Masterlist
More flowers from: Soap | Price | Gaz | Nikolai
Ok, guys, you voted Ghost!
Commission for the Ghoap? Ghoap channel on telegram. The guys asked me to keep this series of work exclusive, so please don't take this to your telegram channels if you have them.
It’s lunchtime at the military base, and you can’t decide what to eat. Ghost is getting hangry.
———————————————————————
“It’s a simple question,” he says. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant.”
“Are you hungry?” He asks and lifts his hands.
“Yes, sir.”
“What exactly are you hungry for?”
“I-I don’t know.”
He drops his arms to his sides and sits at the corner of his desk. He touches the back of his neck with one hand while supporting himself with the other.
“Every fucking day, you do this to me,” he murmurs. “If you don’t decide this time, I’ll go eat alone.”
“Oh! Is that so?” You squint and hunch forward at your desk.
“Yes!” He yells as he stands up and walks towards you. “Yes, I will. In fact, I would love to.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, and your jaw drops. How dare he? You’d been teammates for years, sticking with him through thick and thin, never betraying him once. But now he...
“...Would love to?!”
“That’s right!” He snaps and slams his hands against your desk. “So, for the last time: What. Will. It. Be?”
You lean back in your chair and bite your pen while considering your options. Ghost’s gaze darts from you to the pen, then back. He groans and grabs the pen from your hand, tossing it to the side.
“Pens are off the menu today,” he declares, snapping his fingers, “I need an answer. Now.”
Dumfounded, you stare at the pen on the floor. If someone else had done this to you, you would have slapped them in the face. Worse, if he had watched anyone else treat you that way, he would have ripped their limbs off their body.
But he’s hangry. As insignificant as this conversation appears, he doesn’t handle his hunger with the same poise he handles other, more complex situations. Not only that, but your indecisiveness doesn’t help, either. You need to make a decision quickly, so you sit up straight and place your hands on the table.
“What are my options again?” you ask.
“Pizza or burger.” He replies sternly.
“I don’t want piz—”
“Burger it is, then,” he says with a nod. He knocks his knuckles twice on the desk and strides towards the office door.
“W-wait, Ghost, wait!”
He sighs and leans against the door, his hand on the handle.
“I don’t like the base’s burgers.” You mumble.
“Nobody likes the base’s burgers!” he yells. “But we still eat them!”
“I was wondering,” you say and lower your voice, “if there is another choice?”
He’s softly bashing his head against the door, and you try to persuade him that there should be a third option—a vegetarian meal, perhaps. In response, he begins making whimpering noises. He’s the one getting on your nerves now.
“You know what?” you snap, “I’ll go check by myself.”
He extends a hand in your direction and shows you his palm.
“No, no, no, no!” he cries. “You join the others in the queue, and the entire base will starve until you decide!”
You scoff at his sarcasm, and he opens the door.
“Listen,” he says, “I’ll go check and call you, okay?”
“LIEUTENANT!” you shout, but he slams the door behind him. You peek over at his desk. “You forgot your phone...” you murmur to yourself.
The lieutenant was a very cold man when you first met him. His responses were limited to yeses and nos with the occasional shrug, and he never joined you in everyday job activities, especially at lunchtime. You’d always eat alone in the mess hall, and if your breaks coincided with that of Gaz or Soap’s, you’d sit with them and eat lunch together. Ghost would normally sit in the office or hide in a corner around the base and eat since he didn’t want anyone to see him without his mask. But slowly, he came to trust you all with his face, and you’d eat together, locked in your office.
You look at the time. Given his hunger when he left, he should have returned five minutes ago. What if he gave up on you and is already eating with the rest? Sure, your indecisiveness annoys him, especially since he has to deal with it daily, but he’d never let you eat alone, right? On the other hand... he may be trying to teach you a lesson.
You take another glance at the time. This doesn’t feel right. You start cleaning up your desk to head for the kitchen, but someone knocks on the door.
“It’s open,” you announce, “come on in!”
“I’ve got my hands full.” You hear Ghost reply.
You walk up to the door and swing it open. Ghost stands there with a serving trolley full of dishes.
“Thanks,” he murmurs while he pushes the trolley inside the office.
“You forgot your phone!” you inform him.
“I didn’t forget it,” he says as he stops the trolley in front of your desk. “I’d rather put my bare hand in a fire and let it simmer than add a third option to your dilemma and let you decide while there’s a queue of starving soldiers behind me.”
He removes the plates from the trolley and arranges them on your desk. “Here’s the fucking pizza, the fucking shitburger, and the tofu version of the shitburger.”
He places another plate with five pizza slices on his desk. He removes his mask and immediately slaps a piece in his mouth.
“That’s a lot of food, Lt.,” you whisper, scanning the plates before you.
He turns his head towards you and keeps chewing. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing, “better have all the options in front of you than squeeze any reserve of patience I have left.”
