Summer Moonshine. @summermoonshine - Tumblr Blog

Please use the smut and nsfw tag in your posts, some of us don't wanna see male genitals as we scroll through the simon tag. Thank you for understanding

I ask you to check better: there are indeed smut and nsfw tags in my posts. This is also a NSFW blog (you can read it in bio). Thanks for the report.

Lunchbox ;

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader - 🔞NSFW🔞

Click HERE for the Twitter Thread version.

Synopsis: Ghost is complicated: He forgot but tried to fix it... in his own style. Content: Blowjob; humping; edging; ass grinding; fingering; sweet talking; size difference kink; angst; romantic; bit of fluff; slice of life; cumshot; GhostxReader; WomensDay; Note: based on @bettybattaglia's art (pic above was cut on purpose).

Lunchbox ;

When you had tacitly agreed to date Simon you had already taken into account that in him you wouldn’t find the gallant and delicate Prince Charming, yeah.

You hated fairy tales anyway and dark romance was definitely more thrilling.

However, managing Ghost wasn't easy.

Especially when he went missing for days and No Contact was a rule even though he wasn't deployed: he was there, but as a shadow. A persistent, obsessive presence that got you neither free nor officially engaged.

Unhappy. Not upset or angry, you were simply unhappy.

Blue days, black nights passed one after the other; today, simply one of them. Yet when every girl in the office told how their man had taken them to dinner the night before for Women's Day it bothered you a little.

Maybe even more than a little.

Not a dinner, not a flower, not a message you’ve got. You knew that identity didn't matter much to that freak, but what the heck. And it’s for this reason that, now, your thumb easily scrolled across the display, rejecting his second incoming call:

“Fuck off, Simon…”

After it the tenth came along with 6-7 messages. Fed up, you turned off the phone as you started the car to go back home. The setting of a warm March sun warmed your sad and frowning face while the first shades of night enveloped your apartment.

Closing the front door behind you and turning on a dim lamp, you sighed deeply: everything was as you'd left it, yet you hoped that he'd be there waiting for you.

He was not, though.

“I really fucked with the wrong guy” you hissed as you slowly got rid of your clothes.

Your jacket, shirt, hair finally loosened, the underwear on the floor and the bare feet wandering in the dark of the silent environment of your bedroom heading towards the bathroom for a hot shower.

This was the plan but no, things with Simon never go as planned. Your stomach and heart knew this well.

Pushed with your naked body against the cold wall and your breath stuck in your throat, your eyes could only glimpse the towering shadow of that man who was slowly changing your existence.

He was there.

His demanding fingers entangled in your curls tightened their grip until they pressed your cheek into the wall opening lips too sweet to resist, yet Simon transformed his desire into arrogance: the hand that pushed on your bottom grabbed your naked flesh without blinking.

His scent invaded your nostrils, saliva began to trickle from your lips and before you knew it his were in front of yours.

“If I call, you pick up. Got this?”

Answering would have been easy if only your heart rate hadn't spiked when Simon's warm body crashed into you.

Clinging onto him, you felt what he felt: the softness of the wool sweater, the piercing on his right nipple, his sculpted abs contracted by light vibrations, the shortness of breath, even his heartbeat and, gladly, his erection.

You melted.

His dick, packed into that useless jeans, was eager to rub itself once again on your bare, soft skin, against the curve of your ass, between your legs and in that narrow wet space that gave him access to paradise.

“Doll, words”, Simon insisted but no, there were no words that could form your lips which, now more than ever, wanted everything of him. So you moaned, and that was his ticket to hell.

“Shit!” he hissed through his teeth in anger and adoration.

Taking complete possession of your body, so small compared to his, he felt so superior that he ran both hands between your wet legs and on your sides, squeezing, pinching and biting you, so sure as he was that he was commanding you and conquering you but no:

bullshits.

When he grabbed you by the neck and turned you against the wall, your eyes shone like nocturnal comets and that smile full of confidence drove him insane: you had fooled him.

As always and since ever.

He smashed his lips against yours without hesitation, devouring both yours and his breath.

Standing on tiptoe, your cold hands got lost in his hair just long enough for him to bend down, lift you up and push his calloused fingers between your intimate, wet folds during that kiss that deprived both of you of oxygen.

Your arched back relaxed as he lifted you even higher, the kiss was broken and your breasts became his personal playground.

Moaning under his bites, you felt his steel body radiate heat but it wasn't enough, you wanted more: even more of his hands up and down your ass, more of his thumb dancing on your clit, more of his fingers that drew from your vagina like a source of holy water ready to bless his cursed soul.

“You. I want you."

Your nipples, red and covered in his saliva, his marks, made you feel like a mother breastfeeding her hungry new-born for the first time and he, with his big golden eyes, lowered you just enough to make you feel how much his erection was ready for you.

“I'm not what every woman dreams of, you know this. Yeah, Love?” he asked while began a silent humping challenge between you two.

