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ctrl-alt-bucky · 6 months

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If The Winter Soldier was in Task force 141 — Headcannons

(Aka: can somebody teach these dramatic bitches some communication skills)

Be warned, this has a lot more words than I was aiming for (around ~739). Feel free to send me an ask if you want me to expand on certain scenarios, or send a prompt with these two and I might make a oneshot/drabble!

Contains a brief mention of SoapGhost. This version of Bucky is post Endgame. SFW.

♡ Headcannons below the cut ♡

Nicky Fury, the therapist— and most importantly, the government— come to an agreement with the former Winter Soldier: with the Avengers fizzled out, the world needs heroes now more than ever. And so, finding an excuse to use Bucky's highly trained skills, they stick him in with Task 141, hoping the structure and team bonding will help aid his fractured mind, and hopefully dampen his grief in the process.

Ghost isn't keen on a new recruit. He doesn't like extra men to babysit, and he especially doesn't like being unsure of the rookie's capabilities. It doesn't take long for a silent feud to form between him and the newbie, who refers to himself as "Winter" for a call sign or just "Bucky" if he favors you.

Bucky, on the other hand, admires the leadership and protectiveness Ghost shows to his team. But despite that, he's just as cautious of his abilities— and more specifically: where his trust lies, between Bucky, who hasn't entirely yet merged himself with the team, and between the rest of 141, who share a rich history with the Sergeant.

In the first couple missions, Bucky finds himself frustrated with Ghost's orders. He's held the Sergeant title too, once— Hell, climbing the ranks practically required acting on command without any question. That is, until he was able to make his own decisions again. But Bucky had become accustomed to leading himself, or often following behind Steve (who knew more than anybody that telling him what to do didn't guarantee anything), not to mention the mess of Hydra and everything he did to detach himself from that life— So, he struggles with Ghost's authority, and begins to learn very quickly that challenging the non-red, skull-faced fucker is a bad idea.

On one particular morning, just a few days after their last big mission, Bucky wakes up with no arm. Fortunately for him, it's a familiar feeling of emptiness on one side. He later finds it on a shelf in the common room, displayed like a mantelpiece alongside various weapons, with a little skull etched into the bicep with black grease paint. The worst part? Ghost is the first person to sneak past him in decades. Dramatic motherfucker.

After that, Bucky finds a balance of respect and displeasure for Ghost, and works alongside him in unison. The rest of the team doesn't question his sudden change in attitude: some of them, too, had to get over that barrier, after all.

They bond over a share of books. Bucky spent a lot of his downtime before and after the army reading, and likewise with Ghost. Bucky owned a first edition of The Hobbit before he became a pawn for the Soviets, and Ghost is secretly jealous of it, having lost himself in fictional stories all the time growing up.

They also bond over their shared magnet for idiots. Specifically, idiot teammates with a tendency for causing trouble. Bucky ribs him for not making any moves on Soap, whereas Ghost defends himself with a quiet grunt and often changes the subject to something else.

The biggest thing they oppose on, however, is the subject of masks. Ghost is never seen without his, but Bucky almost never has it on unless they're on a mission, and even then, he occasionally opts out, mostly to blend in when necessary (and to help keep his memories at bay, not that he'd ever say it).

Typically, their favorite past time is sparring. Bucky has never found a non-human that can almost match him strength for strength, and Ghost likes knowing he can throw his all at Bucky without having to worry about the damage it could cause. It's the best training for the both of them; allowing their energy to drain, their skills to improve, and their banter to escalate until one of them is on top of the other, holding them down until a forfeit is called.

More than once, Bucky has been the one on the ground with his arms pinned. He claims he only admitted defeat to, "boost Ghost's ego so the miserable bastard can smile for once," but they both know it's not quite the truth.

They work as a good team and even better rivals. And though Bucky would never admit it out loud, after everything he's lost, he enjoys having an equal again. And Ghost, well... Ghost wouldn't mind keeping him around for a while, that's for sure.