You take a slice of pizza from your tray and bite into it.
He stares at you, raises his plate to the sky, and rambles about how “you didn’t want pizza before.” You clarify that, while you still don’t want pizza, it appears to be the best option among the three.
“However,” you continue, “I would murder for a good burger.”
He swallows and takes a second pizza slice from his plate.
“I know a place,” he explains. “We can go tonight.”
“Lieutenant, you smooth operator!” you tease, “like on a date?”
He nods and takes another mouthful. He doesn’t even bother looking at you. He’s too preoccupied with nourishing his massive body to worry about your mocking.
“What kind of a place is it?” You ask.
“It’s a shithole,” he says, “but it does the best burgers you’ve ever had.”
“So, what should I wear?”
He stops eating and aggressively shakes his head.
“Nuh-uh,” he says. “I won’t get involved in your woes again—I’ll give you the address, and you’ll be there at 8 p.m.”
“Are you going to email me the menu so I can decide what to eat ahead of time?”
He swallows and looks at you. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he says, taking another bite.
simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader (delta) | smut, 18+ | 4.1k
summary: you, soap and gaz make a silly bet at ghost's expense for an invaluable prize.
cw: mw3 spoiler free. 141 ridiculousness, humour, attempts to remove the mask resulting in life threatening (not really) injury, mild exhibitionism if you squint, very talkative ghost, 'interrogation' wink wink, unprotected p in v sex, reference to f receiving oral.
ghost mlist | main mlist | taglist
"Y'know, I'm sure as shit that L.t's got brown hair," Soap pipes up in the middle of the silence that had settled inside the safe house.
The members of Task Force 141 glance up one by one, querying eyes cast Soap's way as the guesstimated observation hangs in the air. It's louder than chopper blades, thudding against your skull and roaring in your ears as you attempt to recall the information you have on Ghost, what little physical attributes you can attribute to him. Each time, you hit a brick wall. The only image conjured in your minds-eye is the black voids of the mask's eyes and the piercing amber of his irises.
The wind howls outside, battering the windows with Wyoming snow and creeping in through the cracks in the panes. It makes a yowling sound as it slips through the crevices, carrying your memories of Ghost's appearance with it. He truly was like an apparition, there one moment, then gone altogether.
Gaz's brows crease in the middle, little crevices in the skin showing his mind working over the sentence.
"He doesn't," he eventually retorts, eyebrow cocked while shaking his head, "He's blonde."
"What makes you say that?" Price scoffs at his colleague's certainty, "You ever seen his face?"
The silence that follows makes the Captain chuckle. A wordless 'that's what I thought'.
"You willin' to bet on that?" Soap pushes Gaz with a lopsided smirk. There it is, that ridiculous playfulness that the Scotsman continuously let slip over coms. Simon had once reprimanded him for how it would get him killed– you were almost certain if he continued down this path in particular, he'd be in a box by daylight.
"I am," Gaz counters thoughtlessly, a smug lilt to his tone as he leans the crown of his head back against the rotting wooden wall, "He's got blonde eyelashes. He's gonna have blonde hair."
"What're ya gettin' so close tae him for?" Soap grins wide, loading the new ammunition and hitting a bullseye on the first shot, "You been snoggin' him or somethin'?"
"Lads," Price warns. It's only one word, but it says a lot; 'he'll have your head.' All of you know Simon 'Ghost' Riley well enough to know it's not a joke. Seen enough of the mangled bodies he left behind to know it wouldn't be clean, either. More like he'd hack your skull from your neck, picking out the dullest blade that'd struggle to slot between vertebrae.
"Bets on, then," Soap continues, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "First to confirm gets the honour of shootin' Hassan between the eyes."
It's like throwing a match at a body doused in diesel.
✰
The parameters of this wager are as follows... First: the competition is between you, Soap and Gaz. Price was ruled automatically exempt the moment he admitted he had, indeed, seen Ghost's face. It was a revelation that caused quite a storm- and a promise from Gaz of £100 if he'd tell.
The Captain, quite frankly, told him where to stick it.
Second: None of you could just ask Ghost himself. That was boring; no fun in that.
Thirdly, there are no other rules. Acquire the information by any means necessary to claim victory. Perhaps this rule should have been revised- because to say that 141's tactics for getting Ghost to reveal his face were a little unorthodox is an understatement of the highest order.
Despite his hulking frame, Ghost is like a cunning fox, cognizant of even the slightest changes in energy and hypervigilant of those approaching. The midnight void of his grease paint that frames his eyesockets contrasts the whites of his eyes as they dart back and forth between you all. He appears to have noted the devious scheming, practically hearing the cogs turning in your heads the moment he returned from his watch. Something is amiss, and you know Ghost knows it.
He says nothing.