Your small hands undid his belt as he got rid of the rest.

“I'm not right, I don't deserve all this, and yet I still want you mine, Doll, all mine…” he said before you could start kissing him again, biting him harder, saying:

“I'm not Every woman. I am me, and I want you."

His tongue didn't waste time going back to where it belonged: your sweet mouth, in the space between your collarbones, on your chest, the curve of your hips, navel, your inner thighs, your sweet clitoris and shaved mons.

Everything about you belonged to him and he was ready to give you all of him, which is why he laid you on the ground, on that soft black carpet that you had chosen together as first purchase of your new home as a couple: there was no time to waste.

He needed you.

Kissing every inch of him, the worn texture of his skin gave you shivers: scars, stitches, some scratches and burned skin. This was Simon, but it was also Ghost.

As you unzipped his pants and your big eyes drilled into his soul, his dripping erection selfishly asked for your heat, so you licked his length, biting lightly on the tattooed groin.

His veins throbbed so painfully that Simon had to caress your face and trace your swollen lips: he was begging you.

You sucked his thumb first and then, while Simon began to masturbate and edging seeing how you played with your clit, you asked:

"Spit".

Simon pulled his head back, sighing deeply as a certain amount of precum leaked from his tip, too slick to waste: a small, quick and sweet lick of yours, followed by a more thorough one as he spat on his glans and you, opening your mouth, you just… waited: words were not needed, he knew.

Simon spat in your mouth.

Then his hand guided you from behind your neck, putting his entire length into your mouth until you almost gagged.

“Christ on a stick”, he hissed.

Saliva, tears and love were what you both wanted, but you wanted more.

“Ghost”, you said, coughing and catching air, “I want Ghost too”, and Simon didn't have to be told twice: he quickly retrieved the mask left on the armchair next to the bed and put it on with ease.

Now, there was absolutely no escape from both of them: you had won.

He pushed you to the ground again and, this time, with no permission he inserted his veiny cock into that soft treasure chest that was your mouth. Your tongue massaged his frenulum sweetly, and for each of your moans your vocal cords gave him tickling vibrations.

Never been a fan of blowjobs, Simon hated eye contact, but seeing you choke with tears in your eyes, long black eyelashes fluttering and your pupils on him was a heavenly sight.

Kneeling over you, your little hands caressed his legs, his belly, his scrotum, and it was precisely when you also started masturbating that very sensitive area that he lost it: pulling it out quickly and without ever stopping masturbating the burning glans, Simon cummed all over you.

Your doll face, your shining eyes, your plump lips: you were his territory, marked.

You didn't stop caressing him as he was still shaking from the orgasm, his hot sperm on your cheeks and his eyes so proud of you made you forget all previous unhappiness, but still...

"You owe me a dinner. You won't get away so easily" you said winded.

“Dinner? You just had a lunchbox, wasn't that enough?” he asked, still excited.

"Enough? Of you? Never".

That's when he laughed & the mask couldn't do anything to cover his happiness that you knew:

That vision lasted just a sec but those simple words of yours had pierced his hard armour.

He took you into his world, the one in which there was no room for dinners, flowers or messages, but there was a life made of small, heartfelt moments like these:

together,

in love.

❤️‍🩹

@samanthamarkle92 @httpsghostie @seigwaidau @danibee33 @thepikal0pie @doctordookie36 @cr4shposts

🧼❤️‍.

Call Of Duty MWIII - SPOILERS

Below, some clips + videos from MWIII where we'll analyse what happened to Soap.

After sharing them, however, I would like to say a few things (if you not interested in this, I understand, but please: just skip that part as I really need to vent about the matter; my apologies).

Now, the clips.

Let's start with the Soap's death (full video will be uploaded in a separate post because it deserves respect):

Wanting to deliberately leave out the fact that Makarov had complete freedom to engage a firefight without being captured (the idiotic run after killing Soap is truly ridiculous compared to Makarov in MW3), what is inevitable to do is, for me, to compare the dynamics with something already seen: does this scene remind you of anything? No? Maybe this will jog your memory:

This is in addition to what said by Makarov to Captain Price:

"Never bury your enemies alive". Who else was buried alive if not Ghost himself (according to '09 backstory)? This could justify the lack of an official backstory for Ghost 22: would Soap's death be his true downfall into the underworld? Mh.

Speaking of him, I so resent Soap's death for many reasons (which I'll discuss shortly), but above all because by killing him, they also killed Ghost: one shot, two deaths. Ghost had started to live again thanks to Soap, and it was with him that he died, too. Until the end, he was stood next to him because ''no one fights alone''. The fact that, even under the threat of a bomb capable of neutralizing half the world, Ghost chose to remain next to Soap as he bled to death to me is everything. The stone-cold man, detached and attached only to the field manual (where friendship does not even appear), he is the one who SCREAMS his sergeant's name. Let's hear the pain in his voice:

Sure, it could be a standard reaction of any man who sees his teammate killed before his eyes, but no one would expect such a reaction from the 'stone-cold man'. But a mask isn't enough to hide the pain: He's lost; his eyes roaming for help:

He's out of breath, his chest moving up and down as if he's not just catching his breath, but holding back an explosion. Cry? Tears? Anger?