That's all I've got for now! I have a NSFW headcannons draft for these two soldiers' x reader. Lemme know if that's something I should post ;D

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andrewknightley · 7 months

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I stoled this meme cause it was fun

#anyways i ddont hate a lady on fire but i thought it was boring i feel out of the lesbian cinema club #great soundtrack idk really i dont have a fav movie soundtrack #so i just put chicago cause it was the musical that made me like musicals #when i was tiny it activated my brain to a World #i dont really ave bad day cures movies for those moments i usually watch a new movie tbh but #barb and star go to vista del mar is just so great #i remember the plane scene talking about trish and i smile #is so funny #im ok with baby driver now but this was the first time wright dissapointed me greatly for how bad he writes women #but after watching soho i think he just is not very good at writing love interests #except danny but simon was there too #im one of the few people who find terminalthe funniest shit ever (is not a comedy)#also new followers might be surprised for m:i there but people who know me Know #talks and stuff

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filmap · 1 year

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Simone Barbès ou la virtu / Simone Barbes or Virtue Marie-Claude Treilhou. 1980

Cinevog 20 Rue de Gaite, Paris 75014, France See in map

See in imdb

#marie-claude treilhou #simone barbès ou la virtu #simone barbes or virtue #simone barbès #cinema #porno cinema #paris #montparnasse #france #ingrid bourgoin #martine simonet #movie #film #location #google maps #street view #1980

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lesbiten · 2 years

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you know i think fords decoration skills are truly underrated. do you think a mentally unstable person could do this

#guessing one of the activities he took up while trying his hardest not to fall asleep was putting up shit tons of barbed wire #and boarding up his windows #and putting up the 'stay out' sign. and the 'no trespassing' sign on the door #maybe he starts fortifying the cabin after his first run in with the society of the blind eye #bonus paranoia points #stan shouldve just turned around. pov your brother calls you up for the first time in 10 years and you get to his house and it looks like #This #simon says

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philoursmars · 1 year

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Je reviens à mon projet de présenter la plupart de mes 54110 photos (nouveau compte )

2014. Marseille, le Musée des Beaux-Arts, dans le Palais Longchamp:

- Françoise Duparc : “L'Homme à la Besace”

- Michel-Honoré Bounieu : “Supplice d'une Vestale”

- Pierre-Paul Rubens: “La Chasse au Sanglier'”

- Pierre Puget : “L'Education d'Achille”

- Michael Sweerts : “Tête d'homme”

- Simon Renard de Saint-André :”Vanité”

- Jean-Baptiste Dalige de Fontenay : ”Vue prise sur le Chemin de la Maladetta”

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graphicpolicy · 9 months

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Weekly Preview! Two New Graphic Novels and more!

Weekly Preview! Two New Graphic Novels and more! See what's coming to GPTV! #comics #comicbooks #graphicnovel

There are a lot of comics coming out every week to be covered. Check out some of what we’ll be reviewing and this is only the beginning! This week’s reviews include: Barb and the Battle for Bailiwick Vol. 3 (Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers) Billie Blaster and the Robot Army From Outer Space (Amulet Books) Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers and Amulet Books provided Graphic…

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#amulet books #barb and the battle for bailiwick #billie blaster and the robot army from outer space #comic books #Comics #featured #graphic novel #graphic novels #simon & schuster books for young readers #video

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nsharks · 5 months

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twelve —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: *hint at sexual assault. please be cautious!* death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Dense mud packs onto the soles of your boots. You shift the near-empty backpack on your shoulder and slip back a few sweat-laced strands of hair from your face. Never before were you a morning person. In fact, you used to purposely sign up for all the afternoon lectures in uni. But now, time and sunlight are precious. You set out to search for the camp this morning with only a sliver of sunrise as your companion.

You hope Ghost was right.

He suspected that their camp would be situated in a location with easy access to the military base, river, and nearby village so they could draw resources from all three. So that's the direction you're headed in, squinting at nearby landmarks and interstate signs to help guide you. It's quite the hike: grueling, hilly terrain and moist air that you can't distinguish from your own sweat. You've stepped over some interesting sights along the way. An old forest station with CAMP FEES and LEAVE NO TRACE posters still outside. A small skeleton tucked in a bush with only child-sized rainboots left on it. For a moment, you saw Joseph. Toddling around in the puddles outside your sister’s house. You had to force yourself not to look at it for too long; you wiped your eyes, gritted your teeth, and prayed it had been painless for them.