Day One; the grumpy, black-clad special ops soldier sits back in his seat as he crosses his arms over his vast chest, cautiously observing the minute movements the three of you made. He'd bristled when Gaz stood from the sofa simply to enter another room, poised and ready to pounce at whatever fuckery the younger soldier would attempt.
"Hey, L.t.," Soap's drawl cuts through the humorously tense atmosphere in the room, and you brace yourself for his master plan. "When was the last time ye got a haircut?"
Ghost hesitates. Waits a beat. The silence stretches almost uncomfortably until he answers, thick, bassy voice almost booming in the box room. "What're you playin' at, Johnny?"
Soap shrugs his shoulders, exuding complete nonchalance as he settles into the seat across the table from the hulking mass of man. "Just wondered if the mask ever came off. How do you cut your hair?"
Amusement ripples through you in the sound of a chuckle, both men glancing your way. Ghost peers at you, suspicion pooling thick in his pupils.
"Shave it," Ghost rumbles bluntly, with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument or for Soap to encourage him to try something stupid like curtain bangs or, God forbid, a mohawk.
You can't help but grin from ear to ear as you watch the Scotsman's shoulders slump in defeat, already waving a white flag upon seeing how unwilling Ghost is to play whatever stupid game you're all partaking in. Even you can't deny the anxiety that prickles across your nerve endings when you see the way Ghost's biceps flex beneath the camo fabric of his uniform, primed for action.
When Ghost's aqua irises slide to you, your shoulders shrug comically, putting on the performance of your life to appear as though you had no idea what Johnny was up to. You see the way Ghost's blacked-out eyelids squint in suspicion. He doesn't believe you, but doesn't say as much.
Day Three and the polite, roundabout tactics had been discarded in favour of the nuclear option. Gaz had tried ambushing Ghost in the shower, opening the door without knocking as if pretending he didn't know the Lieutenant was in there. The door slammed so quickly into his head that an egg had been steadily growing on his forehead for the past hour and a half, blood seeping from his almost certainly broken nose.
"You'll stay out next time, Bravo 2-6, if you know what's good for you," Ghost had growled through the crack in the door before shutting it with a click of the lock.
Holding his face and slinking away, mortally wounded, Gaz uttered a humiliated 'Yes, lieutenant'.
Soap, clearly not having learnt from poor Gaz, decided that the next best option was a trip, so to speak. Executing a ludicrously overexaggerated stumble, Johnny reached out to grab Ghost's mask to 'steady himself' and ultimately drag it from his superior's head.
Ghost had leapt from his seat with a roar, threatening to send Sergeant MacTavish back to Scotland in a box with the Saltire draped across the lid. The standoff only settled upon Captain Price's barked orders to stand down or hang up the uniform.
By Day Six, Ghost had bruised your opponent's egos enough that neither Soap nor Gaz dared attempt to peek beneath the mask again. They look at you like you're absolutely bonkers when you finally announce it's your turn to try and tame the beast.
"Yer fuckin' mad, hen," Johnny grumbled, watching you observe Ghost from across the room. He'd settled on a chair in the corner of the room, ensuring no one could sneak up on him. "You can't seriously be plannin' on-"
"I want Hassan," you shrug, a smile playing on your lips. Though, at this rate, you couldn't care less about the terrorist and the honour of dispatching him. No, Ghost had made this ridiculous game far more competitive than needed, and you planned to win.
"Have fun," Gaz scoffed bitterly, still icing the blotchy green and purple bruise that had welted on his forehead as a medal of dis-honour. You hadn't exactly helped the healing process, poking it harshly with the pad of your thumb as you laughed at his mortifying misfortune.
You wait patiently for Ghost to move, like a stake out on a mission. Lying in plain sight in a ghillie suit, a sniper rifle pointed right between his eyes and your finger on a hairpin trigger. You wait for him to break, for exhaustion to creep in. Thankfully, you don't have to wait long. The Lieutenant rises from his chair, announcing to 141 that he's headed to bed.
A quiet mumble of 'goodnight' from each member grants him leave, and Ghost walks out of the room without further word. You waste no time in hurrying to your feet.
"Are you gonna...-" Soap winces when you stand, trailing off when you start after Ghost, not allowing either of your colleagues to talk you out of this suicide mission.
Though, the moment you turn the corner, you wish you had. Ghost's broad frame practically fills the narrow hallway like someone had plucked Everest from Nepal and shoved its hulking mass into a matchbox. He's ginormous, his usually silent footsteps causing the aged, rotting wood beneath the soles of his boots to creak with the weight he applies when he turns to face you.
The dark hallway obscures Ghost's skull-face mask, but a glittering reflection of the golden light bleeding from the bulb in the living room area flickers across the wet surface of his eyes as he observes you. You can't allow the weighty pressure of his stare to phase you if you're to push ahead with your plan- so you step forward, swallowing down the nerves that Ghost's attention inevitably dredges up.