I slowed down this part to highlight how the head-shake was not just to confirm the death, indicating that there was nothing left to be done, but it was personal: he can't believe his eyes, and his heavy breathing confirms it.

At that precise moment, they didn't just kill Ghost; they killed Simon, too.

In fact, in the clip below (I cut+slowed it) it's Simon (see the mask) who takes care of Johnny after his death: he keeps Johnny in his backpack, holds the urn from start to finish, he has the task of scattering the ashes in what appears to be a Scottish's mountain, and he is the one who brings HIM back home with him.

He is family.

It's precisely when talking about family that I can't stop thinking about the quantity of ashes in his urn. The amount of ashes is small: what if half the ashes went to Soap's family and Ghost kept the other half?

Also, Soap has managed to make himself loved by everyone, and this is why I consider this scene (pic below) to be of fundamental importance: the act of adding his nickname stands for: ''you were not a soldier, but something dear to me''.

The document is drawn up by Laswell, the one who protected Task Force 141 from behind the scenes even when General Shepherd had betrayed them, showing that the relationship between them all goes far beyond the working one:

it is a matter of heart.

-

It's for this reason that I feel like I must say some things about all this: there is so much to say actually but, as absurd as it may be, I felt the strong need to take some time for myself and understand what to do with this pain. As a player and historical supporter of the COD saga, I can say that in 20 years I have never seen the fandom as active, lively and full of passion as in 2022.

As I already explained, it was vital to me that AV gave Soap another chance after mw3. Sure, it's a war videogame and deaths are therefore inevitable, but killing the same character twice with the sole hope of making us hate Makarov so as to have more hype for the next COD (which, personally, I doubt will follow this arc since I define it now concluded although there are still unresolved issues) it was a stupid move to make, because by doing so we are hating AV, not Price or Makarov himself.

Furthermore, what is most infuriating is that if the COD family has started to be so creative and enthusiastic again, it is above all thanks to Saop (and to our Neil along with others VA; unfortunately, not every one of them).

Each of the protagonists in MWII was perfect, earning a special place in our hearts, but it is clear that Soap and the relationship established with Ghost were the catalyst of definitive affection that connected us so deeply to the reboot, leading us to buy even a new game that, more than a campaign, more than a DLC, is a scam:

rushed dialogues, too many characters piled on top of each other, typical warzone game dynamics with such a short duration that each level becomes chaotic etc etc etc… 2, maximum 3 hours later, we find ourselves with a Soap killed, slaughtered and left to die with total dullness and without any emotional focus DURING our game without even receiving a cutscene dedicated to him.

And, as if that wasn't enough, by killing him, Ghost was also indirectly killed: for once, perhaps for the first real time, that man - always represented as cold - had found a family and something, someone to hold on to : taking it, taking HIM, away from him, they demolished two people with a single shot.

Atrocious.

Treating one of the characters who has practically supported the entire current COD fortune on his shoulders in this way is, for me, a great injustice, as well as a stupid move.

Again, I don't hate Makarov; I hate AV.

Soap 22 will forever be our comfort zone, because he has never been just a video game character, but our home.

Wow... Just Wow... You'd think in the post The Last of Us Part II world game developers would think twice before killing off a main character people were yearning to play again. I thought Activision knew better and since they didn't do anything of the sort in MWII, the boys are safe. Gosh, I was so excited, I just wanted to have a good time and see what's new with my buddies from 1-4-1. Fuck this, I'm exhausted

Dear Anon, I've got so much to say to the point I felt the need to distance myself from the fandom immediately after completing the campaign. I am emotionally devastated, and as crazy as it sounds, it was vital to me that AV gave Soap another chance after mw3. Sure, it's a war videogame and deaths are therefore inevitable, but killing the same character twice with the sole hope of making us hate Makarov so as to have more hype for the next COD (which, personally, I doubt will follow this arc since I define it now concluded although there are still unresolved issues) it was a stupid move to make, because by doing so we are hating AV, not Makarov himself.

Furthermore, what is most infuriating is that if the COD family has started to be so lively, creative and enthusiastic again in ways that it wasn't even 20 years ago, it is above all thanks to Saop.

Each of the protagonists in MWII was perfect, earning a special place in our hearts, but it is clear that Soap and the relationship established with Ghost were the catalyst of definitive affection that connected us so deeply to the reboot, leading us to buy even a new game that, more than a campaign, more than a DLC, is a scam:

rushed dialogues, too many characters piled on top of each other, typical warzone game dynamics with such a short duration that each level becomes chaotic etc etc etc... 2, maximum 3 hours later, we find ourselves with a Soap killed, slaughtered and left to die with total dullness and without any emotional focus DURING our game without even receiving a cutscene dedicated to him. And, as if that wasn't enough, by killing him, Ghost was also indirectly killed: for once, perhaps for the first real time, that man - always represented as cold - had found a family and something, someone to hold on to: taking it away from him , they demolished two people with a single shot.