You come to a narrow creek, crossing over a stone bridge that spits you out among dense evergreens. Finally, a faint column of smoke comes into view just above the forest's canopy.

That must be it.

It's certainly a sign, so you suck in a shaky breath, ignore the rush of blood in your veins, and do what Ghost suggested: climb a tree to get a better look.

There was a time not long ago when climbing trees was your only means of survival. This time, it feels so much easier to hoist yourself up and grip the bark as your muscles flex to steady yourself on a high branch. Luckily, there wasn't much to bring in the backpack Ghost gave you. For now, there's nothing in it other than your lighter, a roll of gauze, that romance book, and a small piece of dry wood.

Squinting your gaze, you make out the silhouette of triangular, orange tents and uneven fencing. Definitely a camp. The fence doesn't appear barbed from here, but it's at least a meter higher than the one that surrounds Ghost's place. You're close enough to see a few blue crates in the center that look like those ones from the military medical site. Is that what they're keeping the supplies in? It seems like the only obvious place based on the layout.

What you really want to know is how many people. Soundlessly, you shift your boots to get a different angle and finally spot movement coming out of one of the tents— a sizeable male wearing a leather jacket.

One.

Is that it?

Your eyes stay locked on the stranger for a minute, tracking his movement as he cooks something over the fire. He gives out a long whistle, the high-pitched sound audible even from where you stand nestled in the treetop. Panic seizes your breath: did he somehow see you and is alerting someone else? But no— you're much too far, and his eyes never shifted in your direction.

Instead, there's more movement, the faint shuffling of paws on the ground, and then a large dog appears at the man's side. He tosses something in front of it, what must be a slab of meat, because the dog is quick to start chowing down with the enthusiasm of a mindless Grey.

"Fuck me," you whisper to yourself, fingertips splintering against the bark. "Couldn't prepare me for that, huh, Ghost?"

The plan he instructed you with is fairly simple and straightforward— you'll just have to stick to it and be mindful of the additional obstacle. You've survived much worse even just a few days ago, so with that in mind, you slip down the column of the tree and purposefully backtrack your steps, gaining a bit more distance between you and the camp.

You need a ruse, something to draw the man out for enough time for you to grab the ammo. Ghost told you to bring the book to help get a fire started since the twigs and leaves here are damp after the storm, so you find a good spot and start ripping out the pages, crumpling them up. You arrange the piece of wood and paper in such a way that you have a minute or two before the smoke really gets going. You pull out your lighter from the pocket of your jeans, start it, and then head back towards the camp, this time going around so you can approach it from the side.

You keep your footsteps as light as possible while moving quickly. Once the man notices the smoke and leaves to scout it out, your timer starts. There's another whistle followed by a gravelly bark from the dog. You sneak close to the side of the fence, pausing behind a tree, just when you catch a glance of the stranger shucking a rifle over his shoulder and exiting out the gate. He shuts it behind him with a series of padlocks.

It won't take him long to find the source of the smoke and realize it's nothing, so you muster all your strength and begin climbing the fence, rusty links digging into your palms. You try to do it without making much noise, but the moment you jump down with a thud, the dog's head snaps in your direction. It begins to growl, flashing thick canines under its bloodied muzzle. You break out into a sprint toward the blue crates, but it crosses the span of the camp in mere seconds, clamping down on your forearm before you can even begin to look for the ammo.

The pain is white hot. You silently cry out as the dog shakes its head, tearing through the fabric of your coat and the tissue of your muscle.

"Fuck."

You tug at your arm, but it doesn't let go. Remembering the piece of squirrel meat you brought as a snack, you dig it from your pocket and wag it in front of the dog's face.

"Come on, let go— please."

It's enough to catch his attention, the bite on your arm loosening once you toss the meat a few meters away and he follows it. You clutch your arm with a ragged breath, ignoring the blood and pain that radiates from it.

