| Obsessive - Stalker! Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader
Word Count - 1.6k
Summary - Ghost finds himself in the room of the target of his obsession.
Tags/Warnings - Trigger Warning! Stalking, Obsessive thoughts and behaviours, B&E,
A/N - Going into this obsessed ghost mindset was kind of scary ngl
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Ghost had no idea what point his interest turned into a fascination. Even less so was when it turned into an obsession. He wasn’t sure when his thoughts shifted from admiration to addiction. It was foreign and terrifying to him. These emotions had consumed his every fibre. It blinded him of all reason. He prided himself on his control; it was something he’d worked very hard towards. It all fell away when it came to you.
He knew he’d be so good to you. He would treat you how you deserve to be treated. He was yours already. Every breath he took was for you.
It was driving him insane. It made his skin feel too tight and his mouth too dry. He needed space from you, but going a day without seeing you made him feel like he was suffocating.
To say you had “sway” over Ghost would be an offence. From the moment he saw you, you had unknowingly and unwittingly sunk your nails into his very core. You consumed his thoughts, even at the worst of times. He could hear your voice in his sleep, it followed him into his dreams like a creeping shadow.
It was getting out of control. He was getting out of control.
This obsession was taking over his life.
All he could think about was what you’d feel like, sound like. Taste like.
Just the thought of you had him adjusting the front of his pants and clearing his throat. Even now, as he stood outside your residence and waited for the last light to be turned off in your home, he could feel his pants get tighter over his crotch.
The rain made for the perfect cover as he stalked across the street to your little townhouse. He’d noticed a while ago that you kept your bedroom balcony door unlocked, even at night.
For him, he thought with a savage delight.
You knew what you were doing to him. There was no reality where you were unaware of his fixation with you. Not that he wasn’t good at hiding it, because he faded into shadows like he was made from them. No. It was the way you’d leave traces of yourself behind for him to find that led him to believe you were playing games with him. On more than one occasion, he’s found your hair ties abandoned on coffee tables and the cups with the remnants of your gloss on the lip.
It was all fine with him; he’d play games with you. He’d let you win if it meant making you happy. He was willing to fall into whatever trap you laid out for him. If only it allowed him to talk to you.
This wasn’t the first time he’d thought about climbing up your balcony and into your room, but it was the first time he found himself in the act.
The rain made every surface slick, which might have been a problem for anyone else but not for him. With practiced movements and agility, he hauled himself into the ledge.
He reached for the sliding door and lightly tugged. A lethal smile tugged at his mouth, and he licked his lips. He pulled on it some more, just enough for him to slip through. As quietly as he opened the door, he closed it.
His gaze dropped to the small area rug you had placed in front of the door, a welcome mat of some sort. He paused, watching as the rain he brought from outside slid as droplets off his boots and soaked into the fabric.
Had you left this for him because you knew his boots would be wet?
He raised his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the dark room.
His breath hitched.
There you were. Right there. A mere ten feet away from him. Alone. Vulnerable.
You were turned away from the door, a duvet outlining the curves of your shoulders and hips. You didn’t move, but he could have sworn the rise and fall of the blanket hastened. He took in a deep inhale, memorizing and cataloging the scent of your room. It smelled like clean sheets, shampoo, and whatever lotion you had been using for the last four months. He was in your domain. In your room, and some might consider it the most intimate space someone can have. And he was in it. His finger twitched at his side.
He was taking steps toward you before he even realized he was moving. He froze. What the hell was he doing in here? He didn’t have a plan. It wasn’t like he’d done this before.
He ran trembling fingers through his damp hair and pulled. He knew that he shouldn’t be here. That it was wrong. But there was this primal, insane part of him that felt relief.
His boot tapped the foot of your bed frame, and he sucked in a breath, fearful that the foreign sound would stir you awake. Your shoulders fell and rose in regular breaths.
A million questions raced through his twisted, inky mind.
What would he do if you woke up? What could he say? Would you recognize him? Would he hurt you?
His head tilted to the side in introspection. Would he hurt you? Not even he could answer that question.
His skin buzzed as he moved closer to you.
He special note of the fabric of your bedsheets. The colour of your walls and the pictures hung on them. The many intermingling smells. An impossible scent to replicate, to his demise. His dark eyes snagged on the overflowing laundry basket beside your closet. His eyes narrowed on the pink lace that was atop every other piece of clothing.
He nearly groaned at the sight as heat rushed to his groin.
You were torturing him, he was sure of it now.
He lifted his face to the ceiling and did his best to control his breath. He thought of death, and blood, and gunpowder. He thought of rot—anything to calm himself down.
He felt his body relax back into itself before he turned his attention back to you.
As he gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, he thought he saw you flinch underneath the covers. He stilled. Every muscle in his body had gone taut. He waited for you to turn to him and scream. He was readying himself to reach out and cover your mouth, but when you didnt so much as groan, he settled.
His chilled fingers reached out to touch the stray hairs that fell back behind your head onto the pillow.
Soft. That was all he could think of as his mind numbed.
He fought every urge to lean down to smell the tendril.
He yielded to the urge faster than he’d admit even to himself.
He rubbed the individual strands between his fingers as he brought this face closer.
He inhaled, deep and quivering.
If he had leaned over your shoulder, he would have noticed your wide, frightened eyes. You remained as still as you could and willed your breath to remain calm.
He rocked back, eyes wild. Oh, how he wanted to drag his nose to your neck. Let his mouth trace the angle of your jaw, and nip at the tender, thin skin there.
Too close. He thought. I am too close.
He rose from the bed as fast as he could without making too much noise and took a wide, unbearable step back from your prone form. He brought his hand up to his face and bit down on the side of his palm, as if to distract himself from the internal pain. His hand dropped to his chest as he realized that internal pain was coming from his heart. It ached as he stumbled back a few feet in dread. He fisted the fabric of his shirt in his fist before dropping it to his side.
He took one last, dragging look around the room. There was no way he was leaving this room without taking something with him. Some piece of you. Something small and easily misplaced. But not replaceable. He wanted something you’d look for. Something to connect you to him.
His attention landed on the thin diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet you had lying in a small bowl beside the bed.
Had you left it there for him to find?
He has seen the bracelet poke out from your sleeve a few times, the diamonds catching the light. He loved the way it spun on the wrist as you moved about your day. He loved the way it would sometimes catch on the fabric of your sleeve and the way you would huff and pull it out from the fibres.
He swallowed as he picked it up. It couldn’t have been more than an ounce, but it felt unbearably heavy in his palm. His eyes fell back onto you as he brought it to your lips and pressed a yearning kiss to the cold metal.
He retreated to the sliding door, turning back to drag his eyes up your sleeping form. Memorizing every curve and angle of your body so that when he went home tonight, he could imagine how his body would fit up behind yours.
You could hear the rain get louder for a second as he slipped back outside.
As he closed the door behind him, you couldn’t help but feel the absence of his heat in the room. You sucked in a shuddering breath and curled your arms around your torso. There was some sick twisted side of you that wished he had stayed a fraction of a second longer.
| The Moment They Realize They Are In Love With You
Word Count - 1k
Summary - just a little blurb about Ghost and König
Tags - fluff
A/N - spring and pollen are kicking my ass rn and i haven’t been able to work on much so here is something different i’ve had it sitting in my drafts for a while
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Ghost
The moment Simon realized he loved you, was way after you did. You had known you loved him for weeks but decided it was best to wait for him to catch up before you said anything. Even when he made it really hard. Even when he was sweet.
Having grown used to the protection and security of his mask he sometimes forgets that people can see every facial expression and twitch of the brow when he takes it off. You’ve decided against your better conscience to use this to your advantage. You’ve started taking note of his reactions to everything you do. What makes him smile, what irks him, what makes him shy.
The first time you made and saw him blush it was on accident. The sight was so lovely that you stopped to consider snapping a picture of him. It started at his neck, splattering across his cheeks and burning the tips of his ears. His eyes flitted between you and the walls.
But what really got him were the little touches and fleeting brushes of skin.
It was something as simple as whispering endearments into his ear or giving him compliments as you walk past him. His attention would catch on you every time, following your disappearing figure with his eyes. He’d feel the heat rise, and he knew that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
“Stop that,” he had once muttered in response, his gaze hardening. “Oh? You seem to be liking it” You brushed a thumb over his cheek and the dust of pink there. “It’s a natural physical reaction,” he riposted, grabbing you by the wrist and pulling your hand away.
You grasped his hand with your other, unfurling it and placing it palm up in yours. Your fingertips danced across his, and his calluses scraped against your soft skin, tickling you. You traced the line where his hand met his wrist, and with your nail dragged your finger back to his once more. He tried to fight back the shiver but failed miserably. His hand twitched. Maybe to pull it away from you. Maybe to pull you into him.
You became distracted as you started outlining and sketching over his tattoos. The ink had become familiar to you at this point, and you might be able to trace it with your eyes closed. Lord knew you tried doing so every night when his arm wrapped around you, tucking you in impossibly closer to him. You hummed to yourself as goosebumps rose up on his arms.
He made no move to his hand back from you. When you looked back up at him you almost fell back.
“I don’t think I can live without you,” was all he said. It was all he needed to say.
He wasn’t saying he would cease to exist if you decided to leave him, he was saying that he was alive when he was with you. With you, he could feel the warmth of his blood, and the beat of his heart. With you, he discovered that the sky was blue and the summer air was sweet.
Before you, he was in limbo, stuck in survival mode. He was simply living his character, and even when he returned home he was waiting for the next call so he could return to combat. It was all he knew. The violence. The bloodshed.
You were his life support, the only thing keeping him from crashing and burning
König
He’s always had a problem with looking people in the eyes. The intimacy sometimes was too much for him. He always felt like the other person was looking into him through his eyes.
Expect when it was you. When he looks into your eyes he knows he was safe from judgment or mockery. There is nothing but warmth and adoration within your gaze and it used to make him fidget. Now, he thrived off your regards. You made him feel wanted and worthy. He didn’t realize how much he needed someone to look at him like that until one day when it all clicked into place for him. It was then he knew you would be the one he married. The one he shared his life with.
You had your feet propped up on his lap while the both of you lounged on the couch. His one arm was thrown on the back of the couch, and the other hand was wrapped around your ankle, playing with the skin there, making lazy slow circles. The touch was harmless, but it was a testament to just how comfortable he had become with you. He didn’t even notice he was touching you, and didn’t have the mind to worry about the potential social faux pas he would have ruminated over.
He was flipping through movie options, trying to convince you to watch the one he wanted. He was listing off actors and explaining the plot to you when he turned to face you. His voice dropped away into the dark room and faded into the shadows beyond. One side of his face was aglow with the light from the TV. His blue eyes were wide, trying to take in everything all at once. Your calm, tentative face. The soft, titled smile.
I love you.
He didn’t realize he had said it aloud until a larger smile blossomed on your face. Your eyes twinkling at the confession. Heat burned his cheeks and he was conflicted over whether or not he wanted to take it back and shove the words back into his mouth.
You pulled your legs back from his lap moving into a kneeling position beside him on the couch. He followed you with his eyes, and his palms began to sweat because you hadn’t said it back yet. He held his breath and you inched closer, bracing your hands on his thighs.
“Say it again,” you insisted.
“I-” he interrupted himself with a nervous giggle, “I love you.”
You slithered onto his lap and he instinctively place his hands on your hips. Even in this position you had to slightly look up at him.
“One more time,” you wanted to hear him say it a thousand times again. Wanted to hear it when you woke up and before you went to bed. When he came home from work and when you were out getting groceries.
“I,” you kissed him, “love you.”
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A/N - im trying out some könig
Tag List - @thychuvaluswife ❤︎ @shuttlelauncher81 ❤︎ @lostinsideourminds, ❤︎ @v1naco ❤︎ @purplefishingline
Summary - When y/n is taken hostage because she is their combat analyst and knows a significant amount of information in regards to the 141, Ghost goes ballistic. Driven by fear and anger he locates you and is able to rescue you but the fear lingers and he struggles to wrestle his feelings back down.
Warnings/Tags - Violence and blood, allusions to a brief panic attack
A/N - I’m thinking of doing an epilogue to this but I’m really on the fence
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Ghost feared very little. Knew that very little could actually kill him, and even fewer people could do the same. He knew he wasn’t invincible, and someday his luck would run out. Someday his heart would stop, and his blood would run cold. He couldn’t run from the inevitable; thus, he welcomed death with open arms like one would an old friend. He didn’t have a death wish though. He was merely passive towards it. Sometimes he liked the thrill a brush with death gave him. It reminded him he was alive, that his heart did indeed beat like everyone else’s.
When it came to you, it was an entirely different story. The very idea of you being hurt, and dying, scared the shit out of him. The thought of you leaving him behind plagued him. Even in his sleep, nightmares of you taking your last breaths in his arms would force him from sleep. He’d spend the rest of the night watching you sleep, watching your chest rise and fall, feeling the heat radiating from your skin. He feared for the day he wasn’t able to protect you.