"Lieutenant, sir," you address him smoothly, voice low as you gaze up at him through your lashes. Ghost's eyebrow arches in response, noting your somewhat suggestive behaviour. "Permission to spea-"
"I'm hopin' you'll tell me what you're all up to," his eyes spear your nerve as he interrupts you, "They're not lettin' up, but I'll get it outta you one way or another."
"What... Did you have in mind?" You chance, heart slamming up against your chest when you realise just how obvious you're being. It's dangerous- you hadn't planned to be so forward. The idea that he'd be able to read your flirting so soon set off mortars in your veins.
There's a pause. It dizzies you, throwing your previously sturdy confidence off kilter when Ghost tilts his masked head slightly. He's turning it over in his mind, considering the past few days' events. Then, he turns everything on its side.
"I know what you're doing," he speaks suddenly, the rich baritone of his voice ricocheting off the walls and ringing in your ears like he's just discharged a round of ammo with each syllable. You jerk upright, standing to attention.
"I don't know what you m-"
"You want the mask off," he interrupts you again, cutting your pathetic excuse short as he steps forward. It's ridiculous, the sheer size of him as he looms over you. "You lot made a bet."
Another beat. Ghost waits for a response, an admission of guilt. It feels like he's cornered you; every answer that springs to mind is incriminating. You know he can see your rueful expression, wide-eyed and panicked by the ease with which he puts you on the ropes.
"Was this your plan?" He murmurs, reaching to grasp your chin. His palm settles on the hollow of your jaw, fingers fanning out across the bone. "Get me into bed and see if I'll take it off?"
Trembling in his hold, you whimper as Ghost's thumb stretches across to trace the curve of your lip. It follows the delicate arc, lining the shape of your mouth and trailing the dip of your cupid's bow.
"'M sorry," you mumble weakly, cheeks hot beneath his touch. Again, you fold beneath the intensity of those honeyed irises. It's a miracle your knees don't buckle when he pushes the pad of his thumb just past your lips, so that it brushes the edges of your teeth.
"That was your plan. Y'can still give it a try, love. But..." he hums, his voice throaty and quiet and settling in the pit of your stomach. It's embarrassing, the ease with which he figures you out, but his words drip over you, easy and warm, and all you can focus on is the slip of his thumb as he presses the pad against the flat of your tongue.
"The mask stays on."
Ghost’s insistence makes you giggle sheepishly and your stomach flip in dread, like a child caught with its hand down a bear trap. Despite the lewdness of him pushing his thumb past your lips, you know that he’s being serious, deathly so. You nod clumsily in recognition of his executive order, and Ghost gently taps the skin of your cheek with his free hand, the soft slap of his palm against your flesh standing your hair on end.
“Go.”
The word hangs in the air for a moment, weighing heavily in the claustrophobic space of the small hallway. It takes a moment for your mind, rendered utterly useless by Ghost’s imposing presence, to understand exactly what he’s implying. Only when he removes his thumb from your mouth to shove you forward towards a bedroom door does his intention become clear.
Oh. Oh!
Scrambling to force your feet forward, they practically float across the threshold of the bedroom door. You can feel Ghost looming just behind you, can practically feel the heat radiating from his chest warming the expanse of your back. Fingers clasp over your shoulder, practically swallow the curved flesh, and shove you back against the bedroom wall.
The force of impact winds you, the air expelled from your lungs swallowed down by Ghost’s lips bearing heavily down upon your own. He’d ripped the mask upwards, the hem of the ski-mask balanced across the bridge of his nose. Simon’s tongue licks into your mouth– intrudes upon the space like he’s kicking down a door, like he’s swallowing the breath he’d expelled from you with his heavy hand.
Once the dazed dizziness dissipates, you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted. Ghost’s gigantic paw takes hold of your jaw in a firm grip to fit his mouth perfectly against your own, his swirling fingerprints indenting in the soft flesh there in a mottled bruise. The soft pine he coaxes from you bleeds past your open mouth despite your attempt to suppress the frankly pathetic noise.
Fuck it, this was worth it– all of it was worth it. The fear of getting it wrong, the anxiety of being caught, the panic that Simon could turn you away… All of it seeps into the darkness in the corners of the room when your superior drags his tongue across your lower lip. It’s though he’s relishing in the taste of the aftershocks of the arousal he sparks between your legs, the dopamine that rushes through you.
“Was this your plan?” Ghost grunts, grasping ahold of the scruff of your neck. Gasping weakly, you’re almost certain your eyes roll back in your head when he uses his harsh grip to steer you towards the bed. “Get me out of my fuckin’ mind so I don’t notice you takin’ off the mask?”
“That’s–” you huff, rendered breathless by Ghost’s intruding tongue, “That’s not it–”
Your pitiful attempt to excuse yourself is made useless when Ghost practically launches you onto the mattress of his bed, the rusted metal frame screaming under the sudden weight of your body.