The squirrel can only distract him for so long, so you urgently flip open the lid of the first crate. Staring back at you is a mix of what appears to be severed limbs and various animal parts. The pungent smell floods up your nose. You instantly clamp the lid back down, fighting the urge to vomit, and move on to the next one.

Ammo.

Plenty of it.

Without a second to waste, you sling off the backpack and begin stuffing it with the cardboard packs of cartridges, hoping it's the kind Ghost needs. When you tug the zipper closed, a decision pops into your brain: to keep looking through the other crates for medicine, or to get the fuck out of there. You take a millisecond too long to think about it because suddenly, you notice the dog from the corner of your eye, done with the meat and moving towards you with another throaty growl.

You tug the heavy backpack on and make a beeline for the closest side of the fence. In the panic, you fail to notice the creak of the gate opening until you are stumbling into a hard chest. A strong hand wraps around your bicep.

Fuck.

He's back.

This is it, then.

"Rocky— sit."

The growling behind you ceases. A whole new fear washes over you as you blink up at a rugged face. The stranger uses his other hand to take hold of your jaw, hard enough that your teeth are forced to grind together. In a heart-pounding silence, he inspects you, bluntly looking you up and down. Then, he takes out a knife and presses it to your neck. Your throat bobs against the icy metal.

"Fucking bitch," he mutters. "Start a fire to try and steal from me?"

"N-no!" Your brain reels for a lie. "No— I don't know what you're talking about. I-I came here looking for help."

"Try a better lie, sweetheart."

"I mean it," you stammer, holding onto the fact that he hasn't slit your throat yet. Raw desperation speaks for you. "My… my friends are gone. Someone attacked us a few days ago and killed them. I've been alone ever since and then I found your camp, hoping someone would be here to help me."

This seems to grab his attention. Dark eyes narrow. It's now you realize he's quite young, maybe in his thirties.

"Someone attacked you, huh? Who?"

"Um, some guy. I don't know. I didn't get a good look at him because he was… he was wearing a mask."

"So some guy killed all your friends by himself?" When you slowly nod, cringing at your terrible story, his jaw flexes. "I've lost my friends, too. They went out on a hunting trip three days ago and haven't come back."

"Oh. I'm sorry," you lie, swallowing. "So you… so you believe me?"

"I believe your friends are dead. I don't believe you didn't start that fire to distract me."

His words make your heart race. Again, his eyes trail down, and the knife follows, lowering to the floral fabric of your blouse and popping open one of the buttons.

"Take it off," he suddenly orders.

"W-what?"

"The shirt. Take it off. Let me decide if I should kill you or keep you."

You put on a brave face and do as he says, not given much room to protest despite the sick feeling that twists your gut. You drop the backpack, half-inclined to swing it at him, but then what? There is no way you can take him in a fight, especially since he's armed with a knife and gun, and there is no Grey this time to help you out.

The coat falls to the ground at your feet before you shakily undo the buttons of your blouse, wincing from the movement of your bitten arm. Crisp air greets your bare skin. Your nipples tighten uncomfortably and his gaze darts right to them, intensifying the churn in your stomach.

He gives a low whistle. "Lucky me."

Your nails jab crescents into the palms of your hands. "Am I… am I worth keeping, then?"

He bears a sick, toothy smile. "Pretty for a thief," he confirms. "Haven't seen someone so pretty in a few years now." His eyes flash to your arm and he reaches to grab it, making you choke. "Hell, Rocky. You gave her an ugly bite, though. Might get in the way of what I have in mind for you."

Half-naked, you are dragged by the arm to one of the blue crates. He slips the knife into his pocket in order to search through it. You notice pills, liquids, and a single glass bottle of what appears to be clear alcohol, which he pulls out along with a cloth.

"Tell me your name," he says, forcing you to sit down on a folding chair. "Before I enjoy you.”

You tell him quietly.

With an eery gentleness, he sits across from you and dabs the bite with some alcohol. The sting is immeasurable, but you roll your eyes to the sky and silence yourself. The feel of his cold, calloused fingers makes you imagine how they would feel touching other parts of your body. You need to think of something quick before he gets the chance to. He still has the gun on him, and the only knife you brought is in the jacket on the ground. Your eyes flicker to the bottle, which he set down by the leg of his chair.