Atrocious.

Treating one of the characters who has practically supported the entire current COD fortune on his shoulders in this way is, for me, a great injustice, as well as a stupid move.

Again, I don't hate Makarov; I hate AV.

Also, I apologize for the outburst, but after 20 years of supporting the COD saga, I never expected them to play so dirty with reboots.

I'll make a separate post when I find the courage, but for now thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk about it openly.

Call Of Duty - MWIII - MCD-SPOILERS

Due to a bug in the system, in my country it was possible to play the campaign almost two days earlier. I won't say much, simply:

I'll see you on the other side. I love you, Soap. Thanks for everything.

❤️🧼

I will never recover and I'm seriously considering stepping away from the game for a while because after 20 years I felt the same pain I felt in '09.

Same shooting dynamics, ferocious flashbacks, hasty conclusion and many small surrounding details: Ghost screaming his name and not caring about a bomb capable of blowing up half the world just a stone's throw away from him; Ghost who kneels and does not leave his side; Ghost who witnesses his death helplessly, seeing him bled to death; Ghost who is the ONE who has the urn with Soap's ashes IN HIS BACKPACK; Ghost who is the ONE who holds the urn firmly till the end before and after having spread his ashes; Ghost who, with his eyes clouded by tears, is the last to leave the scene of what appears to be a Scottish mountain: his home.

Nothing will be the same as before. I need time.

Forever and for the last time:

Lets Get Ourselves A Win Yeah, Lt!

❤️🧼

HIS EYES, 💔

(Big thanks to my lovely Kingphilosipher on twitch ❤️‍🩹)

Call Of Duty - MWIII - Multiplayer

I made some gifs from the MWII multiplayer trailer. Please, give me credits if reposted °3°

THE HOTNESS: Ghost + slowed shooting/recoil+cinematic bot pulling

Ghost in his new skin looks SOOO goofy

THIS WAS SEXY AS FUCK

HIS FINAL SMOOCH LOOK AT HIS POUTY LIPS AAA

(but yeah, don't hate: they really did him DIRTY with his new mask. SOB.

Still, I'M GOING FERAL.)

PEEPAW 😭

That was so HOT ngl

K bye 🫡

Our last dance ;

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader.

Click HERE for the TikTok version.

Synopsis: will this really be our last dance, Simon? Content: angst; romantic; hurt/comfort; slice of life; body shaming; self-confidence; GhostxReader; Note: credits to @661ave for both renders.

Our last dance ;

What a weird feeling of serenity there is in accepting sadness.

Feeling it approaching and without haste occupying every corner of us, feeling our body being filled up; mouthful of water after mouthful of water up until you burst, and suddenly be aware of how much you weigh; of occupying a space, of not being just an incorporeal, empty idea; of feeling full, heavy, cumbersome.

Out of place, inadequate, self-conscious: ashamed.

Being covered in a reproach that not even a blanket of warm water can narrow down.

Flowing water mixed with the darkness of a room way too cold, water moved imperceptibly by the fresh wind which has managed to cross the edges of a curtain equally surrendered to the unhappiness of this evening. The window ajar is the silent guardian of a private painting, too intimate to be shared even with oneself, which is why every light has been turned off, the door locked, the mirror fogged up by the white mist of water vapour and the body has been crouched down, secured under gallons of heavy water in a tub happy to have chosen silence out of participation and mercy.

Even the distant glow of a moon hidden somewhere behind the mysterious clouds seems to apologise for its own reflection: against the white tiles, against the rare mirror corners that – as onlookers – refuse to cover their eyes, and again against door handles, furniture and an unknown white skin. Its echo bounces apologetically against every surface, just enough to make that woman remember that she’s not been swallowed up entirely by the darkness; not yet, at least.

Loose hair, wet locks, cold shoulders.

Insecure hands caress and embrace a curled up body that desperately tries to hide every curve, every roundness, every abundance of it although never requested, but no matter how hard her eyes try to remain firmly closed so not to look, her heart feels everything.

And it weighs, too.

Nothing floats deep inside her anymore.

There is no longer a smile crossing her round face, there are no more colours in her wardrobe; everything has been turned off, extinguished like the flame of that last candle lit until just now at the edge of the bathtub.

Its gentle column of smoke now rises upwards effortlessly and everything tells her once again that she’s the only ballast still anchored to gravity in that room, in that house, in that corner of the universe.

The sweet milk and roses fragrance soon spreads throughout the bathroom and embraces the spaces of a soul too wounded to be content with being what it is.