“No?” he queries, the usual boom of authority in his voice replaced by something that sounds far more like goading amusement as he places the hefty weight of his palm against your sternum, holding you down and thwarting any attempt to escape.
He needn’t worry. The last thing you wanted was to leave.
“Tell you what,” he muses in that smug tone you always hear over the comms, his free hand quick to grasp at the leather of his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet as he works his fingers over it, “We’ll run through this mission, yeh? See if you can complete your objective, Delta?”
Your retort, or lack thereof, dies in your throat when Ghost pushes his crotch into your own. If it weren’t for the yelp of bliss that the Lieutenant had to smother with his palm, you’d hear the way he’d practically purred when he dragged his cock against you.
“C’mon then. Try it,” he urged.
It’s pointless, his mock-support. You just desperately reach for the waistband of his khaki uniform trousers, cockdrunk from the tease of its shape against you. Even in the low light, you can see Ghost’s scarred lips, the way they stretch into a smirk at your desperation.
“Abandoning mission, Sergeant?” He asks you, unzipping his trousers. “Price’ll be disappointed to know this is all it takes for Delta to go AWOL.”
“Shut up,” you moan into the cold air of the cabin. You can see your breath. “Shut up and fuck me.”
When Simon removed himself from his trousers, making some glib comment about you being demanding, you marvel at the size of him. Girthy, swollen, the ruddy tip leaks precum down the arch of his cock and traces the pulsing veins. He’s rock hard and throbbing, framed by a thatch of pubic hair.
Fumbling with your own trousers, you awkwardly try to remove them given Simon’s weighty palm still pins you down by your sternum. He watches, a glint in his eye in the low light that would almost embarrass you if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand.
“What was the prize?”
“H-Huh?” you stall, mind fried by Ghost’s unexpected line of enquiry. He picks up where you left off, violently yanking your trousers down your thighs and pushing your panties aside to expose your glistening cunt to his prying eyes.
“What. Was. The. Prize?”
You hesitate for a moment, feeling Ghost’s fingers press against the inside of your thighs as he probes this unexplored territory of you. His touch skirts the areas you want him most, teasing and goading you for more information.
“H-Hassa-ahh!”
You barely manage the first syllable of your answer before Simon rests the arch of his cock against your slick pussy lips. His body jerks slightly at the heat of your swollen cunt, the ease with which he can slide himself through your drenched sex.
“You got to kill Hassan?” he asked for confirmation, his voice unwavering. You wonder how he manages to stay so steady– you’re coming apart at the seams, trembling as the head of his cock bumps your clit clumsily.
“Yes,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he continues his laboured, steady torture. His free hand settles on your hip, arching your pelvis up slightly to meet his own. You grind your hips upward against his cock, and Simon expels a soft scoff from lungs, those piercing eyes settled on your contorting expression.
“Mhmm,” he hums, rolling his hips again. This time it’s even slower, teasing. “A temptin’ reward–”
Simon is interrupted by the moan that splits your lips when he drags the length of his cock heavily against your clit. It sparks arousal deep in your abdomen, clings to the inside of your thighs wetly.
Perhaps the disturbance is one transgression too many tonight, because Simon grasps your hips so hard that you are forced to stop gliding over the length of his cock. You pine in protest, but you choke on the pitiful sound when Ghost suddenly plunges his cock inside of you. It spears you open, breaks you apart, and you find your back arching desperately against the mattress.
The palm that had rooted itself to your sternum flies up to clasp against your mouth, smothering the shriek of bliss that threatened to expose your extracurricular activities to the rest of your squad. You sob through your teeth beneath his life line, tears welling in your eyes as you feel him stretch your walls open to make room for his intrusion.
You can’t help yourself. You need something to grasp onto, and opt for his wrist above your face. Digging your nails into the inked flesh there, you watch as the pain sparks something dark and twisted in Simon’s pupils, his azure irises swallowed by the expanding blackness.
He likes it. You can tell. His cock arches up inside of you, pushing deep and rocking against something earth shattering inside of you. Damp with sweat already, the skin of his wrist ripples as he tightens his grip on your face, refusing to withdraw from your pussy walls and instead opting for sharp, shallow thrusts that push you up the mattress with each connection of your hips.
“Fuck,” he spits, using his tight grasp to pull you back towards him. It’s obliterating you, ripping you apart and pushing all your pieces back together in a mangled, jumbled mess. You whimper as you suffer through his brutal pace, marvelling at how good it feels when he consistently spears your g-spot.
“When would you have done it?” Simon asks you, a little breathless now as he chases the high that begins to build at the edges of your body, tingling and pulsing.
“Shut up–” you beg him, the low rasp of his voice launching you towards that pleasure that threatens to consume you. Jerking your hips up to meet his, your body mindlessly reacts to the sound of his timbre.