"What's your name?" you ask, looking back at him.

"Leo."

"So, um, Leo— how did you end up here?"

"I was a new recruit in the military when shit started five years ago," he explains idly, fixated on your arm. "Stationed at the base nearby."

"I saw medical tents there," you mutter, clearing your throat. "Did you help with that?"

He chuckles. "For all of a day until some buddies and I decided to take what we could and leave. There was no point in trying to help people. We figured that out pretty quick."

"Oh. Were those the buddies who haven't come back?"

He nods. "I'm sure they're dead by now. But, one good thing is," he reaches for the gauze, sniggering lowly, "—that means I don't have to share you."

As he begins to unwrap the gauze, you decide he’s distracted enough. It happens in one, urgent motion. You clasp the alcohol bottle by the neck, arch it above his head, and thrust it down. The glass shatters, drenching him with alcohol and blood as a piece slices open his forehead. He immediately drops the gauze and hisses in pain.

"Bitch," he snarls. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

He leaps to his feet and pulls the knife out again. As he does, you dig the lighter out of your pocket and ignite a flame, bringing it to his soaked shoulder. Instantly, fire flashes up his neck and face in hues of orange and blue, even catching your wet fingertips. It renders him blind as he howls and tries to swing at you, but you immediately run away, rubbing your burned hand against your jeans.

You grab your discarded clothes and backpack before flinging open the crate with medicine in it. You begin stuffing as many bottles into the side pockets of the backpack as you can, breathing frantically.

"I'm going to kill you," he seethes again, and the firing of a bullet somewhere behind you means he must have grabbed his rifle.

But he still can't see, his eyes blistered by the flames that continue to lick his face. Each shot bites the ground as you heave the backpack on your shoulders and take off toward the fence.

The dog barks, louder and louder as he runs after you. You don't look back. You wad your clothes up in a ball and toss them over the fence to free up your hands. Then, you quickly climb up, the muscles in your face tightly clenched as the full backpack weighs you down.

You're too slow.

Teeth grab hold of your boot.

You're pulled back down, hands spreading out to break the fall.

In the mud, you wrestle beneath a snarling jaw, dirtying up your hair and exposed skin. This time, you don't hesitate to hurt the animal. You grab your lighter again and thrust the flame into the dog's eye, making it leap back with a pained squeal.

Freed, you scramble back up the fence.

You leap down. Grab your clothes

You can still hear him shouting as you run away, weaving through the thicket of trees. Only when the sound fades do you stop to catch your breath, sinking down against a tree and putting your clothes back on.

"Here."

A moan of relief escapes your lips the moment you shrug off the backpack and drop it at Ghost's feet. He crouches down, swearing under his breath when he unzips it and the ammo practically spills out. He grabs a few boxes, opening and inspecting them under the violet light of sunset. The walk back took you hours longer. You were almost tempted to sleep in a tree for the night, but the threat of Greys or any more strangers kept you going.

"Good. This is good, Twix." There's a hint of disbelief in his voice before he clears it away, zipping the backpack up. He stands and offers a lengthy look from your head to your boots. "How many were there?"

"Just one."

"Just one," he repeats, brow lifting. "And you look this roughed up. What happened?"

"There was a dog," you say dully, lifting your arm up to show him the bitemark in your sleeve. Beneath it, you already bandaged the wound, not wanting to draw attention to its scent. “Just a dog and a cannibal rapist guy."

"What?"

You shake your head. "Nothing. I'm going to sleep."

Before you can take a step past him, warm fingers latch onto your wrist. So warm. You inhale a breath, a burn of moisture lining your eyes.

“Please don’t touch me," you request in a harsher whisper than you intend.

You can no longer see the details of him with how bleary your eyes are, but you feel his touch disappear.

"What happened?" he asks again, voice lowering.

"Nothing. I got your ammo and I handled it. When can we leave?"

There is a pause before he responds as if he is debating whether or not to drop the subject. For now, he does.

"Tomorrow, hopefully."

"Good." The back of your hand smooths over your eyes. "Don't— don't forget our deal, Ghost. Promise me."