A day like today.
“Ghost,” Price spoke slowly and low like he was talking to a wide animal. Which wasn’t that far off, “We’ll get them back, we just need more information. We can’t run in there blind and deaf.”
Price might as well have been talking to a brick wall because all Ghost could hear was ringing. An incessant, grating sound that shrouded him from all sense and reason. He remained utterly silent, seeth in his own wrath. The wrath he was sure to bring down on everyone and anyone who stood in his way. The 141 was well aware of this and stood aside as Ghost stalked to the door, his shoulders rolled and taut ready for a fight. He had turned so wholly maniacal that even Soap was disturbed by the look in his eye and backed down. Ghost went AWOL, but the 141 provided as much support as they could. They were able to give him updates and new information over the radio, but they were never able to catch up with his unrelenting pace. Instead, they only stumbled over his messes. Their own anxiety and unease about the meaning behind it all grew. It was as if humanity abandoned him as he tracked—No. As he hunted down the men who took you, smelling their blood in the air and following the scent. Ghost spared no one. If someone wasn't giving him the information he’d slay them and move to the next. If the next person wasn’t giving him information fast enough they were executed.
When he finally located you, you were in a warehouse, he communicated back into the radio for the first time to tell the rest of the 141.
The captors had yet to start drawing blood, but only because they were trying a psychological approach. It had already been three hours. Three very long hours. You were a combat analyst, you weren’t a trained soldier like the 141. And you sure as hell wasn’t prepared for something like this. He didn’t let himself think too hard about the possibilities. He didn’t let himself think about the probability of finding you dead inside the warehouse. You had crucial information on the 141 that they wanted, and he could only hope that information was keeping you alive.
He slaughtered his way into the building, leaving nothing but carnage behind him. When he got visuals on you, alive, he nearly collapsed. Not completely unharmed though.
You were soaked from waterboarding. They had used ice-cold water, and somehow it was colder still. The big industrial fans hanging from the roof blew cool air, but it was only amplified tenfold for you. He could hear your shivering, see how your lips had turned a scary shade of blue. Your hair stuck to your face in wet clumps. Your hands were bound to a chair, your fingers curling into your palms in search of any warmth. Your eyes burned holes into whoever stood in front of you.
“Where. Are. The 141. Hiding?” Your captor asked again, the same question he’s been asking from the very beginning. He forced your head back, getting ready to place the towel. He hadn’t gotten anything out of you yet, but he could tell you were breaking.
You bit out a smile, although it was more of an act of you baring your teeth at him, “Go to hell,” Your teeth chattered, despite your best efforts. Before the captor could place to sopping towel back over your face he emerges.
It’s almost as if Ghost was made from the shadows themselves with the way he seems to materialize out of them. The way they clung to him. He couldn’t remember losing his handgun, but at some point, he’d resorted to knives.
You knew he wasn’t here for your blood but alarms and warnings went off in your very bones. They screamed, Danger! Danger!
Ghost was every bit his reputation at this moment. His eyes were wide and unseeing. His movements were swift and snappy like elastics were snapping in his limbs. He’d taken his time when he dragged the blade across the man's throat, wanting to keep him alive to feel every ounce of agony at his life quite literally drained from him.
The speed at which he moved in front of you almost made you think him inhuman. He uncuffed you and pulled you into his arms, squeezing you hard enough that you thought he was going to break bones. He was panting, almost unable to catch his breath. You could almost smell his fear; that and the blood that was surely hiding among the black dye of his clothes.
You repeatedly murmured, “I’m okay. I’m okay,” into his shoulder. Not sure if you were comforting him, or yourself. Both, you very quickly realized. As whatever came over him in those few hours of your life in danger, ebbed from his veins, he finally, finally returned to his body. Before it had felt like he was watching himself from outside his body, watching himself from someone else perceptive. Someone may have thought he wasn’t a mundane soldier, but a vessel for whatever god wished to experience true unchecked rage.
But he was human.
He felt true terror today, and his body was starting to feel the effects of it. He kept repeating, “I’m sorry,” like they were the only words he could remember. His body began to tremble uncontrollably, and his skin felt too tight and itchy. You let him hold you, let him feel your heartbeat against his.
The 141 arrived with a medic. Simon immediately stepped aside, allowing the professional to assess you. She’d immediately announced hypothermia and called for a medevac. She’d wrapped a reflective blanket around your shoulders and removed her own jacket and put it on top.
Once Simon was completely and utterly sure you were in good hands, he’d stumbled to the wall, choosing a spot where he was obscured from your view. Everyone’s view. He’d fallen to his knees then, his strength leaving him. They cracked against the concrete, but he welcomed the sharp pain. He’d lifted his mask and thrown up.
It had been a long, long while since he’d had a reaction like this. Where panic and hysteria claimed him. Guilt and self-loathing suffocated him. Filled his chest, and bubbled up into his throat.
He let this happen. He wasn’t careful enough. He got too comfortable.
And this was the result.
It was his fault.
His fault. His fault. His fault.
He clenched his jaw, fighting back hot tears. He leaned his back against the wall, rested his arms on his knees, and let his head hang between his legs. If circumstances were different he would have crawled into the safety of your arms and begged you to make this feeling stop. To make it go away. It was a selfish thought, he knew that. Knew that you were one who needed comfort and reassurance right now. Knew that you needed him just as much, but he didn’t want you to see this. For if you looked into his eyes, you’d be faced with the reality that he truly had had no idea what to do. He came looking with no plan and hardly any direction. He’d once again gotten lucky by following breadcrumbs and whispers to find you.
He almost lost you.
You were alive, yes, but what if he’d come an hour later? A minute?
The 141 knew where he was. Had watched him as he melted back into the shadows, but respected Simon’s silent request for solitary. They understood that he needed to wade through these emotions on his own and that no matter what they said or did wasn’t going to fix it.
When he heard the familiar sound of a chopper overhead he forced himself to collect himself. Allowing himself 10 more seconds before remasking, and finding you. The medic and Price were escorting you to the front doors.
“Simon,” Soap appeared at his side, Ghost jerked his attention to him, “There is nothing you could have done differently.”
He didn’t say anything, but his silence was enough for Soap to understand that he disagreed. With that, he made his way over to you taking Price’s place at your side.
You were still shaking but you held your head high with your shoulders squared. Simon could have cried at the sight. To see you were defiant in the face of it all was enough to ease the tiniest bit of worry from his shoulders. He knew you weren’t totally unaffected and it was going to take you years to repair the damages, but here you were walking out of this building on your own two feet.
The medic tried to tell him he couldn’t come with but he downright refused to leave you, “Try and tell me no.”, and she must have known immediately she wasn’t going to win because she let him in anyway.
He held your hand in his the entire flight to the nearest hospital, eyes darting about. He stayed at your side the entire time you were in the hospital too. He slept in the chair beside your bed, or at least pretended to until you drifted off into sleep, but was wide awake and alert for the rest of the night. Only leaving when Soap came for a visit the next day with clothes for him, telling him he’d take the next shift. Simon changed and came right back to the room. Only this time when he sat in the chair with the hood of his sweater pulled over his head, did he sleep. Finding some solace in knowing Soap was here too.
Tomorrow he was going to have a meeting with Price about his insubordination. And about the ramage he went on. Tomorrow he was going to have to tell Price about how he’d completely lost himself, didn’t even remember half of it.
| His Foresight - Simon “Ghost” Riley X Medic!Reader (Part 1)
Word Count - 3k
Summary - Doc (y/n) is a medic at a base camp when they meet Lt. Simon “Ghost” Riley, when they meet for a second time it is because he’s been injured. During the two weeks it takes him to fully recover they develop an unspoken friendship. Simon’s next assignment is to escort a convoy across enemy lines, which would have been a walk in the park if they weren’t a part of that convoy. Even worse is when his worries and fears become real.
Tags/Warnings - Blood and Injury, Depictions of war and violence, Explicit Language, Character Death, Trauma, Opioids (they’re prescribed but i just want to add this in case), Slow Burn, Eventual Smut
A/N - im working on part 2 rn but it may take a little time for me to finish and upload but im in the middle of finals and have been busy with studying so please forgive me
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The first time Ghost came through your tent he was bringing in his comrade, Soap, for medical attention. It was a gunshot to the arm but nothing detrimental. A clean shot and the bullet had gone right through.
Ghost had remained quiet and observant but answered any questions you had about the wound.
“When did this happen?”
“Half an hour ago. Give or take.”
“Any meds?”
“Shot of adrenalin.”
You had sewen up the gunshot and nursed Soap back to health. However, Mr.MacTavish had been a difficult patient and after a week you discharged him early just to get him out of your hair. On multiple occasions you caught him trying to escape, claiming he was fine and ready for combat at least once a day. Most special ops were deluded like that, most thought they were superhumans. In a way, they kind of were with the speed at which they recovered. You would never tell them that. It would just go to their head.
Your tent has since been upgraded to a deployable field hospital. With a total of 50 beds and 15 staff members.
The second time Ghost made his way your way was on a stretcher. It was a deep and disturbing stab wound to his side, and if it were even an inch deeper it would have punctured his lung. It took you the whole two weeks he needed for recovery to get the full story out of him. Apparently, it was a series of unfortunate events which resulted in a hand-to-hand scrabble. He’d dominated his opponent and came out victorious but not without injury. He’d been all on his own for hours before finally making it to Exfil. In those few hours, he lost a lot of blood and was without any sort of analgesic until he was in the helicopter on his way here. Whatever the field medic had given him for the pain was enough to completely incapacitate the beast of a man. All the same, it was doing its job and controlling the pain. Your team had to do an emergency surgery at the base camp because he wasn’t stable enough for a medivac to a major hospital.
The man was in a foul mood when he awoke the next day. He wasn’t rude and uncivilized, but he made it clear the last place he wanted to be was bedbound in a field hospital. When it was mentioned he was going to be sent back home for recovery, he downright refused.
Strangely enough, it was also the first time you saw his entire face. When he first came in you were so amped on adrenalin and stressed that you didn’t register that his mask had been removed. It was immediately established that no other personnel apart from the small 3-man team already working on him would be allowed to interact with him to ensure his identity remained confidential. It was more for their safety than his if everyone was being candid. Even in his charts any identifiers were redacted and replaced with “John Doe”.
Two days post-op he insisted he be relocated to his barracks because he “could handle his own”. You compromised and told him you’d allow it under the one condition that he lets you come and check on him at least once a day. He did, but he didn’t exactly have a choice either because you would have shown up anyway.
That was where you were right now.
You knocked and waited for a response before letting yourself in, your supplies and kit in hand. It was just after noon when you arrived. You scanned his room. It was clean, almost barren. His blinds were half open, and the window cracked to let in the cool, fresh air. The clothes he was wearing when he came wounded were still in the biohazard bag we gave him when he left. The tray of food on the desk beside his bed was left untouched, and judging by the food variety it was from breakfast.
Upon hearing your arrival Ghost had forced himself into a sitting position. His face flushed with the change of position. His dark eyes were rimmed red from a lack of sleep, and his facial hair was growing. He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants with the insignia of his old company and a plain black shirt. The shirt was loose and thin, but it did nothing to hide the muscle hiding underneath.
You rolled your eyes, blew out a breath, tossed your bag onto the bed beside him and pulled out the rolling chair at his desk to sit in front of him.
“You look like shit,” you knocked his elbow in a silent demand to lift his arm.
He grimaced but did it without complaint, “Ya, well I feel like shit.”
You lifted his shirt to get a look at the bandage underneath. There wasn’t any shadowing or blood seeping through so you gave him a quick nod before dropping the shirt, “Have you taken anything?”
He jerked his chin to the little orange bottle on his desk, “One of those.”
You picked it up to read the label, Oxycodone 10 mg OD.
“Nice, but you should be taking it with food,” you tilted your head in the direction of the untouched food. He merely shrugged, his eyes weary. His eyes turned the same golden brown of a whiskey glass in the sunlight.
You discreetly took his respiratory rate before moving on, “Any side effects? Nausea? Headache? Upset stomach?”
“Nope,” he said in exasperation. He leaned back onto his elbows, his long body stretching out across the width of the bed with his legs still hung over the side in preparation for you to change his dressings.
You gave him an unimpressed look, before pointing to the garbage bin he had at his bedside. There wasn’t anything in it but it was placed here in preparation, “If you aren’t going to be compliant I’m going to bring you back to the infirmary.”
“It came and went already. I’m fine,” he moved to lift his shirt, hinting at you to hurry up get the dressing change done and leave.
You scooted the chair closer, preparing your materials and supplies on his bedside table. When you removed the bandage and revealed the stitches you clicked your tongue, he hadn’t pulled any of them but the fact that it was still bleeding made it apparent he’d been more active than he should have been.
“How’s it lookin’ down there, Doc?” He rolled, his gaze following your movements with predatory grace. You glowered at the nickname.