Long fingers and a red nail polish, which matches the shadow of a few cuts on her frightened hands, interrupt for a moment the flatness of that miniature sea she is in. They move in disgust along the outline of her small feet up to her calves, too prominent for a woman of her stature, and then those thighs: big.

Too, too big – ‘did you have to eat that huge plate of pasta for lunch?’

Her fingertips pause on her hips, too wide to fit into a nice pair of jeans – "you're my Venus Callipigia", he would say.

But how much truth and how much solace is there in this?

Little fat rolls of a belly that has never been toned remind her of a pile of wool blankets forsaken after a cold winter night – ‘this evening I'm fasting’, that's what she’s been saying for too long now.

The ripples of the surface shatter and enlarge the figures beneath that watery blanket:

enormous, massive, heavy.

Everything is huge.

That she is, and so is the pain that’s dragging her down, towards the abyss.

But how to tell him? How to make him understand?

How to explain that, that wine glass, didn't slip out of her hand due to distraction?

That behind that red fluid carelessly spilled on the floor there was hidden the discomfort of having accidentally caught her reflection in the French door while the two of them were dancing?

The self-consciousness of seeing herself so small, so awkward, so chubby – unsuitable, next to and for him?

And no matter how dim the lights in the living room were while waiting for dinner to finish cooking, how wide and long the white, clean shirt – soaked in his perfume – was while she seemed to have gained back a pinch of her usual joy through an improvised slow dance, nor how her loosely tied back hair fell around her face, giving her a kissable doll-like purity for which he would have killed without any ifs or buts: his hand had touched her generous breast, hips, abdomen – he had experienced the fat, the excess, the error;

the imperfection of being carnal and unfortunately not ideal, not right, not beautiful enough.

How disgusting.

And thus she had done what she was best at: cut and run.

She knew that setting things straight would be easy, that he would understand – because, deep down, he knew all along; he had always been the first one to figure things out, even before she could do it herself – but she also knew that this would not only be a clarification, a search for help, a last resort, but rather an explosion which would blow up the castle they had both worked so hard for, revealing a hidden truth behind their relationship.

The royal fortress in which both of them had secured their last trace of tenderness was, in reality, nothing more than a hypocritical house of cards built on mutual insecurities and doomed to fall.

The first wind had scratched their silhouettes; the cold was now pervading them from the inside.

How much fear, how much heaviness, how much injustice in being wrong for someone you love: Simon would have dumped her if she had let off steam, right?

A shattered sob precedes a barely acknowledged slap across her wet face – how long had those tears been falling down?

One right after the other they run towards her chin, outline her round, rosy cheeks and plump lips only to dive downwards, finally free to be and add more weight on her. And so does the faucet, as if to share the same pain or perhaps increase it.

Everything, in this room, cries because of her; even the moon seems to melt in a breath, by now defeated.

But what about her?

What is she besides the hideous reflection of a mirror?

Beyond the size of a trouser, acquaintances laughing at her expanse or men giving her longing and indelicate glances, eager for her abundance… what is she beyond all this?

These and many other questions push her downwards.

Just a tiny bit, towards those shadows that have been waiting for her for so long: it's finally time.

And so her body likewise slides down, towards the bottom of the quiet bathtub. Only in this way are her tears finally hidden, zeroed by the weight of mistakes. And how light does it feel to have your lungs filling up with water and hear muffled sounds, to let the darkness take over and leave everything behind, finally running away from pain, from yourself; set those you love free because they deserve better, much better than you will ever be able to give them…

Yes, what a blessing: lightness.

‘But, please: just 5 minutes.’

5 more minutes to recall Simon's smile the first time he stole her a kiss in the park, the yellowish autumn leaves on his coat, the delicious smell of chestnuts roasted on an open fire, the warmth of his hand, the fear of the storm, the scent of his skin after making love with him...

Just 5 more minutes to feel happy.

Happy with a happiness that makes her heart burst, filled with a last, silent cry for help, with the desperate request to meet him again, because she was sure she could only exist in the same universe shared with Simon.

They would therefore have found themselves in another life; perhaps older, fairer, just…

lighter.

Thus, with a sardonic smile, the Never-Enough Girl feels her heartbeats slow down, nearly savouring the smell of the uneaten dinner, the liqueur taste of red wine, the slow romantic melody filling her ears together with a whistle in the background; some bubbles rush to the surface immediately after being born from her lips, and with a pain almost as sharp as the glass cuts on her fingers, everything becomes extremely distant.

It hurts a little, it's true, but how beautiful it is to no longer be able to feel, to no longer be able to listen to any sound, to finally float...

Oh, how long she had waited. Made for this right moment to come; tailor-made, even.

Is this actually the case, though?

A knock on the door, light as a final heartbeat.

She: too elsewhere to hear it.

“Doll? You there?”

Another knock, as clear as the collapse of their house of cards.

The handle goes around in circles: the door is locked from the inside.

.