A firm nod. "I don't back out on my word."

As if to prove it, he shucks off the jacket and hands it over.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #fanfiction #cod

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blkkatsuki · 2 years

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i know ive beaten barb aura blackquill to death but consider, Simon is a barb

#after 7 years in jail he deserves some good tunes #the b in blackquill stands for barb #the i in simon stands for im a mothafuckin monster #ludo.txt

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vanderilnde · 3 months

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simon riley/f!reader

warnings: simon is an amputee, implied alcoholism, implied painkiller addiction

Johnny forces Simon to a veterans support group. The latter is less than pleased with the idea—that is, of course, until a little birdy catches Simon’s eye.

—

Simon smells you before he sees you.

However, it's been five months since his honourable discharge, and he's a dead man walking, so he supposes the same could be said for him.

It's the roasting stench of pungent malt. Permeating through the froth of his balaclava and burning his nostrils. He canters his head to the side, sweeping the basement with his hackles raised.

"What's your name?" Comes from the front of the room, scotching Simon's thoughts, to which he mumbles, "Simon."

A peal of "Hi Simon," ripples through the basement, and he cringes.

He was rotting in his flat when Johnny visited. Against everything, it was a sweet respite—seeing his face after so long. He filled him in on what he'd missed, though technically, that isn't allowed anymore. Simon isn't SAS. The only thing connecting him to the military now is his pension, sapped into streaming sites and grocery deliver apps.

He supposes Johnny saw his overripe, threadbare balaclava. Saw a spread of painkillers rooted on every surface. Saw the progress of Simon’s leg, how it ripened from a necrosed nub into an alloy, fused with the silicone of his prosthetic that is two shades too dark for his skin. Then, Johnny forced him here.

"I can't come—veteran's only, but my cousin used ta go to one of 'ese," Johnny said, "it'll do you good."

It's a room with various breeds of military personnel. All at various ranks. Extensions of themselves in crutches and wheelchairs; regressions of them in eyepatches and arm-casts.

The man says, "Well, you’re late. We’re almost finished here."

Simon blindly nods. He can smell you again. Pervasive ethanol and barbed impurities, swirling around his head. He finds a chair too small for him and sits down, heeding how it wanes under his weight.

The man starts talking again. But for Simon, the voice turns to filaments. Droned out and greyscale against his impaired senses. Fermented sorghum burns his eyes as Simon sweeps his head to the side, catching a glint of light winking back at him.

He finally sees you.

Simon finds himself back in the jungle, in the middle of an operation. Sweaty and damp and dewy between clement leaves as he eyes down an X-ray.

Your eyes hold the same sentiment of intimidation. They’re red-rimmed with veiny scythes but bore a glimmer bespoken for the stars. Your hard stare inspires a flare in Simon’s heart. Something so off-putting that it drills itself into his bones and burns the sealant in his prosthetic.

You part your lips. They have a forgone softness to them, now cut and peeled in different corners, akin to the ruins of Babylon. Vodka sticks to the roof of your mouth as you dart out your tongue, wetting your lips.

"See that guy over there?"

Marginally, Simon flinches. Your voice is softer than anticipated. Softer than your rotgut scent and your strands of silage hair.

He follows the streamline of your gaze. To an underdeveloped man sitting with his back hunched, eyes puffy, across the room.

"He's here 'cause he got home and caught his girlfriend fucking another bloke," a wheeze collapses your sentence, "isn't that hilarious?"

Simon stares at him. Then he hangs his head, staring at his leg. He sees his prosthetic jut out and distort the denim of his jeans, and, in spite of himself, Simon chuckles. It is hilarious.

"He calls it traumatic," you slouch in your seat, "try seeing your mate get blown to pieces."

Simon is quiet. But that doesn't off-put you, because you're leaning in closer and examining his mask.

"What branch were you?"

He keeps his eyes locked on the opposite wall. "Parachute reg."

"Battalion?"

"... Third."

You narrow your eyes. "So, Special Air Service."

He expels a loose laugh. Scratches the scruff of his neck. "Sure."

"Could've just said that," you frown, “I was SRR, so we might’ve crossed paths.”