You hummed, “Mhm.” and started cleansing the wound with saline before donning gloves and cleaning it more thoroughly. He hissed at the contact and you looked up, he had pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. His body tensed, and his muscles taut. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive. Alluring even. Especially when he was in this position, and had that look on his face.
“Are you going to survive?” You asked pulling back slightly.
“Just cold s’all.”
He made it through the rest of the dressing change without so much as a flinch. In fact, he might have fallen asleep near the end for a second. He didn’t open his eyes until you finished securing the gauze with the last piece of tape. His lids were heavy and his mouth was pulled down into a slight frown.
“You going to eat lunch?” you tugged off your gloves and threw them into the bin beside you.
He nodded sluggishly and laid back on the bed, folding his hands over his abdomen. Maybe the Oxycodone was making him drowsy, but he looked like he desperately needed rest.
“Did you sleep well last night?” You rolled back on the chair, giving him space. He shook his head. You quickly finished cleaning up any remaining supplies or trash before filling out his chart, “Maybe if you didn’t keep reopening your wound you’d be healing faster and sleep better.”
He replied with a quiet, almost boyish chuckle, “I’ve been behaving, don’t worry.”
“You’ve been nothing but extra paperwork,” you retort, tapping his leg with your foot. You stood with a snap of your notebook. “What do you want to drink with your lunch?”
“Just water,” his eyes remained closed and you made your way for the door, bringing his cold breakfast with you.
You returned with a new tray of food, this time you picked foods that would be easy on the stomach. The damn fool must have smelt it as you walked down the hall with it because before you could knock he was opening the door and stepping aside to let you in.
“Such a gentleman,” you tapped his shoulder as you passed.
He seemed to perk up at the brief contact, “As always.”
You placed his tray on the table before picking up your bag to get ready to leave for the day, “Any last request?” When you turned to face him your cheeks heated at the way he regarded you. His face softened, melting into something akin to respect. He was so expressive and you didn’t think he was aware. Perhaps it was because he had grown accustomed to the protection of his mask. You almost didn’t wait for his answer before taking your leave, making an excuse that you needed to report back. You did, but it wasn’t anything urgent, you just needed to get out of his room. Away from him. If only to remember how to breathe.
The process for the following two weeks was the same, only each day you stayed a little longer. You talked a little more. Despite his reputation, he was… normal. He was a little aloof and standoffish at times, and horribly, criminally unfunny, but he grew on you. You were slightly upset and maybe even a little scared you’d never see him again when you officially discharged him. Even worse, you were scared to see him again. Only, every time he returned from a mission he would come to pay you a visit. You might have considered calling him a friend. Might have considered wanting more from him.
Soap would sometimes occupy Simon, having made a connection with you of his own. A different type of connection, but a wholesome one. Soap had made a jest about just recruiting you as the 141’s personal field medic instead of bothering you at work every other week. Simon had shot the idea down like water on a fire, and the topic was never brought up again. He simply stated, “Never letting that happen.”
He had his reservations about you entering an active warzone, let alone going on assignments with a squad like the 141. He’s never outright said it but he developed a soft spot for you. Over the months he had unintentionally carved a hole in his chest just for you; a place where he could protect and watch over you. His fondness for you only made it all the harder when he received the 141’s next assignment. It was a regular convoy escort but he felt sick when he read your name on the list. He even went so far as to double-check the itinerary with Captain Price. Went so far as to try and get you removed from the assignment. When you learnt of what he was doing you cornered him and chewed his head off. You understood his trepidations and his actions, but both of you knew he was out of line when he tried getting you booted from the mission.
The convoy, mainly consisting of medical personnel, equipment, and supplies, would be moving right through enemy lines to get from your current base to a new one a few towns over. It would be dangerous, you weren’t naive, but you were your own person. You were simmering, but you couldn’t help the twinge of regret for yelling at him.
In the days leading up to the mission Simon had grown distant, but remained watchful of you. He kept quiet, but you could see it in the shadow of his eyes, and in the muscles between his shoulders that he had a lot to say.
There was a total of 5 medical personnel that were being transported, yourself included. You would be a vehicle with Butters, who was elected as the head medic for the new base, and your driver was going to be none other than Captain Price.
As everyone was preparing to leave and loading up the last supplies, you caught Price and Simon in a quiet conversation, you couldn’t hear their exchange but you could tell it was heated. Price rolled back on his feet, fixing Simon with a tight-lipped smile before shaking his head. With that Simon backed away from him, pointed a finger at him saying one last thing before he turned and stalked towards the vehicle he would be in, obviously unsatisfied with Prices’ response.
Butters sidled up next to you, his pack slung over his arm and offering you yours in his other hand, “There has been a slight change of plans,” he sighed, “Our voyage is now split into two days, we'll be staying overnight in a town in between. Our route hasn’t been completely cleared yet.”
You turned your attention to him, your brows furrowing, “So they want us to have a sleepover behind enemy lines?” You almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it.
Butters shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the turn of events. Butters always seemed to keep his thoughts and feelings close to his chest, but it was clear very little invoked thoughts and emotions out of him. He enlisted when he was 18 years old; he was 32 now with a wife, 3 kids, and another on the way. There was a high probability he would be asking for leave in the next couple of months so he could be there for his next child's birth. It sucked because he was the only other medic you were close with. You’d miss him.
Butters and you jumped into the back seats of one car with Price, you’d be in the middle of the convoy, Ghost, Soap, and another medic in the other would take the rear, and Gaz and Roach would be in another vehicle at the front. There was also a total of five transport trucks. The convoy would be a giant target as we passed through, which is why the 141 was tasked with our protection.
Price explained that the ride would be slow-moving and briefed the two of you on what to expect. He instructed you both to stay alert and that there was a chance of running into a hostile.
The first couple hours were incredibly boring, but Butters alleviated some of it by tasking you with going over the manifestation of everything you guys were hauling with you. You also made conversation with Price about his last leave, he had returned home and “sat on the patio and smoked cigars” for two weeks.
The sound was louder than anything you ever experienced in your life. You didn’t even have time to scream before the force of the detonation knocked you unconscious.
It couldn’t have been longer than a couple of minutes when you finally regained consciousness. The vehicle was now completely upside down, the wheels still spinning as they faced the sky. The seatbelt was the only thing keeping you from landing face-first into shattered glass and rubble.
In front of you, Price was already pulling himself out the window and onto the street. He looked back into the cab and for you and said something.
Nothing was processing right. Not his words. Not your thoughts. Not the sight before you. Everything was foggy, as if it was a dream.
Price reached back for you, bracing you with an arm before releasing your seatbelt. Your knees cracked as they hit the roof, the glass ripping through your uniform. The pain didn’t even register. Price hauled you out with him before going back in for Butters.
Only he didn’t.
Instead, he returned with his gun. Before he could stop you, you crawled back in for Butters to get him yourself.
You froze. There was no saving him. There was almost nothing left.
He was on the same side the anti-vehicle mine went off.
You slowly backed out, shaking your head not believing your own eyes.
Price was crouched beside you, his back to the vehicle, his eyes revealed no emotion.
You looked back down the road you had just come down and the transport truck that was tailing you had stopped before entering the intersection. Beside them was the truck that Ghost and Soap were in. Ghost was jumping out, his gun drawn. Soap slid from the passenger seat to the driver's side. The medic they were escorting jumped out the back and ran for the transport truck.
It was then you noticed that Price was shooting at something down the intersection. You could see the flash as the bullets left the barrel and smell the gunpowder, but you couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything.
You brushed your fingers to your ear and when you looked at them they came away red. Blood.
The sheer force of the blast ruptured your eardrums.
You watched as Ghost applied suppressing fire and sidestepped in time with the truck as Soap rolled it into the intersection.
Price looked over his shoulder at you, his mouth moving. You could see it in his eyes the moment he connected the dots and caught that you couldn’t hear he turned to Ghost. Who jerked his head towards you and met your gaze. His eyes were wide, panicked. He ditched the cover of the truck and sprinted over while Price took over the covering fire. He slid into you, his gloved finger coming up to grab the sides of your face. He was gentle but urgent as he turned your head from side to side to inspect the damage.
You caught your reflection in one of the side mirrors, and couldn't recognize the person staring back at you. Their expression cataonic. Blood leaked out their ears, down their neck, and blood dripped out of their nose. Their teeth had gone through their bottom lip from the impact of the blast.
A low ringing began as sounds started to come back to you. Then it turned into an agonizing peal like you had stuck your head in a fire alarm. Ghost didn’t give you a chance to cover your ears because he was already pulling you into his chest, pressing one ear into his chest, and covering the other with his free hand. Using his remaining hand he raised his gun and pulled the trigger.
Soap pulled their truck up next to yours, making a barricade with them. He slid out, being careful to keep his head down and ready to join the fight.
Ghost started walking back towards the buildings behind, using his body to shield you from stray bullets. He smelt of gunpowder, sweat, and dust. He smelt familiar. His hard body against yours felt familiar. You felt the reverberation of his voice in his chest as he yelled something. You stumbled back with him as he moved, but he was practically carrying you at this point so you wouldn’t fall. His gun dangled at his hip. Soap was at the door to the nearest building, kicking the door open, the lock shattering.
The ringing in your ears was still present but you make out their muffled yelling as the rest of them filed in. Ghost sat you down at the far wall and behind rows of shelving units. Price and Soap guarded the entrance.
Price started talking into his radio, “Gaz! We got enemy fire coming from southwest of the fire hall. We’re down one and another has been wounded. We are fresh out of wheels, they planted fucking mines,” he yelled into his radio over the sound of oncoming and outgoing gunshots.
“We’re on our way,” Gaz’s voice replied through the Ghost radio that was attached to his shoulder.
Ghost then knelt back down in front of you and swore. His hands shook as he reached for a rectangular pack at his hip, a little red insignia printed on the front. A med-pack. He dumped its contents onto the floor, rummaging through it until he found what he was looking for.
He lifted your leg and started wrapping your thigh, but not before you saw what he was swearing at. There was a two-inch gash in your leg exposing raw flesh and muscle underneath.
“That’s not good,” you breathed. It felt like your throat was torn to shreds; as if you had inhaled the explosion itself.
“You’re fine,” he didn’t look up as he wrapped. It was tight enough that it hurt and you could feel your heartbeat crashing against the pressure. Despite that, the bandage wasn’t going to last.
You choked a laugh, “You might want to get out your, ‘I told you so’s’ while you still can,” You meant for it to come off as nonchalant but your voice quivered.
“You’re fine,” he repeated.
“I left a kit in the back seat,” You sucked in a sharp breath when he pulled the gauze one last time to tie a knot, “I don’t know if it survived though.”
Because it was right next to Butters before the mine tore through the side SUV he was on.
Before I could say another word, Ghost was moving towards the door. Requested for an update, then asked for covering fire before exiting the door. He returned moments later with the kit. When he brought it over he made sure to place it behind him so you couldn’t see the condition of it. You imagined it to be macabre.
As the adrenalin pumping through your body drained it began to tremble, cold rushing into your bones. Blood was already starting to dot the surface of the bandage.
“Powder,” You instructed Ghost. He moved fast, cutting the bandage away with the blade he pulled from its sheath at his thigh, and tearing open the packaging. It was a quick-clotting powder used to stop the bleeding.
You were no doubt in shock because you couldn’t feel the pain anymore. He rewrapped your leg; somehow, it was even tighter than before. You heard Gaz give an update over the radio, asking for more details and you could hear Price relaying the plan.
Your breaths became shallow and sedated, your strength ebbing away. You fought the urge to close your eyes in fear of never opening them again.
Ghost tapped a hand on your cheek, “Don’t be falling asleep on me, now Doc.”
You were barely able to ground out a “Sir, yes, sir,” before your chin hit the front of your chest and succumbed to the darkness pulling at you.
| Malicious Compliance - Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader
Word Count - 6k
Summary - After a near-miss on a mission Diver (reader) decides it might be time to reconcile with Ghost the next time they get a chance. Unfortunately (very fortunately), the next chance they get is when they are forced to take refuge in the world's smallest safe house. And Ghost had never been one for words so he shows his forgiveness in a more unorthodox way.
Tags/Warnings - 18+ ONLY (mdni), explicit language and content, foreplay, size kink, slight breath play, he’s your superior and he’s all about you, p in v,
A/N - yup, more porn with plot because it’s fun and i’ve been ✨inspired✨
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Ghost wasn’t in the wrong for being angry with you. He was one of the more reasonable LTs, but you tested his patience, questioned his authority, and disobeyed his orders. Not only that, but you disappointed him. You had completely disregarded his orders and nearly got yourself and a crew mate killed in the process.
You were angry with yourself too. If it were just your life on the line you would have been smug, but you put another at risk. You prided yourself in your ability to get yourself out of any sticky situation, sometimes it was by the skin of your teeth. Hence the alias “Diver”. You received it from your first platoon leader because you dive into every risky situation. Usually, eyes closed. Usually, with no plan. And somehow came out the other side every time.