“Oh, no,” he chuckles, shaking his half masked face. There’s a silver laden scar that stretches across the base of his chin. It matches the one that splits his upper lip to the base of his nose, the ski mask hovering tantalisingly over the bridge. “When?”
The seriousness of his tone makes your thighs quiver when paired with the sharp thrust he punctuates his question with. Years of training in maintaining a cover-story while a hostage are blown to bits as though Ghost has launched a mortar at your resolve, because suddenly all your state secrets are spilling out of you quicker than you can shove the incriminating words back into your traitor mouth.
“I’d– Hagh… I’d do it j-just as you’re cummin–hhah!”
“And spoil my fun?” Ghost hums, that heavy timbre licking up your spine and sparking viscous embers at the base of your spine, “Anyone ever told you that you’re very fuckin’ selfish, Delta?”
You’d offer a witty comment, but Ghost’s angled his hips just right, and your jaw is falling loose to let out a panicked whimper.
“There it is, shit. Look at you, Sargeant. Fuckin’, you’re so tight–”
You’re like a slip knot, tightening around him further with each knock of your g-spot with Simon’s ridiculously large cock-head. Prickling tears of bliss threaten to spill over the edge of your waterline, continuing to sting even when you shut your eyes. You’re shaking, trembling beneath his rocking hips as you mewl his name.
“S-Simon! Fuck–”
Wild, wet squelches of Simon sinking into your soaked cunt echo in your skull as he ramps up his violent thrusts, the springs of his mattress screaming an unmistakable rhythm to anyone walking by. He doesn’t seem to care now though, his eyes zeroed in on your expression like he’s stalking a victim with his sniper scope. Aiming for complete obliteration.
“C’mon Can feel you squeezin’ round me,” he murmurs, the steady tone he’d offered earlier shuddering slightly as you squeeze impossibly tight around him, coil threatening to snap, “You’re so close, Delta. C’mon, paint my cock an’ I’ll eat you out with my cum in you–”
✰
“He’s blonde.”
Gawping jaws drop to the floor at your very simple observation, Soap’s eyes nearly rolling across the uneven, rotten floorboards after falling out of his skull. You can’t help the smug smile that threatens to tug at the edge of your lips, especially given the sensation of Ghost’s eyes boring holes into the back of your skull.
The awe only worsens when Price gives a subtle nod of confirmation from the corner of the darkened room, crowning you the winner of this utterly ridiculous joust.
“How do you know?” Gary is as shaken as Soap by the confidence with which you’d offered your final answer, in disbelief as to how you could have possibly obtained it without being maimed, given the egg on his forehead was still throbbing despite days of icing it with the snow from outside the safehouse.
“His pubes are. I assume the curtains match the drapes,” you shrug dismissively.
The sheer incredulity that flashes across Johnny’s face is utterly hilarious. The smirk that had been threatening to break finally cracks across your lips at the confirmation of your victory. Ghost’s eyes appear to have lazered through your skull, singing brain matter with the ferocity of his scowl. Frankly, you couldn’t care less– you can see it in your mind's eye; the gorgeous contrast of a blood-red crosshair settling across Hassan’s forehead, the weight of the trigger beneath your finger as you pull it back.
We don’t talk about the power of Simon being the one to wear his mother’s wedding ring. Like he proposes with a beautiful ring that will fit in with the wedding ring he’s getting made to you but he also sits you down and quietly asks if he can just resize his mothers ring and use that for his wedding ring. It’s a simple band, thick for what a typically feminine ring usually is but no less beautiful. He explains that his grand father proposed to his grandmother with it and then it got passed to his mother and then to Beth before he came to own it. That he’d like to keep you and his family connected. No longer seperated by this life and the afterlife.
The only time you wear it is when he strings it upon a chain and threads it around your neck when he goes off to serve. “You’ll keep ‘em safe for me lovie,” he promises with a kiss to the band and to you.
hiii, i love your writing, and i saw your requests were open, so i wanted to send one your way! 💞 could you write something about a civilian reader who has to take care of ghost while he’s recovering from an injury? price sent him home to heal because he knew reader wouldn’t put up with his nonsense.
He hated it. Fine- hate was a strong word. Uncomfortable. That’s better. He felt unnatural. A man of his size being treated as though he was a fragile little newborn. He was mad at Price. Sending him home when he was perfectly capable of healing and finishing his mission.
“Do you want another popsicle?” Your voice rang from the doorway. He cringed inside.
“No.” He responded bluntly.
“Simon don’t be this way.” You pleaded. He shut his eyes tightly knowing if he so much as caught a glimpse of your soft eyes he’d cave. “You need to keep your fluids up- and no whiskey does not count.” You cut yourself off when you saw his mouth begin to open. You sat on the edge of the bed and traced your finger from the bridge of his nose all the way down his chest, then his stomach, stopping right above the waistband of his sweats. His eyes flung open.