Simon hitches his eyes up, chancing another glance at you.

You don't look SRR. But again, Simon doesn't look SAS.

He grunts, “How the mighty’ve fallen, eh?”

A lukewarm chuckle escapes you. “Yeah.”

The sound of your laugh inspires warmth in Simon’s belly. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows he wants to say something. He feels a chord to keep the conversation going; to not disappoint you.

Simon feels like Icarus flying too close to the sun.

“Why’d you leave?” He says, leaning a little closer.

“You’re never supposed to ask that,” you murmur, “but I like you, so I’ll bite. OTH. Got nicked in Bulford for radical interrogation tactics. Whatever that shit means.”

Simon grunts. His cadence offers a hint of condolence, but you just laugh. “I’m glad to be out of there. And you? Why are you here?”

“C4 explosion,” he grumbles, “honourable discharge.”

You hum. “Goody two shoes.”

A waspish blush dominates the furrows of Simon’s crows feet. He brokenly mumbles under his breath, embarrassed, preening under your gaze.

His rebuttal idles at the threshold of his mouth. It collapses on his tongue when you stand up, fishing cigarette from your breast pocket.

“I’m going,” you say, “will I see you next week?”

Simon’s neck twitches and rockets into a nod. Immediately, he is looking forward to next week. He believes a byproduct of second-hand drinking has vitiated him, as when you walk away, hips swaying, Simon feels drunk.

As Simon sits stupefied, left without a heart as you’d taken his on your way out, he curses to himself.

Simon didn’t get your name.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cod mw2 #simon ghost x you #simon writing #writing #veteran!simon

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peachesofteal · 7 months

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Happy Hunting

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon Riley/female reader 4.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Consensual non consent. Explicit sex, creampie. Predator/prey, hunter/hunted. Use of restraints, a gag. Blood, violence. Dirty talk, size kink, praise kink. Feelings of fear, anxiety. Horror-ish. Horror media references/influenced. Tags are for your health, not mine. “Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance." - Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

It was the porch light, that cost you everything.

The porch light that flickered through the brush with strokes of silver moonlight, the porch light that cast a wan, yellowed haze out from its warped wooden and stone host. The porch light, that shone like a lighthouse, calling you home, calling you to safety, security. To sanctuary.

You spotted it from a distance the first day, once you had already changed course that morning, tromping across a stream and shimmying through a nasty spool of barbed wire. You hunkered down next to an outcropping of rock, peering through the morning fog, searching for your hunter, watching for the tell tale signs of his presence, a wide path cut through the forest by his broad body, punctuated by trampled underbrush, damaged petals and leaves. The house stood on the hill in the distance, rising just above the tree line, the shimmer of the little yellow light drawing you in, making you curious, filling you with an urge to look closer, as the hair on the back of your neck rose in warning.

The rocks were a perfect natural shelter, a good place to take a nap, if you wanted, if you could. It would be easy to bed down in the soft dead-fall of the leaves, sink into the earth, into the heavy mist that had lingered past dawn, but you couldn’t risk closing your eyes. Not even for a second. Not when you knew he was so close, when you could hear his breath, feel the pads of his fingers on your skin, reaching, stretching, desperate to snatch you away forever. If you held your body still, you swore you could feel the vibration of his feet in the forest, rustling against the brush, covertly honing in on your location, stalking closer and closer to his target. His victory.

Even if you never saw him, you knew he was out there, watching patiently. Waiting for you to make a mistake, for you to miscalculate.

You told yourself the house was not an option. Even when you got a good look at it on that first day, something about it stuck low in your belly, an off feeling, a warning. You opted to circumvent the entire thing, giving the long overgrown driveway, endlessly black windows and snarled thicket that grew thick at its foundation a wide berth.

Old stone mansions left abandoned, remnants of old families, old money left to rot, were not unheard of in this area. You had spent your youth crawling around in them and knew them well, knew their warning signs, understood what it felt like when they might give way on you. You knew how to unlock their secrets, knew how to read the gothic stories that had settled into the crumbling, peeling wallpaper. They spoke their own languages, histories spiraling out from their nooks and crannies, trauma and laughter etched into the joists and support beams, sagging with the weight of their own age. They could be easy to read, easy to listen to, if you knew which doors to pry open, and which to leave locked shut.