Usually, you got a yelling at and the occasional latrine duty.
This time was different. As soon as the team landed back on base Ghost stalked over to you. He ripped the rifle out from your hands and shoved you with enough force that you stumbled, barely catching yourself from falling. Oh, he was livid.
“You forget yourself, Dive,” he tossed your gun back into the chopper and pressed onto you again, “Your recklessness is going to get someone killed one of these days. And you better hope that someone is you before it's anyone else.”
The words stung, but he was right.
“Get on the ground and give me a hundred,” he barked. He would write you up later tonight and inquire about other punishments.
You dropped to the ground, your fingers splayed out on either side of you and waited for his go-head.
“Hands together.”
You shifted your hands closer together, creating a diamond shape with your fingers. The change would make the push up’s only a little harder but it would catch up with you eventually.
“Down.”
You lowered your weight.
“Up.”
You raised yourself, arms snapping.
“Down,” he repeated and you listened, eyes searing into the ground beneath you. When he you gave the command to continue on your own you did. Lowering yourself down, nose almost touching the ground. The breath that pushed out with every extension of your arms blew at the dusty pavement. Your movements were practiced and full of power. This wasn’t the first time you had to drop and give 100 since you had a bit of a reputation.
You were on 30 when he growled, “Stop.”
You paused, your nose to nose touching the floor and maintaining your body weight in the down position.
“Restart and make sure you count this time”
“One,” you blow out, not because of the exertion but because you yourself were angry. Each breath felt like it was stolen, “Two. Three. Four…” The muscles in your arms began to burn something sweet. You leaned into the pain, using it as a crutch to remain levelheaded. You earned the pain. You glared at the black boots that were planted two feet in front of you, “…Sixty nine. Seventy.”
“That’s enough,” he was still angry, but he had places to be and watching you wasn’t a priority. He would take care of the rest and you later.
You didn’t stop, wrenching your gaze to his. Temper simmering. Sweat beaded at your temples and dripped down your arms. Sweat droplets stained the pavement. You continued counting. He said 100. You were going to give him 100.
He matched your glare, his own eyes narrowing on you, but he didn’t try stopping you again. Instead, he pivoted and left you there. Counting. You watched him leave, watched as he rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of his own fury. In the chopper, he looked like he wanted to throw you out the side and watch you freefall back to earth.
You didn’t stop even when his form disappeared. Your teammates had been kind enough to leave with him, knowing you didn’t want the company. The last 15 push ups were the hardest and the slowest. For the last 5 you shook, strained, and ground your teeth together, gathering the last dregs of strength. When you hit the 100 you brought yourself to your knees, allowing time to catch your breath.
The pilot was sitting on the side helicopter, your gun resting in her lap, “You deserve it?’ she questioned and held out the rifle for you.
Breathless you say, “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
She might not have been there for the actual incident but she most definitely didn’t miss out on the aftermath, “Kinda wish I brought popcorn with me on missions. You guys always leave me with a show,” she kicked off the platform and added with a wide, fox-like smile, “Especially when he’s on board.”
It wouldn’t take a genius to discern that she was talking about Ghost, who had a certain affinity for the dramatics. You shrug a shoulder at her, grabbing your gun and picking up your day pack, “He and I don’t get along on the best of days, and I’m really good at pissing him off.”
She hummed, “You better figure that one out before it gets to the point where he starts grounding you.”
“What, give him flowers and an apology card?”
“He seems like a chocolate kind of guy,” she started walking with you towards the hangar. She gave off the vibe that she thrived off the drama. Not in a nosey, malicious kind of way, but she would have no qualms about being a spectator.
“He’d kick my ass if I did that,” and he would. He would kick your eyes just for bothering him with your presence.
“If that’s what it takes for him to come around, let ‘em,” with that she parted from you, twiddling her fingers over her shoulder as a goodbye.
Mud splashed beneath your feet with every running step, it splashed up your pant leg and covered your boots. You had lost your guy's tail hours ago but it was still raining hard enough that you started running the last miles to the supposed safe house. You used the term house loosely because as you came up on the fire watch tower you had to double check with Ghost to make sure he had the right location. He assured you with a nod.
The latter to the spiralling stairs had since been removed and he had to intertwine his fingers to give you a foothold and hoist you up to the platform. You reached for his day pack first, then extended a hand for him. He’s heavier than he looks because you were far from weak but even with your free hand clamped to the railing you struggled to heave him up with you.
“What do they feed you?” you groaned, rubbing at your shoulder.
“Children. Let’s go,” he quipped, grabbing his bag and taking off up the stairs two steps at a time. When you reached him at the top he was already thumbing the key out of the whole carved out of the wooden railing.
The fire tower was decommissioned years ago, but all the maps and posters were left behind. The Osborne Fire Finder in the center of the room was left on the coordinates of whatever last fire was called in. You scanned the room and Ghost closed and locked the door behind you. There was a rounded table pushed into a corner, and a small counter and a sink adjacent to it. A desk that was littered with old reports and notes, remnants of what must have been the radio station, and a tool. And a singular bed.
“Cozy,” you dropped your bag onto the desk and started drawing the curtains to the millions of windows, “What’s your plan, LT?”
“We need to get our radios working and contact HQ for an exfil,” he was already removing his radio from its pouch, its antenna was missing and the headset that usually accompanied it was left behind. A bullet clipped its’s earpiece and ripped it off his head to be exact. Adrenaline was too high for anyone to bat an eye at the fact that a couple of inches to the left and he would have been dead. That was also moments before he called a withdrawal and you and he got separated from the rest of the squad. Your radio has also seen better days, it took a direct shot. It saved your life but the fact that both of your radios were damaged was beyond unlucky. You tossed your radio to him, or whatever was left of it.
“Were you trying to get shot?” he examined the device before setting it on the table next to his. He turned on a propane lamp, it hissed to life and its unmistakable smell quickly filled the room.
“Were you?”
“Shh.”
You started to remove your vest and soaked jacket. Ghost hung his vest on the chair opposite him and got as far as unzipping the top of his jacket before he got distracted. He squinted at the desk, searching the radio parts when he spotted what he thought he could use. Finding what he was looking for he grabbed it all and returned to the table.
The rain hammered against the glass panes and the wind whistled through the cracks around the door. This tower wasn’t the best insulated and combining that with the years of neglect meant it wasn’t retaining heat like it probably use to. You searched the cupboards and chest if see if someone stored blankets here beforehand.
“Aha!” you pulled out a green military issues blanket out of one of the chests, “How long think that’ll take you?” You asked as you leaned against the desk, the blanket wrapped around your shivering shoulders.
“If I can,” he sighed, “I’ll have it figured out by morning. Just have to improvise…everything,” he already disassembled everything and he was inspecting each component. This wasn’t the first time he’s had to rebuild his radio or the first time he’s had to improvise. It was just that every time he caught a glimpse of yours he lost his train of thought. That bullet was meant for you and it was meant to be fetal. That fact was nagging at him, pulling at his chest.
You chewed the inside of your cheek as you watched him fiddle about. The last couple of weeks you had been preparing what you were going to say to him about the last mission. Practicing how you were going to apologize to him. You cleared your throat, “I, uhh,” he looked up from the table, sensing your unease. For a brief second, you considered going and sitting out in the rain just to get away from him, “About our last assignment. You were right about me and I was out of line.”
He rested his temple on a fist and glowered at you from beneath his brows, his expression angry.
“Would you stop mad dogging me so I can get through my speech,” you snapped, throwing the blanket onto the bed.
He threw up a hand in the what? gesture, “I’m not mad dogging you.”
“You are.”
“’m not.”
“Just,” you waved a hand at the radios still disassembled before him, “glare at that so I can concentrate.”
He rolled his eyes but lowered them to the table, pretending to be considering the materials and parts.
“Thank you,” you blow out a breath, recollecting your half-prepared speech, “I didn’t think he’d run in after me,” you confessed, “People aren’t usually dumb enough to do that—”
“You are.”
“Yup. Let me finish. I understand that you as a superior have to consider everyone’s safety, and I haven’t exactly made that easy for you. The last thing I want is to put you and my team at risk. On the other hand, I work better on my own. Like you,” he looked back up this time some of the anger had dissipated, but he looked like he was rallying to say something so you put a hand to silence him, “I’m not asking you to relieve me from the squad. I’d miss them too much. I’m asking you to give me a chance to prove myself. Let me prove to you that I can go solo. Or atleast let me join you every once in a while so I can learn.”
“Dive, you have no idea how much paperwork you’ve cost me,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
“I have a little bit of an idea,” you mumbled shamefully.
“I can’t take you on my assignments, and I can’t send you on solos,” he looked uncomfortable. Or maybe uneasy, “You need to prove to me that you can follow the orders I already give you.”
“I will,” you almost started pleading, “I promise, and if I’m alone I won’t be putting anyone else at risk.”
“It’s not just about your squad, Dive,” he picked up the casing from your radio, the plastic and metal left a mangled mess from the bullet, “I need you to stay alive, and I can’t make sure of that if I let you run off on your own. One day you won’t make it back.”
You blinked at him.
I need you to stay alive.
He wasn’t mad at you for being brash, he was scared that one of these times your luck was going to run out. He was scared you were going to die on him. That you were going to leave him behind.
He tossed the casing back onto the table, defeated.
“Ghost, I didnt—” you hesitated, searching for the right words.
I didn’t know that you cared that much.
If you did your interactions with him would have been very very different.
“Don’t,” he shook his head. This was not how he was planning on exposing himself. Not that he ever planned on confessing in the first place. He was going to take it to his grave. He was planning to get rid of the sickly warm feeling in his chest every time he saw you. Every time he was around you or thought of you.
You pushed off the desk and made your way to stand in front of him, in between his legs. He tilted his head back to look up at you, his hands twitching in his lap. You took one of his hands and crouched before him. Even in the dimly lit room, you could see his pupils flare as you placed his hand on your chest, right about your pounding heart. The heat from his palm soaked into your still damp shirt, warming the skin underneath.
“I’m alive, no?” you placed your other hand on top of his, the size comparison between your hand and his made your toes curl in your boots.
“Yes,” he was utterly still as he searched your face. He was all analyses and contemplation. He touched you like he was afraid you would dissolve before his eyes; like if he spoke too loud you’d slip through his fingers like smoke.
“Go ahead,” he didn’t need to verbalize whatever he was thinking because you could see it in the crease at his brow, the tightness in his jaw.
He glided his hand up to your face, his bare thumb drawing a line from the side of your mouth and across your cheek. His fingers curled around the back of your neck, diving into the mess of wet hair. The sound of the rainstorm outside faded into nothing when his other hand cradled the other side of your face. You reached up to his mask, fingers finding their way underneath to pull it up over his mouth and nose. You half expected him to stop you, for him to tell you all the reasons he shouldn’t be touching you, but he didn’t.
He didn’t give you time to admire him before he was leaning down and his soft mouth was on yours. The kiss was sweet and innocent, nothing more than him wanting to feel you closer. Something about the kiss was tentative and unsure and in an attempt to soothe his uncertainty, you entangled your fingers into the lapels of his jacket, pulling him even closer. He tilted your head to open the kiss and allow him better access. He nipped at your bottom lip when you didn’t immediately open your mouth to him. His tongue swiped at the same spot on your lip as if to apologize before delving in to explore. You moaned into him as his tongue found yours and as he licked and kissed his way with you.
The kiss may have started off as a manifestation of tragic tormented desire, but it very quickly morphed into something desperate and hot. He kissed you like you were opium and he was chasing a high. He tasted you like he was craving you.
A hand dipped down to your waist and he tugged at you till you were straddling his thigh. He ran his hands up and down your body before gripping at your hips. His thumbs dug into the sensitive flesh there. Not once did either of you pull away. Not even for a breath. You tug down the zipper on his jacket, and then immediately dove under the bottom of his shirt desperate for the feel of his bare skin. He groaned at the contact, his muscles tightening at your chilled fingers. Heat and pleasure shot down to your core at the sound.
He could feel your cunt pulse against his thigh, and he thought his soul had left his body. He fantasizes about having you in this exact position before, riding his leg. Riding him. He’s thought about you underneath him, begging for more. If he wasn’t so desperate for you he would have been giddy.
His grip tightened and it was sure to leave marks that would last for days, “Go ahead, Dive. Grind on me,” he kissed a constellation from your lip across your neck, sucking bruises into the delicate skin.
You rolled your hips once and the unhurried pace only amplified the pleasure that shot up your spine. You mewed at him when he guided you into a slow gentle pace and leaned back into the chair to get a better view. His lips were red and swollen, and his lids were heavy with lust. You pushed a side of his jacket off his shoulder, a silent command that you wanted it off. He took his hands off you just long enough to shrug off the jacket and yank off the shirt underneath. He was all hard muscle, golden skin and ink. Scars mottled his skin, some old and some new enough that they were still in the healing process. Each one was a near-miss and a miracle. You would find time later to kiss every one of them.