“Do you want to come help me with dinner?” You asked softly. His eyes lit up. This was the first time since medical leave you’ve treated him like a functioning human being. He nodded his head. As he sat up pain shot through his abdomen, he quickly cut his pained groan off not wanting to deter your decision. He was surprised when you didn’t move to wrap an arm around him to push off from the bed. He swallowed back another pained groan. His head spun. He teetered but quickly found his footing and followed you willingly to the kitchen. You and Simon were never a big fan of cooking, but you found that when you did it together it really wasn’t something to dread. His eye twitched as he caught site of the twelve different flower arrangements Johnny had sent to tease him.
“Steak and salad.” You said grabbing the ingredients out of the fridge.
“Steak and baked potato.” He argued. You chuckled and shook your head.
“Can you grab a pan please.” You requested. He hummed to show he heard you but suddenly stopped. All the pans you owned were in the cabinet under the counter. He would have to bend over. The knife wound on his hip throbbed at just the thought of it.
“Sweetheart.” He said softly.
“Oh right silly me.” You brushed passed him and grabbed the large pan with ease. “You’re in charge of steak, I’m in charge of salad.” You ordered, handing him the pan. He nodded his head. He hated being helpless. His tense muscles relaxed at the sound of your gentle humming. This was what he lived for. The gentle domestic moments like this. You just being yourself- and letting him just bask in it. Heat flowed through this chest and crawled its way up to his ears and back down to his toes. He wiggled his toes in his socks. He snapped himself out of it and reached up to grab some seasoning, forgetting the seven inch gash in his side. He hissed and grabbed the counter. “Si.” You whispered softly. Your hands pressed themselves against his shoulder blades and you rested your forehead against his back. “You’re not okay.” You started. “We all know you can push through the pain, but why should you? You have nothing to prove to me.” You pressed a kiss against his back. Your fingers massaged themselves into his shoulder muscles. “You always take care of me, let it be my turn.”
“That’s not your job.” He grumbled. You could tell your words had impacted him. His voice broke slightly.
“No it’s not my job. I’m doing it because I want to.” You hummed pressing a few more kisses into his back. Between the kisses and your fingers digging into his shoulders he was putty in your hands. “Go lay down on the couch please.” You murmured against his skin. “You can have one whiskey after dinner, but only if you behave. Captains orders.” You whispered the last part in his ear and bit at it softly. He couldn’t contain the shiver that ran through his body and dutifully did as you asked of him.
Price could handle Ghost- but only you could handle Simon.
Thank you for all your kind words! And thank you for being my first request! 💚
Just a little sweet morning one-shot. Simon Ghost Riley x FemReader as I'm procrastinating on the next smutfest in my drafts.
Mildly explicit; mdni.
Simon is so beautiful it hurts - tall and broad, just big all over with high cheekbones and long, sweeping lashes brimming darksome eyes that tell you more about him than his lips ever could. You're certain that you'll never forget the first time he showed you his face and even now your heart catches almost painfully in your chest at the memory.
He's sprawled in your bed, still solidly and blissfully asleep, naked as the day he was born with the sheets rucked down low at his waist. He's yours. The thought evokes something visceral that you can't quite explain, blooming deep inside like spilled paint when you look at him. You're privileged, you remind yourself; the others don't ever get to see him like you do.
He stirs when you brush your fingertips over his lips, eyes slowly cracking open, adjusting to the dim pre dawn glow infusing your bedroom. His gaze settles on you, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a warm smile. Every time Simon looks at you it feels like he's seeing you for the first time. Always so full of longing and doting warmth that it overwhelms you. You can't believe that he loves you.
"mornin' lovie" he husks into your ear, rough like broken glass, as he nestles impossibly closer. Bastard knows what his voice does to you first thing in the morning. You're already hopelessly ensnared by him, strong arms wrapped under and around your chest, one hand cupped possessively over your breast. You push into the feeling and he groans lowly, grinding his morning erection into the plush curve of your ass as his nose nudges the spot behind your ear.
"you're so bloody gorgeous." You know it annoys him, but you can't help the incredulous snort that escapes you at his words and the distractingly wonderful way he's pressing open kisses against your jaw. "s'true..." he laughs when you roll your eyes, "I love you."
"I love you too, Si." It comes out as a whisper, your throat tight with how besotted you are with this man. His mouth and hands are still wandering, no longer Innocent in their intent. You want him to fuck you into the mattress, you want his lust to break over you, steal your breath like a thunderous wave. His touch has turned greedy and your spine tingles as one of his hands skims down the length of your body, seeking out the dripping heat between your thighs.
You might just get your wish.