“Simon…”

@samanthamarkle92 I can finally tag you back <3

I have to say: your works have such a great vibe, I can't explain it, they're so thoughtful, so sweet, like you're putting a piece of yourself on it, your dedication and effort really shine through. keep up with the good work, loves from your 🕷️ anon, maybe not so anon hehe

POOKIE, 🥺! Ily!

It was late August ;

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader.

Click HERE for the AO3 version. Synopsis: the tale of a summer... and its end. Content: angst; romantic; bit of fluff; slice of life; GhostxReader; Note: I cried, bye.

It was late August ;

But before that, it was a peaceful May night that turned into June when your eyes met for the first time, and with June came the bright stars, the clean skies, the colourful flowers, the heat that turned into warmth on his torn and tattooed skin, the fresh nocturnal wind and birds chirping a less harsh dawn than the winter one.

A dawn shared, after so many years, with someone by his side.

His shoulder dropping its weight lightly on yours, and that crisp, new feeling of possibility.

In mid-June his first laugh; a real laugh, not a smile, not a smirk: a sincere laugh that made his eyes shape like two crescents.

Your heart skipped the first of many more beats, and when your hands found each other for the first time – when you two were sitting on the hood of his SUV looking at the lights of the sleeping city – you knew not to have been born by chance, and that you didn't want to spend that night alone.

After that one, many others followed.

Your clasped hands were enough, though; there was no need for anything else if you had each other.

His insomnia, always present, had become almost a gift: your profile illuminated by the first summer moon, your hair ruffled by the silk pillowcase, your little kissable nose; his arms around your little body.

''Get away from me, doll. There's still time'' - he whispered in the crook of your neck at the end of June.

Each night, every night; softly.

''Go, get away from me. You know I don't deserve you.'' He held you tight, kissed your round cheeks, full of life and sweet as juicy peaches.

''Run away, hurry, I don't have to see you…” He used to say.

“But how, how can I do it if – even if I wish you would leave me – I don't want to lose you?'', and he held you tight and close again, like no one had ever done, kissing your back.

Again, again, again.

''I'm not what you believe me to be, forgive me, doll. I didn't fall from the sky: I re-emerged from the underworld. I'm only capable of losing the ones I love the most'' – he said one night in mid-July.

His perfume, his big body curled up and sweaty stuck to yours, so gentle, healthy and clean compared to his, full of scars, cuts, history: was he sobbing?

Your long, black eyelashes, your big eyes, your relaxed face.

They were the only things that kept alive that man who had been believed dead for years, perhaps since ever, during these months.

Your delicate hands, so tiny, soft – healings, were saving him with every touch of yours.

"Touch me only with your eyes" he had whispered one evening on your doorstep with his camo still on and the tiredness of a day spent in the barracks written in the eyes, but you knew well that what he meant was something else.

So your sweet and full lips had touched his above the mask fabric and it had slipped away, his shampoo-scented dark blond curls had welcomed your hands as if it were natural, and his skin, when you began to taste it in every corner of his body, had become your favourite flavour in this universe.

"I only know how to deceive, make people suffer and make them cry. Stop before it's too late, doll", but you wanted him; and he wanted you.

You knew it and he knew it too.

That strong pain in the centre of his chest suggested it to him whenever he looked at you, whenever he loved you at night, between the creaks of an old creaky bed and a distant, barely lit, strawberry and mint scented candle; lit just like that small - but still alive - flame that lit up the big broken heart of that so big, so sad, but so damn good man for, to and with you.

The first nights of August were a continuous fire.

And there was no sun that could compare with what you and he had created: you were explosive.

Your lips spoke a sweeter and warmer tongue; the pain you didn't know was now infinite pleasure, and his kisses cured everything you thought your body couldn't handle - but in the end you always made it, and this ending was the most delicious ever. Your moans were the fuel of that tireless man and his coaxing sweet, pillow talk.

“I have no eyes, no heart for anyone. None but you, you…” and a warm tear ran down his cheeks and settled on your abdomen. He remained embraced by your hips, your pale hands in his now freshly buzzed hair for the upcoming mission.

It was almost, but his 100 kg resting on your lap reminded you that it wasn't time yet, that it wasn't the time yet, that he was still talking to you.

Because yes, he talked, he always used to talk to you at night. He thought you were asleep, but you were not.

But how? How do you do such a thing? What do you say back and why? The sunlight hardened him, pushed him away from you; the night joined your paths and his heart seemed able to beat, to come back to life. And so you had always kept silence in those moments just to hear his voice, even though you were the real chatterbox - his favourite one. A real relentless talker, always with something to say and that bright smile ready to pain his heart.

He, collector of your speeches, your words, your fears, weighed the words as if they were dangerous, but how many times would he have wanted to tell you that you were his truth, his tranquillity and his cure; that you were saving him, that there was only you, that he had placed his destiny in your hands; because he knew it would all end - that it would have to end, that he had to save you, that all this was an illusion, a delirium, the most difficult torture he would have had to face at the moment of saying goodbye, because he knew he didn't have much time left in his favour.