With tender hands, he lifted the thin material of your shirt. The speed and precision at which he removed your bra were enough for you to make a mental note to ask him just how many times he’s done that maneuver afterwards. If only to get a rise out of him.
“Lemme see you,” his eyes roamed over your body leisurely, his rough hands scraping against your supple skin, “You’re fucking beautiful,” his eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head when you started rocking your hips again. What he wouldn’t give to be in this moment with you forever.
A lewd haze made your head heavy forcing it to fall back, your mouth hanging open with a moan. A hand reached up to catch the back of your head, fingers curling, “Keep your eyes on me, Dive,” he laid his accent on thick. You locked eyes with him, his pupils were blown. You braced your hands on his leg, nails digging into the fabric and the muscle underneath. The friction was just where you needed it, and every motion was like electricity in your veins.
Heat flooded your cheeks as you realized what exactly you were doing. You were grinding your wet pussy on your lieutenant's thigh, while he murmured obscenities into your skin; and it should have made you feel ashamed it instead made you feel like every nerve ending was firing. It was naughty and deviant but it only made it more thrilling. The probability of someone finding out, or the sexual tension that was sure to follow was exhilarating.
He dragged his mouth from your neck to your breast, sucking a hard nipple into his mouth. His teeth nipped at you, only for his tongue to follow to alleviate any pain. A hand reached up to knead your other breast, his thumb flicking over the sensitive bud.
He felt like heaven and each point of contact was absolutely divine.
Small pants turned into throaty moans and your hips stuttered as you chased your climax. You were teetering on the edge with eyes closed when you heard, “Atta girl, come for me,” and you crashed into the orgasm. Your mind went blank and all you could think about was him, all you could feel was him. Ghost helped lull you through it with strong hands holding you down on his leg and guiding your shuddering hips.
“Oh my god,” he groaned. Pure electricity was streaming through your veins. More. You needed more of him. You could feel the slickness between your legs and it was most likely seeping through your pants and wetting his. Good. You wanted to be all over him. Moving in for another kiss and immediately opened his mouth for you, letting your tongue dominate his. He buckled his belt with one hand as he adjusted your positions, shuffling you backwards until the back of your knees met the bed. He pulled down your pants and undergarments before settling you back onto the bed. Leaving you completely bare for him. You were at the perfect height to lick a long, sloppy line up his defined stomach. His wide shoulders and narrow waist made him look delectable.
“Tell me what you want,” he ordered, pulling the belt from the loops, and going for the zipper next.
“I want you to fuck me,” you bleated. You would have said anything he told you to.
The wolfish smile he gave made you squeeze your thighs together, “You’re going to have to prove to me you deserve that first.”
When he didn’t move to pull his pants down you reached for them yourself, you wanted to see what he hid under there. Licking your lips, “How do I do that? Want me to suck you dry?”
He grasped your wrists, stopping you, “Touch yourself for me. Show me how you do it when you think of me.”
Of course, he knew. Of course, he knew you whimpered his name while you touched yourself at night. He knew from the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. The way your attention lingered on him, on his
“I thought you weren’t going to send me on any solos?” you retort, spreading your legs even further apart. His pupils flared as he watched your arousal drip down into the sheets and the groan that followed sounded like he was in distress.
“You’re a brat,” he knelt on the bed, one knee in between your legs to block you from closing them on him when he dragged a hand up your leg, stopping just before your cunt. The proximity and promise were intoxicating, and you worried you would cum again before he even touched you, he brought his lips just shy of a kiss, “Touch. Yourself,” it was a command. He held onto his self-control like it was a living, breathing entity. He teased it just to the point of discomfort before reigning it back into submission.
“Are you going to pull rank on me, LT?” you lifted your hips towards his fingers, and he allowed for the contact. He dipped them into your arousal, drawing a line from your core back to your thigh. His head dipped down to look at your mess, and his next breath was short of a gasp.
“Do you want me to?” he questioned, although he sounded far away. Not far in physical distance, but his mind was someplace else entirely. He was imagining the taste of you and the way you’d push his face further into your pussy if he dropped to his knee and eat you out. He would have done just that if he hadn’t already set his foot down, “Now, Dive. Or I leave you like this,” This time when he met your eyes you were met with sadistic honesty. He would. It would nearly be the death of him, but he would leave you wanton on the bed. He would turn around and finish fixing the radio.
Your breath caught in your chest and then your hand slid down your stomach before reaching your center. Still sensitive from your earlier climax you jolted at the first bit of contact. You bit down on your lip to keep from crying out when you pushed a single finger in with ease. You were already ready for his cock, you would have taken all he had to give you, and more. He palmed the thick bulge through his pants with a hand as he watched, matching his strokes with each pump of your fingers.
Your fingers were nothing compared to how he would feel but knowing he wouldn’t give you his frustrated you beyond belief. You rubbed tight, swift circles around your clit, while your other hand worked your cunt, needing every bit of stimulation. He hooked an arm under your knee, holding it up and to the side to allow him a full view.
“Such a pretty little thing,” he shook his head in disbelief that you were actually beneath him and pulled his cock free from its confines. He was massive. Long, yes, but he was thick. The head alone would hurt going in. Pre was leaking from the tip and his thumb swiped it to coat the underneath of his shaft. You were expecting him to be big but he was next level. He was going to tear you apart.
No wonder he wasn’t preparing you so thoroughly.
You practically pounced on him. Well, tried to. He moved faster than you and shoved you back onto the bed, his teeth flashing in the dim lamp light, “Did I say stop?”
“Please,” you could only hope you didn’t sound as pathetic as you felt.
You did.
“Please, Riley,” your wet fingers wrapped around the arm that held you down.
“Say my name, baby,” he tilted his head to the side, his chest heaving in anticipation.
“Please, Simon. I need you to touch me,” please, please, please.
With one hand still holding you to the bed, his other hand replaced yours. Shoving two thick fingers into your weeping cunt and the wet squelching sounds it made were offensive. But, oh my god, he felt like sex itself. Long awaited and godly. He wasn’t rough but his fingers were snug and every pump was fast. His fingers curled and he hit the spongy spot inside you. He brought you to the edge fast and hard. You bowed off the bed, hips raising. If it was to get away from him or to somehow get him closer, you couldn’t tell if your life was dependent on it. You choked out a sob and another climax threatened.
He moved with your every jump and shake, he heeded to your body and listened to every sound that escaped you. He cataloged every expression and reaction.
As your orgasm suffocated you the moan that followed morphed into a scream from the force of it. Your vision evaded you for a second, and stars swam. Your legs gave out on you and trembled as he rode the high with you, his movement slowed and tender.
If he so much as asked you for your name you wouldn’t have been able to remember it. Faintly you could feel his hands rub calming circles onto your thigh, murmuring affirmations. He had his fingers in you mere seconds and he had to dumbified. He was too good at it.
At base, there was a group of girls that gossiped about how some of the men are be in bed. You’d be lying if you said you haven’t taken part in some of those conversations. All out of boredom and fun and Ghost was a subject in those conversations a couple of times and just as you expected his reputation precedes him. You knew he’s been with other women, you’d heard from those same women the specifics, but you couldn’t help the jealousy that bubbled up like soda.
He slid his cock into your pussy and bottomed out before you could comprehend what was going on. He slowly stretched you out deliciously and you were so full of him it felt like he was in your stomach. You felt a hand brush away hair from your face, the action bringing you back to your body.
“Tell me when,” he murmured into the space between you, his voice was like velvet. You felt him twitch inside you, his own restraint taut. Every muscle in his body was tensed, readying for your approval. You made a cautious roll of your hips. The discomfort liquefied into sensual heat, and you sighed at the release.
He moved methodically and with unhurried thrusts. He listened and watched to know when he needed to stop and give you a moment to collect yourself. He was so careful with you. So gentle.
In and out. In and out. In and out.
His strokes went from languid to rhythmic snaps. He leaned down for a kiss, bracing himself on the bed with his elbows. In between kisses, he whispered to you about how good you were doing taking him. Honey dripped from his tongue and coated his words.
The head of his cock knocked against your cervix and you clung to his tattooed forearm, teeth sinking into the flesh and ink there. He growled at the sudden pain, his fingers fisting the sheets. He would accept whatever marks you gave him, and he would show them off. He would come crawling back for more before the old ones could fade away.
“Fuck me,” he huffed into the sheets and gritted his teeth, as your nails raked across the span of his back in an attempt to bring him closer. A thin sheen of sweat coated your bodies.
“Faster,” your hand disappeared under the back of his mask to find silky hair and tugged. He was more than happy to do as he was told. He shifted back on his knees, throwing both your legs to one side so you were still on your back but he could enter you from behind. Somehow, Somehow he was able to stroke deeper inside of you, with an angle that felt euphoric. The moan he unleashed from his chest was downright obscene.
You were practically drooling and your eyes rolled, “Yes, yes, yes,” you weren’t going to last. Your skin felt too tight and your blood was too hot. Judging by the downright obscene moan he unleashed from his chest, he was close too.
Again his hand found your breast and squeezed hard enough to bring attention to it, before sliding up to your throat. His fingers encircled and tightened just enough for it to become a little difficult to breathe.
He’s killed grown men with that very same hand around their throats. He could do the same to you in an instant and yet you didn’t shy away from him. Your trust in him drove him absolutely wild. His thrusts became sloppy and irregular.
“Cum with me,” you begged, not just with your words but with your eyes. You needed him like air like he was pleasure itself.
It broke him, your words broke him. It was all he needed for the tether to sanity to snap and he drove himself into you, his fingers digging into flesh and muscle in an attempt to ground himself to his own body. His new vigour was merciless and forced whimpers from you, ripped them right from your chest.
Your thirst climax was devastating, so intense not even a sound could escape you. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, your cunt spasming around him. If he didn’t pull out to release himself on your ass when he did you probably would have kicked him off you from overstimulation. His groans and ravaged pants conveyed his own fatigued and satisfaction before his words could. Strength betrayed him and he plopped onto the bed beside you, taking your achy body with him so you were laying across his broad chest. You laid silently for a time and you traced the lines of his tattooed arm and the bite mark you had given to him. His heart hammered against his chest, and his voice resonated against your ear as he spoke, “You felt exactly how I imagined you’d feel,”
A sheepish smile spread across your face, “You felt better than I imagined you’d feel,” and he did. A man hasn’t made you feel that good in…well, ever.
He made a sound that resembled a laugh, “We better get you cleaned up,” he delicately moved you off him, offering the blanket you found earlier for warmth while he dressed. He wet a tea towel with the canteen of water underneath the kitchenette and helped you clean up his and your mess. Then he tossed you a clean shirt from his day pack, “Get some rest. I need to finish fixing this damn thing so we can get the hell out of here.”
You don’t know how long it took him to fix the radios (or if he slept), because you fell asleep shortly after but when you awoke in the morning he had already packed everything up and called in an exfil. They were going to pick you two up in 20 mins, and you and Ghost spent that 20 sharing hot, sloppy kisses with your body trapped between him and the door. If the chopper took any longer you were sure he would have taken you right there.
You readjusted your satchel for the third time, tightening the straps till you couldn’t anymore. The pilot was the same woman from your last mission, her all-knowing eyes widening when she saw you, “You been working out more, Ghost? Or did your vest shrink in the wash?”
Oh, shit.
He looked down at the badge on the chest, before jerking his attention to the badge on yours, of the lack thereof.
Somehow you’d mixed up your vests on your way out the door.
“Honest, mistake,” he shrugged and removed it with expert efficiency switching it with you for his.
“I’ve never made it,” the pilot teased, not even trying to hide her smile.
| His Foresight - Simon “Ghost” Riley X Medic!Reader (Part 3)
Word Count - 3.7k
Summary - It’s been a couple months since you last had contact with Lt. Simon Ghost Riley. While you are repairing your tarnished reputation, Simon is on the other side working from the shadows and doing everything he can to take back his words. It isn’t until the three-month marker that you finally face him again, this time you’re willing to hear him out. If only because you guys are going to be team members.
Tags/Warnings - Blood and Injury, Depictions of war and violence, Explicit Language, Character Death, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Maybe a little bit of angst, Mentions of childhood trauma
A/N - as we near the end of this storyline I would like to thank everyone for their love and support and I appreciate every one of you guys 🤍🤍🤍 I am also going to post a brief POV from Ghost later, and one more part, two at tops.
Part 1 ❤︎ Part 2
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It had been a month since you last spoke with Ghost and since then you learned three things. The first was that he truly was a ghost. He haunted hallways and existed only in rumors and whispers. He made himself seen only when he wanted to be. For the rest of his assignment, he kept his distance. You figured since you have yet to see him it was because he was better at spotting you first and turning in the other direction. Soap would still drop by and fill you in on the latest 141 gossip. It didn’t go over your head that Soap never had any gossip about Ghost. Never once did Soap mention him. Whether Soap figured out that something had gone down on his own or forced it out of Ghost himself was a mystery. You didn’t have the energy or care to ask.