It will be another hour before you both get out of bed, finally ready to start your day. You'll watch him get dressed, drink his tea, and perform all manner of mundane trivialities one does day by day. You can't believe how damn lucky you are to live every day with him like it's the first.
sleepytime codmw2 headcanons for all my fellow crazy sleepers out there \(◕‿◕)
warnings: anything sleep-related, fluff; sfw, “crazy” sleeper!reader, gender neutral!reader; no prns, just you your(s), and you’re”
characters: könig, simon “ghost” riley, johnny “soap” mactavish, captain john price, alejandro vargas
a/n: inspiration taken from jaennwrites and empresskylo !! hopefully my headcanons aren’t exactly like theirs similar! but i liked a lot of theirs and implicated them into this post ;) this is MOSTLY proofread... but idk D’:
the first time you and simon slept together, you woke up in the most peculiar position. simon was placed on the far left, while you were on the far right.
when you turn to face him, he’s laid flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, already awake. “you move.. so much in your sleep, d’y’know that?” he angles his head to look at you, slightly irritated (emphasis on slightly). voice hoarse and tired as if he’d not even got so much as a blink during the night.
you groan and move closer to him, “you’re so dramatic, simon.” snuggling into you, he scoffed, “yeah right. i should record you when you’re knocked out. then we’ll see who’s really the dramatic one.”
the act of actually falling asleep together is a bit less… “lively,” as he describes it.
you and ghost, curled up together on the sofa, quietly drifting into slumber. wrapping you up in his arms, he holds you tight, not wanting you to escape his grasp with how much you squirm and wiggle in during your naps. shallow and slow breaths coming from the two of you. as the minutes passed, you both slip into a calm hush, closing your eyes you can hear the sound of simon’s heart. steady, quiet, and consistant.
soap has a photo album dedicated to the “absolutely insane” positions he finds you in when he comes home.
“look- here’s the one of you with your foot on the nightstand- AND- here’s the one where your entire lower half isn’t even on the bed-“ you gasp at the grisly photos, a shocked look on your face.
“what?? you thought i was lying when i said that you looked literally unhinged when i come home to you asleep?”
moving you to the other side of the bed was no problem partially because you didn’t mind and partially because he’s done it so many times. grabbing you by the ankles, the arms, anything that was in arms length, was usually being moved to the other side of the bed.
more times than not, it was done all for naught because when it was time for the two of you to get up, you were almost always on top of him, in your gnarly positions.
price is always the one to fall asleep (and wake up) first while cuddling together. like a 6th sense, he’s always aware of when you’re moving or trying to get up from the bed or the couch.. wherever you both had decided to rest.
"where do you think you’re goin’, little munchkin?” he grumbles, tightening his grip on you “trying to escape so soon?”
he never minds when he finds one of your limbs on top of him in the mornings. gently moving your arms, legs, or your body from his.
waking up earlier than you, he never likes to leave without leaving you something whether it’s a note of his whereabouts, a cup of tea (or coffee if you prefer it), or maybe a bagel or toast if he has time to do so.
when you both are cuddled up on the couch, your head laid against his chest (your back facing his chest). he strokes your hair (or body if you don’t want your hair being touched! he understands.), traces his fingertips along your arms and legs, and occasionally hums to you as you fall asleep in his arms.
or if you’re resting against him (your chest facing his), he’d be rubbing your back, the back of your head, and hugging you, keeping you as close to him as physically possible. placing kisses on your head and forehead every now and again.
alejandro literally cannot sleep without you. he might fall asleep here and there, but he cannot stay asleep for very long without you.
you being there puts his mind at ease and allows him to truly relax, with not a care in the world about anything else… other than you :’)
he definitely wakes up throughout the night to make sure you’re still in his arms. or at least lying next to him.
the one time he wakes up and you’re not next to him, the first place he checks is the bathroom. checking under the underside of the bathroom door and not seeing the light glowing from it, he practically bolts down the hallway, checking the kitchen.
“woah- woah! slow down alejandro!” you shout, startled by the way he came rushing into the kitchen, almost causing you to drink your cup of water.
“perdóname mija, i didn’t mean to scare you. i just-“ he draws long breath, taking your hand in his. “i couldn’t find you, mija.” you grip his hand and take a sip of your water, smiling at his concern.
"c'mon, let's go back to bed, cariño."
because of the sheer size of könig, the size of the mattress that you two share is insane.
“a....wyoming king, i think they call it,” you tell him. he looks at you, sorta puzzled, but mostly happy that you guys have a bed that you both can share :)
the nights he finds you in the most ridiculous positions, he does not have the ability to contain himself. “ah.. schatz, how can you sleep in such a absurd position?” he says, lightly bringing his hand down onto your backside.
you groan and roll over to the middle of the bed, allowing him to climb in next to you.
the both of you are completely different when it comes to how much you guys move during the night. könig is as calm and as still as the mountain he is, you on the other hand, are the wind, the clouds, and the animals on and around the mountain. both climbing on top of him and around the large bed you share with said mountain.
when könig just so happens to wake up in the morning he can’t help but smile and wrap you up in his arms, rubbing your back and listening to your slow and tranquil breathing against him.