“Before time runs out, I want you to know that you’re the love of my life. I owe you this, I owe you everything, my doll’’ –

Simon would have wanted to tell you this each and every time that you were next to him, that you were away from him, that you crossed his mind, that he smelt your smell or just imagined it, but nothing like that had ever crossed his lips.

Too hardened as he was by the life itself, he did not feel worthy to speak of love, nor to be worthy of being loved.

It was late August when you, the girl with her head on the moon and up in the clouds, were hit by the biggest pain bomb you've ever experienced and which - you were sure - you would never get over.

Silence had stolen all your words, and that strawberry and mint candle went out at the exact moment in which the house intercom had rung and that man in a uniform, who was not YOUR man in uniform, had handed you the box that now – at this precise moment – you have in front of you, on the low wooden table in the living room crafted by none other than the man you’ve been missing for the past 3 weeks; the table where you lean as if under anaesthesia in search of support; your heavy eyes wear out at the sight of those objects rigorously placed next to each other, as if by keeping them close you could piece together a puzzle whose pieces are burning in front of you.

A crumpled, bloodstained envelope.

Inside of it: a small photo of you and a yellowed sheet: just a couple of short sentences written on it.

On the table, next to this letter-like hurtful bomb, a plastic bag with a metal plate with some letters engraved on it: a military dog tags.

''Lieutenant Simon Riley ''Ghost'', RH+, 237509, Unknown, other''.

You re-read the sentences written in black ink on the blood-stained sheet of the letter: the endearing handwriting that you loved so much and that will never again be able to hatch words, and yet another hot, stinging tear scratches your face and breaks your soul into dust:

"I know you've always been awake. I will come back to hug you every night. I promise, doll.

I am sorry, thank you and… I love you.

Yours forever,

Simon."

It was late August when silence devoured your life, when the wind turned cold and life became a distant diary memory;

It was late August when his heart stopped beating – and so did yours.

It was just late August…

🥀

Poker night - a tender pun.

Synopsis: a failed mission, sultry heat, one free pass: will all this be enough to finally feel at home for a bit? Maybe a pun and a rematch will.

Content: stw; green rating; one-shot; slice of life; fluff; war zone (NO red ratings, just general environment); self-reflective; silly moments; jokes; melancholy (?); play of words; shipping pairs; GhostxSoap; PricexGaz. Notes: pairs do not necessarily have to be shipped to each other. The fluff tone allows the story to be read however you like (assuming there's any good soul reading it since I'm a lonely sucker in this fandom). First time sharing a work of mine here after years because i'm scared of being told off (again) by others for being ''too old''.

༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺

Soap, Gaz and Price have been playing for hours now; the table is littered with casino tokens, poker cards and a few nibbled peanuts here and there. The air is rarefied. You can barely breathe and the smell of plastic, cordite and tobacco makes the environment unbearable – unless you're used to it, of course.

Price murmurs something rubbing his beard and eyeing his cards. Gaz, with a worried look, tries to study his opponents hoping to understand their next moves; Finally, Soap, with the look of someone who has lost every single previous game, lets a heavy sigh escape his lips after calling yet another ''all-in'' of the night, rubbing his tired eyes.

The door behind them opens, creaking annoyingly and breaking the silence of the small control room.

Gaz looks up from the table for a moment and exchanges a quick bow of his head in greeting, while Price takes another draw on his cigar leaving a huge cloud of smoke in the air that mixes with the torrid heat of the desert in which that emergency base was improvised in an old uninhabited control tower. A quick and heavy "Ghost" in greeting slips away from the Captain's lips, before the cigar returns between his teeth, the smoke begins to fill his lungs and, again, blurs the profile of that man 193 cm tall.

Ghost reciprocates the greetings of both in silence; a quick nod, nothing more but enough to make his presence known.

The dim lamp connected to the emergency generator - not without an annoying buzz and a heap of flies and insects of all kinds dancing around it - illuminates the dusty, almost empty room, occupied only by a few suitcases and the rickety table with their respective plastic chairs, drawing the figure of a third, mute person: Soap, in fact, does not move his gaze from the table.

He stares at his shoes, head bowed, an adorable pout despite his growing beard.

"All clear out there?" Price asks, almost mindlessly, before making a move to which Gaz responds with an annoyed "Oh come on!".

The sound of the combat boots slowly wakes Soap’s mind up, who although always silent, now shifts his gaze towards the dusty floor following the steps of his Lieutenant.

"All clear", he replies flatly, getting ready – in the meantime – to take one of the glasses placed on the metal trolley nearby, pulling out of a wooden box a glass bottle containing a golden liquid with a pungent smell: good, fine scotch.

A grunt behind him, similar to a clearing of the throat and a cough, anticipate a call.

"Have we forgotten to be on duty?". Ghost, half filling his glass, turns to Price, who continues: "Sure, not that much is done around here, but, you know, the rules are the rules… ", he finally says, busy nibbling on his cigar and arranging some of his cheques.