The second is that whatever he had been previously telling the higher up was either rescinded or someone had put in a good word about you. If it was Ghost or not, you also didn’t know. Nor did it matter if it was him, the damage was done. You put your hand up for every opportunity, followed every rule, and every patient that came to you left you with positive feedback. You were an HR dream.
The third was that you missed his company. Even a month after you were still fuming, still ready to rip his tongue out should you see him again. Still heartbroken and yet some part of you still missed Ghost. You kept a very tight leash on that part of you and squashed it beneath your boot. How was it fair that his fuck up, and his selfishness resulted in you losing a friend. It wasn’t, and that’s what you were most bitter about.
After two months, you have decided to let go of the anger and hurt. It wasn’t going to help you now. You kept yourself preoccupied with work and more work. You were still based in the new camp, now dubbed Fort Cardinal, which has since become one of the biggest bases.
You were just leaving the mess hall after breakfast when you were intercepted in the hallway.
“L/n?” the private asked.
“Yes?” your brows furrowed.
“Crawford wants to speak to you. He’s in his office.”
Crawford was the commanding officer, and when he summoned someone to his office it could mean only a few things. Most of them were bad. You pivoted and headed towards HQ. You might have taken the scenic route too. Pausing at the entrance to Crawfords office. “Sir,” you stood by the doorway waiting for your CO to acknowledge you, “you requested I come to see you.”
He looked up from the files splayed out on his desk, “Take a seat.”
You pulled out a chair opposite him, your palms began to sweat and you wiped them on your pants. Racking your brain to try and remember if you had done something wrong, or inappropriate, but came up blank.
“How many years have you been with us?” he questioned, folding his hands over the papers.
“Four, Sir,” you straightened your back and squared your shoulders.
He stared at you for a second, his face hard, before nodding and looking back to the papers. They were your files. A collection of reports and logs and records, “It’s of my understanding that you’ve voiced your desire for a transfer.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Since your enlistment, your peers and superiors have had nothing but good things to say about you. Your records show that you excelled in both the field and the classroom. Never missed a work day, never late,” he began listing things off from the note in front of him. You couldn’t tell if he was impressed or irritated, and it was psyching you out. He paused as he flipped through, “Have you fully recovered from your injury?”
“Healed like a dream,” you offered him a tight-lipped smile. It did, after the first couple of weeks you were back at work in full force.
“Good to hear,” he flipped a page back so it was facing you, “Any idea what this might have been for?” It would have looked the same as any other report aside from the fact that it was entirely redacted. Whatever was written beneath had been obscured by a thick black line.
You leaned forward, your smile fading into a frown. You shook your head, “I have no idea. No.” This was the first time you saw your files all laid out like this, so you were just as lost as him. Whoever redacted it must have been of higher status than him if even he didn’t know. Then again, you weren’t sure about what happened behind closed doors. You met his eyes, trying to read what he was thinking and when you couldn’t you wanted to melt into your seat.
“There’s been an opening,” he leaned back in his chair, “Aerospace medicine has requested a combat medic. It’ll be a one year contract. Should you take this position you will be sent out for a three week training program and your first assignment will be right after that. ”
If it weren’t for those four years of service and learning that people like your CO didn’t like a show of emotions you would have hopped around his office. So, you remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
“The captain of Special Task Forces 141 has requested you himself for their next mission.”
Your heart dropped.
“Captain Price?” you echoed. Maybe it was a different 141.
“Correct,” he waved a hand, his patience shortening, “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” you answered before you could think it over, and he excused you before you could process your answer. This was what you had been asking for, what you were working towards, and now that it had been offered to you you were left uneasy. Working with the 141 was an honour and a nod to your capabilities. It also meant working with Lt. Simon Riley. You couldn’t unscramble your feelings about the implications.
You determined that professionalism would yield the best outcome.
You were packed and heading out for your training by lunch.
When you entered the briefing room, it was as relaxed as you expected from the 141. Which was not at all. The air was thick and sober. You were half an hour early and still the last to arrive.
“Morning,” Price stepped around the table everyone was surrounding.
“Good morning,” you replied, making your way to the table. Laswell met up with you during your training to give you a rundown on what to expect. You were going to be their combat medic, yes, but you could fight and shoot just as well as any other soldier. You even had the grounds to brag about your close combat skills. Laswell was visibly pleased when you told her your dad forced you into mixed martial arts when you were ten years old, and could take down a full-grown man like he was a bag of flour.
You scanned the table and the map splayed out was a replica of the one Laswell had provided. You tried to hide the smile and pointed to the empty medicine vial on the map, “Is that supposed to be me?”
“Aye,” Soap puffed his chest out, “that was my doing.”
When you looked up at Soap, you purposefully ignored the large burly man dressed in all black beside him, “Creative,” you noted how Ghost seemed to shrink back into the shadows at your indifference towards him.
Soap had actually picked everyone's avatar, a sniper bullet, a lighter, a toy skeleton, and an angel wing that looked like it used to be a necklace, and a battery. You couldn’t decide whether to laugh at the figurines or the fact that everyone accepted them.
Price ran through the plan, the target, and his expectations of everyone. He revealed that the target was going to be “Cameron Rowe” , a former sergeant turned rogue. His headshot was stabbed into the table with a knife. You recognized it as Ghosts, the blade usually fixed to his thigh.
“Since we have no real idea as to where Rowe will be we’ll be splitting off into teams.” You had to suck your lips into your mouth to keep from making an argument when Price moved your vial next to the skeleton on the map. “Soap and Laswell with nest at the top of these two buildings,” he pointed to the two highrises in front and behind Rowe’s apartment building. “Doc and Ghost will take watch at the port,” he dragged his finger to the loading docs, which was usually Rowe’s meeting place. “Gaz and I will be tailing his informers and hopefully, catch them in the act.”
You had a sneaking suspicion they stuck you with Ghost was to balance out the teams. Ghost was a one man army, you were basically going to keep him company. Or so they thought. You didn’t plan on sharing a single conversation with him, and you knew you could easily hold your own. The 141 had plans of not only taking down Rowe but finding out whoever he was working with. So, they couldn’t just pick him off in his apartment building.
After the briefing and everyone knew their role people started to filter back out. You stayed behind to speak with Price, having a few questions of your own.
“Captain,” you started and he turned back around, “Why ask for me?” This assignment was only temporary, you weren’t a part of the 141, but Price could have picked anyone in the world to help with this job.
“I read your file,” he closed the door behind him, coming to meet you by the table again, “You have an impressive background, and it makes me wonder why you chose the medical field.”
You were at the top of your class for both basics and medical school, so it was a genuine curiosity. He also probably had access to your life before enlistment, “It’s what I wanted,” was the only answer you could give him, and it’s the only one you had.
He hummed, his eyes turning to slits, “Then why agree?”
“I’ve been waiting for something like this since day one. How was I supposed to say no?” You’ve been waiting for an opportunity to show your versatility. This mission might have been overkill but it was what you wanted. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“You’re a strange one,” Price crossed his arms over his chest, “You’ll fit in great,” he looked like he had something else to say but changed his mind. He tilted his head towards the door, “Better go and get some rest, we leave at 0400 tomorrow.”
You nodded, parting off with a “Thank you,” before heading to the door.
“Can we talk?” Ghost was waiting outside the door when you left the room.
You shot him a blank look, “About?” you kept walking down the hall not waiting to hear his answer.
He followed after you, “I want to apologize.”
You exited the building and met with a blast of the hot sticky air of summer, the sun was getting low in the sky, “Go ahead, Judas” you turned to him, making eye contact with his chest. You gritted your teeth when you had to look up at him, “I’ll keep it civil for the sake of the mission but I don’t want to be your friend.”
His shoulders loosened as if he had just received the best news, “I understand,” he shifted back on his feet, his tired eyes scanning the area, before returning to you, “I was out of line. I was mixing private affairs with work, I see that now. And I’m sorry. I was being selfish and I wasn’t taking your needs and wants into consideration. So, if you’ll give me some grace and let me show you how good I can be.”
“Keep your fingers out of my business and I’ll think about it,” you quipped.
He lifted his hands before him, splaying his fingers out before curling them into a fist, “They’re put away,” he might have broken your trust and crossed you but he was still the friend you lost and missed. He was going to have to work for it either way. This was a start.
“We can talk more later,” where there were fewer listening ears and watchful eyes. “I’ll come to you when I’m good and ready. For now, just stay away from me,” you’d think after 3 months you’d have figured out what you’d say to him, but you didn’t. And tomorrow you were going to be trapped in a room with him, so you were going to have to cross your t's and dot your i’s tonight to present them to him for tomorrow.
He physically flinched at the dismissal, but he took a step back, providing you with space, “Of course.”
Your chest twisted at the sight, you didn’t like treating him like a disease, but you refused to let it blind you of the truth. Still. You sighed, cursing yourself for what you were about to say, “Thank you, for apologizing.”
His eyes crinkled in the corners and you could have sworn they gave way to a smile. The awe-worthy occurrence was sadly hidden underneath his mask. You rolled your eyes at him before pivoting and walking towards the barracks.
You sat with Laswell on a stray crate on the tarmac while you waited for the rest of the team to arrive. The two of you just people watched, with her occasionally pointing someone out and telling you a little about them. This guy was grounded a couple of weeks ago because he arrived at work still drunk from the night before. That guy had a crazy, entitled wife.
The chopper started its engine and was ready for lift-off at exactly 0359.
“Doc, about our talk yesterday. I also figured you want to take part and get some revenge for yourself,” Price bellowed over the sound of the chopper, and he ducked below the propellers. Realization sprung to life in your chest. Price had asked for you to be on this mission because you had something to gain from it. This Rowe guy, this squealer had been the one to rat out the convoy to the enemy. He was the reason you were injured, and the reason Butters was dead. This wasn’t the sleight of hand of Ghost but Price. It put your nerves at ease and allowed you to be a little less angry with the former.
“I appreciate it, Sir,” you nodded at Price. He clapped a hand over your shoulder and hopped into the helicopter after you. Being squished between Price and Soap made you feel a little safer with the fact that there were no doors on the heli. Ghost took his spot on the side of the heli, letting his legs hang out the side, his gun at the ready. Gaz sat opposite him and Laswell adjacent to you. Her pack and gun took up an entire seat. She reached into her front pouch as the heli lifted off the ground, pulling out a chocolate bar. Your mouth watered. Chocolate was hard to come back at base, people traded whole MREs for one bar. Soap handed you a headset for the chopper just as she noticed your drooling expression.
“If you promise you can get an appointment with the chiro, I’ll give you some,” she waggled the bar in front of her, a trade.
“I know both the chiropractor and the masseuse,” you countered. She made a look of delight, before reaching into her pack and tossing you your own bar.
Oh, you liked her.
You stuffed the back into the small day pack at your feet, saving it for later. Acutely aware that if you opened it here at least two people on this aircraft would put their hand out for a piece. You eyed Gaz and Soap.
The helicopter had been an hour's flight, and they had landed on a field. Without permission, you might add so you had to be quick on the exit. A line of blacked-out SUVs and trucks was waiting for a quick escape. Price ordered everyone to join up with their duo, and head to their discussed position.
Ghost strode for one of the SUVs, opening the back to place his pack and guns. He stepped to the side to allow you to do the same and closed it after you. He was spinning the keys around his finger when he turned to you, “Who’s driving?”
You didn’t respond, instead, you opened the passenger door and slid in. From the side mirror, you could see him look up at the sky, take a couple of deep breaths, then clasp his hands together before moving to enter the car. He was silent the rest of the way, his attention on the road. Even through the mask, you could see his jaw tighten and flex.
He parked the SUVs at the back of the building, between the wall and another vehicle. He lead you into the building, a warehouse or collection center of some sort into the offices on the second floor. He pointed out exit routes and potential areas to hold our position. The gravity of his pointing stuff out like that said a lot about how he thought this mission was going to pan out. The thought should have frightened you but knowing that the Ghost was fighting on the same side as you had the opposite effect. The office he brought you into was already vacant, with nothing but an empty desk and a chair on each side. He locked the door and placed his gun on the desk, and informed Price over the radio that we were in place. You made your way to the window, pulling one of the vanes down to peek outside. The window gave a good view of the entrance of the port and a decent view of the sea cans.
“How long will he have to camp out here?” you asked, letting go of the blinds.
“The day. Maybe into tomorrow,” he shrugged, as he started pulling things from his pack, “Depends on Rowe, really. Price and Gaz have the biggest probability of catching him. Laswell is going to be our eyes in the sky, and Soap already has access to the cameras in Rowe’s apartment, and a couple in this harbour.”
You took a seat in one of the swivel chairs, “And you?”
