whole thing. He washes the bowl and puts it away.
He doesn't notice the mudroom jumper has been pressed flat until he's walking past three days later. He's been busy with the bathroom again, and the fireplace. There are small muddy paw prints across the floor.
And then some mid October Wednesday.
She brings in four of them, maybe three weeks old, eyes barely open, legs still figuring it out.
He's at the kitchen table when she comes through the window with the first one and disappears into the mudroom. He puts his mug down. She comes back. Does it again. He sits there a still as he can and doesn't move until she's done all four, and then he sits there a little longer.
He waits a day.
Then he spends forty minutes on the phone with a veterinary surgery and drives forty-five minutes each way the following morning. He vaccinates all four of them while she is away for a while.
There are three girls, grey and small. And one darker grey boy with a little white fluffy stripe down the middle of his head between his ears.
His hands are careful, methodical, the same way they've always been careful with things that couldn't afford for him to be otherwise.
She comes back, standing in the mudroom doorway. Eyes very much on him. She barely has time to get her teeth bared before he's making his way back out.
The living room is good by then. Floors, walls, the fireplace cleaned out and drawing properly for the first time in years. He reads there in the evenings when the light goes long across the floor.
He's on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon, newest book open, when he hears small, curious noises or small, curious creatures, and then the soft uncoordinated sounds of the very small creatures navigating hard floors.
He keeps reading.
She comes in first and stops in the middle of the rug. He keeps his eyes on the page.
She sits and begins to wash her face. The kittens come in behind her eventually. All four of them, tumbling, batting at the strips of light on the floor, and finding the sofa and beginning to climb it with great seriousness. He turns a page. Two of the girls them make it up and collapse against his leg from the effort. The third finds his boot. The boy sits in the middle of the rug and yells at nothing until he tips over sideways and falls asleep where he lands.
Simon stops with his book. He doesn't move. He can feel the small warm weight of the pair against his leg and the one on the toe of his boot, and he can see the little mohawked on completely out on the floor, and he just... sits there, very, very still.
She looks at him for a long moment from the cushion beside him. Then she steps closer, turns twice, and settles against his side.
He doesn't breathe for a second. Then, slowly, he lets his hand rest on the sofa beside her, not daring to touch her, but he can feel the warmth of her there.
After a while she starts to purr, low and a little rusty.
He looks up at the ceiling.
"Alright", he finally whispers aloud. "We can share."
I feel like ghost is the type of guy you need to sneak supplements into his food to get him to take them. Kinda like disguising meds as a treat for dogs.
Quite literally the only thing keeping ghost out of medical were the sandwiches you'd make him Tuesday and Thursday.
An Italian sub, loaded with freshly toasted cheese and meats. In between the lettuce, little vitamins and supplements. Without fail, ghost is too busy scarfing down his food without much chewing to notice the pills you added.
Until he starts leaving bits on the plate, telling you he already ate earlier. For once, you're glad that ghost is actually listening to his body instead of forcing himself to overeat.
mmm hunting with Ghost but it somehow ends with him pressing his full weight down onto you, still fully clothed with his hard cock straining against the layers of fabric to try to get to you as he ruts against your ass, his hand covering your mouth to keep you from making too much noise and he gets the fun little idea to pinch your nose shut as well, depriving you of oxygen until you're thrashing under him. when he finally lets you suck in a breath he shoves his fingers in you mouth so deep you gag and laughs like its the funniest shit in the world, and that's when you remember how he laughed when you'd asked what he planned on hunting.
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