Ghost sees Gaz making his move, and from the way he immediately cheers and Soap gets up from the table, he understands that the match probably ended in a botched showdown and a big loss.

This is enough to remind Ghost that there is something else in that room, besides the bottle of whiskey in his hands, that is Scottish and that he adores: Soap has always been a sucker at poker.

"Yes, Sir. So are they…", replies the skull-man as he approaches the table taking the place of Soap - who stops now a few steps from the door, fascinated by that faceless human tower’s unpredictable actions.

He sees him spreading his legs - pausing more than necessary to observe how the fabric of his uniform stretches easily under the man's perfectly toned muscle – fitting his large body into that small plastic and metal chair and lifting the mask slightly up over his nose before taking a longed-for sip of scotch.

Then the half-masked man continues, pointing to some notes mixed among the chips in the centre of the table: "but, Sir, is it legal to post 100 pounds for a poker game when you're on duty? I mean, if the rules are rules..."

Price bites the cigar a little more, moves it from one side of his lips to the other and finally meets the eyes of the man sitting across from him.

''You know, Simon" he starts, taking another puff on his cigar, "I've always considered you like a son", he states as he collects his cheques, "but, sometimes,'' he says, stressing a lot this last word, ''you're just as painful as a kick in the nuts", he concludes laughing and starting to clear the makeshift card table.

Gaz doesn't hold back his laugh, and turning towards Soap, asks: ''another round?''.

Before the Scottish could answer, however, Ghost does. Price stares him into the eyes; to some extent Simon is predictable when it comes to Johnny – or maybe not?

"Another round" he confirms.

Soap approaches what until a few minutes was his chair muttering something in Ghost's ear - not exactly in hushed tones.

"Simon, leave it, it's okay-"

"How much have you lost?" he asks, taking another sip of his scotch.

Soap swallows, going silent. Gaz, nearby, is a bit embarrassed but really – really – happy not to be in his shoes.

"Johnny, do I have to repeat myself?" the deep voice reaches Soap's ears like a sweet threat. Ghost's eyes now stare intently at him.

"nearly £200", he answers, ashamed.

Yet, with almost no time for the man beside him to finish, Ghost looks back at Price.

"no limit game, first bet £300 and up, you in?" he proposes, smirking.

After a moment's reflection, Price's big, deep, fatherly laugh stimulates something warm in the centre of Ghost's broad, toned chest, who at that moment is no longer a special operator, no longer on a mission to a place without electricity, lights and enough food due to wrong intel; now it's just Simon who, as if he had just come off a normal factory shift, returns home to his family and tries to repair – avenge? – the disastrous losses of his man.

The Captain stares into his eyes once more and, fully understanding that needy sense of familiarity that no one in that room has ever felt except within the Task Force, smiles back at his Simon.

Leaning against the table with both arms crossed, Price studies him.

“What a big bastard I raised,” he says with a proud, thinly disguised smile. "I'm in!" he says then, licking his lips and patting the table lightly with the weight of his wallet.

A light and sincere chuckle escapes from the always so serious Ghost, and Soap, next to him - who would bet it was laughter he'd heard –, would love to stop time in that instant. He then watches Simon take his wallet, but the Scottish hands block him just in time.

"No, no, I'll take care of it, leav-" he whispers.

“What are you talking about, Johnny?” Simon replies, regardless of the tone of his voice. "Go and grab a chair instead."

But Soap remains motionless, with his hands still on the forearms of his Lieutenant, who in the meantime has already pulled out a bundle of money and organized his checks.

"C'mon, go." Simon says, as Gaz starts shuffling again. "It will not take long anyway. 20 minutes max and I'll kick them all down. The pot will be ours” he says, winking.

A shyly smiling Soap, after having dragged the last of the botched chairs and finally taking a seat next to him, like a real lucky muse, asks him in a low voice and with great concern for the high stake: ''and if it doesn't work?''

“No need to worry, I have a few knives up my sleeve” Simon replies instead aloud, as he collects the first cards, to everyone's common amazement – and fear.

Soap, after an intense general exchange with all the others and an embarrassed smile, intervenes to correct him: ''erm-. cards. I think you mean cards''.

Simon, stopping and turning to his favourite Scottish but deeply doubting his intelligence for the first time in years, asks: ''What the fuck, Johnny? Have you become a moron?''

And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he proceeds to pull all the knives out of his sleeves, of the pockets of his bulletproof vest and of his safety buckles, placing them on the table: ''of course I didn't mean cards, I said what I said. Tch!”

Silence falls in the room, the hum of the electric generator and the mosquitoes the only audible noise.

Soap's mouth wide open, the hallucinated gaze of Gaz and Price, poor old man, who, shaking his head slightly, thinks and rethinks how much that Simon of his can really be an unpredictable kick in the dick.

Even in the desert, in poker… and in love.

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