He paused, his eyes refusing to meet yours, “I’m more for after we catch him,” he cleared his throat. The question made him awkward, he didn’t want you to know what exactly it was that he did. You had your ideas and presumptions already but his hesitation had you second guessing.
“You the one who’s going to get the information out of him?” he picked up one of the blades he had laid out on the desk, turning it over in your hand. He watched you, following your movements with predatory grace.
“Is that why I’m here?” you continued, “To make sure he stays alive long enough to give you that information?” He was the butcher and you were the surgeon. A strange dichotomy.
He stilled, “I don’t want you to see it.”
“It”, being what he was going to do. What he was trained to do. What he was good at. You placed the knife back on the table, pushing away with the wheels on the chair. You prepared yourself for the upcoming confession. Playing this out in your head last night was way easier than actually doing it.
“You know, I think you and I have very similar pasts,” you looked down at your hands, at the lines and curves etched into them.
“Don’t say that,” he shook his head, and his shoulders rolled forward.
“I also think we took very different paths, though,” you saw it in his eyes the moment you met, the wounds that were too deep to see on the surface. It was why you understood him, and why you were going to forgive him, “You don’t have to hide it from me, Riley. I’ve seen the worst in humanity, and I know that you are nothing like them”
You didn’t think he was breathing, didn’t think he was in his body. When you met his stare, his eyes were wide, and his pupils were pinpricks. You stood up from the chair and walked to his side of the table, “Can I touch you?”
It was barely noticeable but he nodded. You wrapped your arms underneath his arm and pressed your cheek to his shoulder. He immediately returned the gesture, his arms encircling your shoulders, his one hand reaching up to cradle your head to him. He released a shuddering breath, and if you closed your eyes and focused hard enough you could hear his heart hammering against his chest.
“There isn’t anything you can do that will make me think you're a monster,” you whispered into his shoulder, “Aside from maybe sabotaging my career,” it was almost a joke.
“Noted,” you could hear the smile in between his words. Feel the relief thawing his muscles. You pulled back just as Soap and Laswell confirmed their position. Ghost took a step back himself, “We should get set up.”
He pushed the desk so it was against the same wall as the window, propping his gun onto and looked down the scope to the entrance of the port.
You settled down and at the end of the desk, it was going to be a long, boring wait. You set to counting the bullets in the magazine Ghost pulled from his pack if only to find something to distract yourself. You were elated when he pulled a deck of cards from his pack and the two of you played a couple of rounds of poker, then switched to go fish. There was also the occasional chatter about what each other did in the three months you were separated. The both of you had become incredibly busy.
It was nearing dusk by the time anything of importance aired over the radio.
Price’s eager voice came through, “Ghost, Doc, we’re following the informants to the port. Be at the ready.”
Part 3.5, Part 4
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A/N - the sniper bullet is Soap, the lighter is Price, the toy skeleton is Ghost, the angel wing is Gaz, and the battery is Laswell. Also, also, Price is definitely playing Cupid.
Summary - The reader has never dealt with the heat very well. So when it’s time for sleep and they are having a hard time staying still Simon comes up with a plan to tire them out.
A/N - i am a firm believer that our mr. simon “ghost” riley is a service top, and is really in tune with his partner.
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It was the heat of summer, and it was hotter than the devil's anus. The original plan was to go out for a shopping day with a couple of friends, but it was cancelled for fear of heat stroke. In lieu of that, you stayed inside for the day and eat ice cubes on the couch while hate-watching "Days of Our Lives".
You had sent Simon a text midday to tell him he might have to pick up food on his way home because there was no way you were turning on the oven. He replied an hour later with: “Tacos.” He had also been oh so generous to bring you a slurpy too. The treat was so cold that there was precipitation dripping down the sides. Simon wasn’t able to tell you the flavour but it was a red one (chances were high it was cherry). It stained your tongue and lips that same obnoxious red. Simon had snuck a few sips for himself and he might have gotten away with it if it weren’t for the stain on his own mouth. He had a goofy grin when you confronted him, and he still tried to deny it.
When Simon disappeared into the ensuite to take a shower, you had followed him in. Steam rolled out from the glass but without being asked he turned the tap a little on the colder side for you. You squeezed a little shampoo onto his open palm and he set to massage it into your hair creating a thick lather. Extra attention at the temples and pressure points are the base of your neck. He spun you around to face him before dipping your head back into the water to rinse it all away. He placed a tender kiss on your exposed throat. Despite trying you couldn’t fight the smile back and laced your finger into his hair.
“It’s getting so long,” you commented, tugging at his scalp lightly. It wasn’t that you didn’t like it, you liked him no matter what he did. It was the fact that he never lets it get this long, knowing preferring his hair cropped for it was more comfortable under the mask, “Is it busy at work?” you asked. It would explain the hair and the tired eyes.
You knew what his job description was but never the details. It was both a security and moral issue. The relationship was a little rocky at the beginning when you were first coming to terms with the fact that he couldn’t completely open up to you. He did the best he could but some things he held tight to his chest.
Your gaze shifted to the copious scars and imperfections in his skin. Tracing a finger on a particularly gruesome slash on his bicep. He had told you it was from shrapnel, a rouge sheet of metal from a vehicle. Each time he returned for a mission you checked him for new injury. More often than not there was. Some wounds were smaller, little white lines peppering his arms and across his chest. Like little flecks of glitter against his skin. Some wounds were more harrowing. A few of them were nearly fatal. Like the angry stars that were left behind by bullets. Those ones you always paid extra attention to when you were on top of him. Running your open mouth across his skin.
His dark eyes flicked to your face as he moved to work the conditioner into your hair. You ran your finger up his arm to his lips and the little fading scar there. He’s yet to tell you where that one came from, all he’s said was that it was from before he enlisted. He pressed a kiss to the pads of your fingers.
“It’s picking up, yes,” his voice was rougher, as if it were covered in char and gunpowder. Even today the juxtaposition of your delicacy a juxtaposition to his occupation stuns him.
“Are they going to send you away?” You closed your eyes as the water and soap started to fall over your face. He quickly washed it all out so he could pull you out of the onslaught of water.
“Probably…not for long though. I’ll be speedy this time,” he flashed you a cocky smile, revealing faint lines around his eyes. The identical indents on his cheeks make you cup his face and turn it away from you. He was gorgeous, and sometimes it was a little too much for you to handle.
Once out of the shower, he let you wash any remaining black paint around his eyes with your array of skin care. Envy bubbled up into your chest for the length of his lashes. You let him smell your brand new rose toner, and he agreed when you asked if it smelt like candy. You tried to give him an overnight lip mask, but he swatted your hand away. He quibbled that if anyone found out he let you do that the damage to his reputation would be irreversible.
You padded after him back to the bedroom, and he tossed one of his shirts over his shoulder to you. You slipped into it, catching the underwear he tossed next. You give him a distasteful look. He picked the skimpiest, laciest pair he could possibly find. He had pulled on a loose pair of grey sweatpants, forgetting a shirt. His dog tags flashed as the light from the bathroom hit them. He leaned back against the dresser, resting his elbows behind him. His chosen position allowed you a view of his chest and thick waist. How many times have you run your hands up and down that body? Fingers following each ripple and dip of muscles. You eyed him as you pulled them on, slowly. Very slowly. A muscle in his jaw twitched as his brown eyes narrowed in on the action.
He made to grab at your waist when you hopped out of his reach. “It’s too hot for that tonight.”
He feigned innocence with a languid shrug, his broad shoulders raising and falling, “I wasn’t going to do anything.”
While you finished getting ready for bed he completed his nightly routine making sure all windows and doors were closed and locked. He pulled the sheets back and jumped in, holding an opening for you to slide into. He made a sound of contentment as you melded yourself against him. Wriggling a little more than you needed you.
“Careful, lassie. Play nice,” his accent grew thick as he wrestled with sleep.
“Always,” you purred before turning to face him.
Now that it was night and the sun had gone down, you half expected it to cool. To your dismay, it didn't. You shifted around the bed for an hour before finally kicking the blankets off your legs. A thin layer of sweat beaded on your chest and forehead.
The arm that circled around you, squeezed "Stop your moving," Simon mumbled into your back.
You tried to. For a full minute, you remained still but when another unbearable heat wave hits, you threw his arm off you and spread out on your stomach. Simon half lifts his head and opens a single eye to glare at you.
"You're like a furnace," you push his way from you, his body heat becoming unbearable.
"Are ya calling me hot, lovey?" There was a hint of humour coating his weary words.
"No. I'm saying that you're sweaty. The air is hot," you gasp, then add, "Are you not hot?"
"No," He echoes, "I'm about to kick you to the floor if you don't shut up,"
You groaned a "no" into the pillow. Then you felt a hand lift the hair from your neck, letting cold air onto the newly exposed skin. A delicious chill ran down your back, and a small smile grew on your lips.
"Then stop talking," his hand returned to you but this time to lift the back of your shirt. Again a cool breeze hit your back. You coo at him. Deft fingers run up and down your back, leaving goosebumps rising in his wake.
"We need a fan," you turn your head to him to find his eyes on you.
He flicked your forehead, hard enough for it to hurt and leave a red mark. You cover your forehead in shock. “Stop talking,” he says before turning away from you, “Or I’ll give you something to be all hot and bothered about.”
You freeze, considering. Then shake your head and rise from the bed. Then you kick off the flat sheet that was still tangled around your limbs and kneel on the bench that was situated in front of the window. You opened the window, leaning out as far as you could without the fear of falling out.
“Lift your shirt for me,” You hear from back within the room.
“Just ignore me some more. You did a really good job of it earlier,” You peek back into the room to see him rising from the bed. He freezes mid-motion when he sees that you see him. Then the both of you are moving. You're scrambling off the bench and making a break for the door. He nearly pounced on you, his arm going around your waist and the other around your mouth. He was surprisingly fast for his size. Then he’s lifting you off the ground, your bare legs flailing in the air, and hauling you back to the bed. Your fingers dig into the wrist of the hand covering your mouth.
Then the world is on its side as he tosses you onto the sheets. You erupt into giggles. His hands flip you so you're on your back. Next, he's kneeling between your legs, hoving over you. He lowered his face so it was mere inches from yours, his teeth flashing as he snarls, “You’d make an awful boot, you don't listen to anything I say,”
Resting your hands on his chest stopping him from coming any closer. Biting your lip you wrap your hand around his dog tags, not wanting him to leave either, “It’s too hot, Simon.” you still wrap your legs around his hips, pulling his groin closer to yours.
He tilts his head to the side, the movement predatory. His eyes were impossibly darker from beneath his silken hair. Your breathing hitched at the sight. His eyes flick to the bedroom door, his expression giving away the fact that he was devising a plan.
His hands go to your legs, removing them from around him. You’re about to object when he says, “I'll be right back,” and he vanishes out the door. You strained your ears to hear what he was doing but since he’s trained to remain unseen it was futile.
Now alone, you rise up on your elbows and take the moment to scan the room. Not a single piece of clothing was laying on the floor. The TV neither of you uses had begun to collect dust, and you made a mental note to deal with it later. Behind the TV was a small collection of pictures. Most of them you had taken yourself. Some were taken in secret and sent to you at a later date. Almost all of them were of Simon and yourself. One or two of them were of your late cat.
On Simon’s bedside table was a picture that was taken by your own mother. It was you and him sitting on the stairs to the front porch. You were looking off to something ahead of you, your hands out as you spoke animatedly about something. What you were saying you couldn’t recall now. But Simon was looking directly at you, the softest of smiles gracing his usually snarky mouth, his eyes covered by the ratty blue baseball cap. Lord have mercy, he really was beautiful. You got it framed and snuck it onto the table, he never said anything about it being there, but he never moved it from its original place. In fact, you were pretty sure he adjusted it so it was facing the bed more.
The door creaked open and Simon reentered, closing the door behind him. He with a glass of iced water. He downed half of it before handing the rest to you. You greedily finished off the rest. Ice tinkled in the glass as he placed it on the table next to the framed photo. Still standing above you he bites down and you hear the crunch of ice. A slick heat pools low in your abdomen.
“Oh,” it’s barely a word as it comes out. Suddenly shy, you shove your hand into the covers to keep from grabbing at him.
“Lay back for me?” it was hardly a question, but you still obeyed him. “Close your eyes.”
With your eyes closed you could hear him come closer to you. A calloused hand roamed to your side, lifting the shirt you are wearing up to just below your breasts. You released a slow breath, moving your own hands to his stomach feeling the hard muscle. Something cold and wet was placed on your bottom lip. You gasped, pulling back from the sensation. Ice cubes, you realize. Your chest rose and fell rapidly.
He left a trail of cold from your mouth to your neck. His own lips, cold from ice water, follow, letting his teeth drag across your skin. You tilt your head back, allowing him access to your throat. You let out a small squeak when he grabs another ice cube, this time tracing a line on your stomach. Goosebumps rose on your skin, and your eyes flew open to look at him. He was looking back up at you, analyzing every line and curve of your face.
"Better?" He said in a low voice. You hummed in response, your hands diving into his hair. "Good. Now shut yer fuckin’ mouth,"
He moves back up and puts his lips to yours, nipping at your lip. You open your mouth to him, his tongue diving in to explore you. Once again you wrap your legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer, tugging at the elastic of his sweats. All thoughts of the heat dissipated in the want of him. He pulled away from your mouth, leaving wet kisses down the length of your jaw, to the hollow of your throat, to your collarbone. It earned him a hard grind of your heat on him.
“Simon,” your voice was breathy and needy.
Then he was moving, lifting you to bring you back to the head of the bed. With his knees locking you in place, he raised above you to help take off your shirt. It disappeared into the shadows, and you were left bare to him, save for the little lacy panties of his choice. He was probably planning this from the beginning.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell” he groaned and ran a hand up from your stomach, trailing between your breasts and landing at your throat. His fingers delicately curled. You arched your back into the touch, eyelids fluttering shut. Again sweat beaded on your chest and forehead, only this time it was from a different time type of heat. Simon mumbled something as he brought his lips back to yours, but it was far too low for you to catch. The free hand drifted down the apex of your thighs, his finger digging into the bundle of nervousness there. The sound that came out of your mouth merely motivated him.
“Please,” you plead, grabbing his wrist with one hand, not to take it away but to make sure he doesn't remove it. He was silent as he worked you, little touches and small, tight circles. He wanted to observe all that he did to you.
If it weren’t for the slight tremble in his breathing you might have assumed he wasn’t enjoying this. That and the excitement shining in his brown eyes. His restraint was always impressive, but you wanted to see him snap.
Reach down between you and press your palm against the hardness hiding under his sweats. You traced the outline of his cock causing him to stumble in his movements, and eliciting an all male moan. His head fell to your shoulder.
“Slow,” he whispered into your skin, his breath fanning across your neck. Agonizingly slow you slipped your hand into his pants. He jerked at the touch. “Shit.”
He rocked his hips into your hand, timing it perfectly with his fingers. You squeezed around the head, and a dirty dirty sound escaped him. His fingers halted for a second before he could find his mind again. This time he shifted your panties to the side, dipping into your arousal, and coating his thick fingers.
“Jesus,” he muttered, looking down at his hand, “you dirty little thing. What do you want?”
“You,” you dragged a finger up this length.
“Nuh uh, tell me. Use your words,” he made a single teasing circle around your clit.
“I want your fingers inside me,” the words came out quicker than you expected them to. “Please.”
“Atta girl,” he’d be damned if he didn’t oblige you. Slowly moving a single finger inside, allowing you time to adjust. When you were ready you shifted your hips, leisurely rolling them. “There you go. Show me how you like it.”
He pumped once, twice. Added another finger. Then matched your rhythm, curling his fingers so they hit that one spot every time he dragged his fingers back out. Your hands continued with their own adventure, tugging his pants down just enough to free his cock. It knocked against his stomach, twitching when you grabbed him again. He sucked in a tight breath.
“Just like that, good girl,” he groaned. His fingers picked up speed and so did your hand. Both chasing an apex.
All you could manage was a strangled mess of words in response. You lifted your eyes to his only to see he was already looking at you. His brows taught with pleasure. Then a brash grin appeared. He removed his fingers from you, and you almost slapped him. The thought vanished when he shoved those same fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. A silent command to open up. You opened your mouth and he leaned forward to spit. The sound of it was lewd, but you revelled in it. You whimpered before closing your mouth around his digits and sucked, running your tongue underneath and between them. Showing him what you’d do if he put his cock in your mouth instead.
“Put it in,” he gritted out if only to keep from whining. He pushed your panties off to the side again, allowing you access. You rubbed him around the wetness to make the entry easier. He was big, sometimes a little too big. Any bit of assistance you had you used when it came to him. Then you guided him in, biting down on his fingers to mediate the pain. He took his time, adjusting himself so he could place one hand on your hip and the other tangling in your hair.
You moaned in unison as he bottomed out. You reached out to grasp his face, pulling it to yours to catch him in a hot open mouthed kiss. Teeth gnashing and tongues darting out to lick and breathe each other in. His fingers tightened on your hip, hard enough that little finger shaped bruises would appear tomorrow. The hand that was previously in your hair moved to your thigh, pressing your leg out and down into the bed, allowing him deeper inside your cunt.
The room was filled with his guttural moans and your deprived whines. Along with the wet slapping sounds of him thrusting into your heat. You tightened around him and took that as a sign you were close because his movements became faster and deeper. One hand slapped over your mouth because you knew this apex was going to make you scream. You were already shaking, bucking against him. Your other hand grappled at the sheets, pulling at them in desperation. He shifted, bringing his knees underneath you so your hips were elevated, and both hands were at your hips, bringing you onto him. The position made it so he’d hit your g-spot, and that was the end of you.
“Cum for me baby,” he huffed as he watched you stiffen and your eyes rolled. Your vision goes momentarily, and your back bowed off the bed. All followed by a choked sob. A hand flying to where you connected, pressing against his abdomen to try and slow his relentless pace. Before you were able to completely come down from the orgasm, he flipped you onto your stomach. “Give me one more.”
You mewed at him. His hand made a quick swipe along your cunt making you jolt and shoved himself back inside. He lifted your hips off the bed so you were on your knees. You were acutely aware of the slick that leaked down the inside of your thighs. With your ass still up for him you slid your upper half back down onto the bed, muffling your moans into the bed. He braced both his hands beside your head, the position reminding you just how much bigger he was than you. He captured one of your hand's underneath his, fingers intertwining. You used your free one to get underneath you and rub your clit. He noticed the action and lulled his forehead so it was resting on your back, his cock twitching inside of you. His own hand possessively replaced yours between your legs.
Let me take care of you, it said.
You wrapped around his wrist, in case you needed to pull him away as you were nearing overstimulation. His breath fanned across your neck, and his lips found your skin. Sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin just below your ear.
It felt like he was everywhere, engulfing you. All but one pillow had ended up on the floor, and you pulled it into your face, biting at the fabric as yet another climax hit you. It wasn’t long after you that Simon followed, his pace stuttering as he filled you. His last couple thrust harder and more desperate than the rest. He stifled a whimper and the sound of your name on his lips was like ecstasy.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. Eyes watchful as he pulled out of you, and more specifically his cum leaking out. He dragged a finger up your cunt, catching it all before shoving it back inside. “Mm’my god.”
You pulled away from his touch, even the slightest pressure right now would make you sob.
“I love you,” he turned you onto your side, his hand gentle on your skin. Skimming over your curves.
“I love you more,” you teased, pushing his hair back away from his now-damp face. Your heart skipped at the sight of him. When he was completely at ease like this he looked so youthful. Every worry and burden lifted off his shoulders ever so slightly.
“Want a wet cloth?” he leaned into your touch, before pulling away when you nodded.
He returned with a warm, damp cloth. Wiping at you as gently as he could, then moved to your thighs, and stomach. Your face heated when you realized he was covered in your arousal too. The V leading down to his manhood was glistening with it. Although he didn’t seem to care it made you a little sheepish.
“Maybe another shower,” you said, sitting up and pulling him back into the bathroom.
| One Thing You Love - Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader
Word Count - 1.1k
Summary - Simon is no stranger to nightmares and the fear and panic that follows. He has a routine and has developed tricks to aid them. Especially when they plague you at night.
Tags/Warnings - Fluff, Explicit Language, Depictions of Panic Attacks and Night Terrors, Mentions of Childhood Trauma,
A/N - Imagine being loved by someone like him!!!
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An invisible hand reached into his sleep and pulled him from sleep just in time to see you bolt up from the sheets, clawing at the air. Hair sticking to your forehead and tears staining your face. You gasped out unintelligible words, reaching for someone, anyone to help you. Simon was already moving and was kneeling beside you immediately.
The first time you had had an episode it was absolutely terrifying for him. He had been jolted awake from you thrashing against his arm, blubbering incoherently. At first, he thought he had accidentally done something to hurt you. Until you called out for your mom, begged her to “make it stop”. He felt completely useless, he didn't know what to do. Flicking on the lamp he had tried shaking you awake and calling out your name.
When you finally woke up you were inconsolable. He stayed up till dawn with you as you cried.
This time he knew what he had to do, he had done it so many times that he moved almost mindlessly. Cautiously, he moved to sit behind you, legs on either side of you and arms wrapping around you. He grasped your wrists gently and crossed them over your chest, applying just enough pressure to the embrace. He leaned back against the headboard slowly, pulling you back with him.
You struggled against him, breaths coming in short uncontrollable bursts, "Wait. No. I'm - I'm sorry," You sputtered.
Simon felt his shatter at the words. You've never and refused to tell him what your dreams were about but he had his theories. He would never asks you, he was waiting for you to tell him. He knew about what had happened in your childhood home. What would be said there, to you, done to you. What they would do to you when they caught you using you “out of line”. You'd told him about it, once. And only once did you speak freely about it. He’d felt sick to his stomach.
"Shhh, it's only me. I'm here." He whispered into your ear as softly and calmly as he could.
"Simon," he loosed a breath at the sound of your broken voice, you were awake. You stopped your struggling but you were still in panic in his arms. Eyes wild and unseeing.
"Name five colours." His own voice quivered with anger. He had sworn to himself that if he ever saw your parents. He wouldn't hold back. He'd fucking kill them. He would burn them to ashes. He would pack the years of torture and pain you endured into one night. He’d become a nightmare for you.
When you didn't say anything he pulled you even closer, "Think of the rainbow, Darlin"
"Green."
"Good. Four more,"
"Orange. Red." Each word was a struggle between your gasps for breath.
"Green."
"You already said that one. Two more."
"Yellow, and blue."
"Now, tell me four weekdays." Simon stares off at the door to the hallway. He was ready to protect you against the world.
"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday." You said in one breath.
"Slower." He lowered his voice and you had to strain to hear him. You obeyed, slowly repeating the weekdays to him.
"Three foods." He leaned his head down on your shoulder, the smell of his shampoo invading your senses. Breath by breath you returned to your body, to the hollowness in your chest, to the throbbing headache. Your fingers ached too, and when you look at them you realize your bone-crushing grip on his arms. Immediately you let go, leaving behind little angry red fingerprints. Your finger nimbly danced along the markings. He pressed a small kiss to your jaw as if to tell you "It's okay".
"Grapes. Chicken. And..." You paused for a second, thinking. "Does chocolate count?"
He rubbed wide, slow circles into your shoulder, "Oh, of course. Two things you hate," His questions need increasingly more thought, effectivly distracting you. He had looked at how to deal with panic attacks and nightmares and how to help someone come down from one, and he was pulled every trick he knew for these moments. Took notes on his own nightmares and demons. On what helped soothe his panicked heart.
"Mushrooms," you scrunch your nose. He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest and against your back. He loved them.
"And being damp, not wet but not completely dry either,” you considered for a second, “Like when you get caught in the rain."
He hummed in agreement, "And one thing you love."
Your eyes dropped to the arms wrapped around you, the fingers rubbing slow circle on your skin. Warmth rolled from the man behind you and into your chilled lungs. His smokey bourbon scent. You thought of the shared whispers at nights before falling asleep, the early mornings and their lazy kisses. The chilly walks to the park, and the laughter.
You pulled your arms free of his, "You," You leaned your head back on his shoulder, then half turned to face him, catching his face in your hands. He leaned into your touch, eyes falling shut. "I love you, Simon Riley."
A rare boyish smile graced his lips and then those incredible dark eyes found yours. "I love you too," then he moved you so you'd be facing him entirely. “Do you wanna talk about it?" He offered his full attention. You shake your head, you never said yes. He always asked though.
Leaning your head on his shoulder you savoured the silence for a minute, just feeling each other's presence. He ran his hand up and down your back.
"I'm sorry I keep doing this to you," You admit sheepishly. A fat warm tear slipped down your cheek. He pulled away from you.
"I am yours, and my purpose is to protect you. I would be fucking useless if I wasn't there for you. Don't ever be sorry. We all get nightmares." He tilted his head to the side as he wiped the tears from existence, then placed a warm kiss where it once was. Then another kiss for your nose, your cheek. He hovered over your lips. "I will always be here for you." He closed the distance. The kiss was sweet and tender, and your chest squeezed at your bleeding heart. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head to the side to deepen the kiss. The remaining fear from my nightmare was pushed to the back of my mind.
He pulled away, his thumb rubbing your bottom lip. He settled you back into the bed, you cuddled into his chest and him caging you in. He placed one final kiss to your temple. "Get some sleep, okay."
You nodded your eyes already drifting shut, his warmth and steady breath lulling you back to sleep. Your last thoughts before falling way to sleep were of him. Of how you'd had gotten so lucky as to steal him for yourself.
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A/N - for the fellow ghosties who get nightmares 🤍