Still, it was too convenient. Too much of a risk. Too much confinement. There was a zero chance of you besting him in a physical fight, and you had to depend on your speed for survival, your aptitude, your skill to ensure your success. Pigeonholing yourself in a mansion with god knows what inside did not allow you to excel at the things you were good at.

You felt confident in your decision to avoid the house. You felt good about it.

The storm rolled in with tenacity. The rain was frigid, wind howling through to your bones, chilling the blood that pumped in your heart. It's strength pulled at your resolved, ready to tear you to pieces, to force you to your knees. It pushed you off course, away from the rushing water of the creek, and up the hill of water soaked leaves.

You lost your bearings for a moment, and that’s all it took for you to slip up, all that was needed for you to catch the sight of his grim shadow from the corner of your eye, the crack of a branch breaking beneath his boot shattering across your brain like a gunshot.

You tore through the woods, gait bogged down by the water logged earth, by the thick of the mud, chased by the sound of his voice, calling for you through the forest over the raging fury of the storm.

"Happy hunting, little dove."

You narrowly escaped, but the skull mask watched. He waited. He tracked.

He hunted.

It’s too dark.

Too dark to see anything, too dark to see your hands that are spread out in front of your body, hands that desperately try to act as your eyes, feeling, touching, scraping across surfaces to keep you from bumping into things. Doors. Walls. Whatever could be lying in wait here.

The weight of your wet clothing irks you. It hangs heavily on your body, and you wish you had chosen better layers, shivers working up and down your spine, goosebumps rising against the soaked chill of your shirt. It could be pneumonia that gets you in the end, if he doesn't catch you first, you muse bitterly, wringing yourself out as well as you can, water droplets pattering against what you believe sounds like a wooden floor.

The lack of light is unnerving. You'd expected it, knew the chances of there being anything working in here slim, but you still hoped that maybe the lone flickering porch light meant there was something still left inside these old bones, a spark, a connection feeding a light switch or a lamp somewhere. The dark of the house is endless, and your mind works quickly to imagine the worst case scenarios, the potential that this tenebrous pitch may drag you below forever settling heavily in the back of your mind. It's deep, the darkness of the house, like you could fall into it and drown, never resurfacing, never to see the sun again. You move slowly, hands in front of your face, body and feet making contact with as much of the wall as you can, trying to paint a picture with touch. The dark, combined with the new and unfamiliar territory, is enough to unsettle your usual steady demeanor.

The combination is a lethal one. It’s one that leaves you hesitant. Unsure. It’s one that keeps you off balance, spine ram rod straight, nerves alight with fear.

It wasn’t so bad, in the woods. The silver glow of the moon illuminated the lay of the forest, sprawling swaths of brush and low growing thistle, tall trunks that stretched to the sky, stout shrubs with thorns that scratched at your clothes. That was easier, than this.

Easier than this maze called a house. Easier than these hallways that morphed into a labyrinth that stretched for miles and miles, twisting together into a Fibonacci sequence of pitch-dark terror.

No. You swallow. You’re not afraid. You’re fine. You’re going to be fine. You're going to win.

But even as you repeat it to yourself, even as you coach your reserve, you can hear his voice. Can hear the grit and gravel of the Manchester accent, can smell his skin against yours, lips rough on your mouth before your cheeks were pinched between a thumb and forefinger.

“Want to play a game?”

You work forward in a half crouch, staying pressed to the wall, form as tight as you can manage, unobtrusive. Your hand stays projected in front of your body, the other along the wall, waiting to feel an angle, an edge, a door, a window… anything.

You shouldn’t have come in here. You walked right into a trap, you're sure of it now, fairly positive after feeling the way the corridor twists and turns away from the front. Walked right into a confined space and now you’re lost, stuck, like a fly in a web. Waiting to be devoured. Waiting for your end to be delivered by a spider who lurks just out of sight.

But you did it for a reason, didn’t you?

You’re so, so close to the finish line. So close you can taste it, the trepidation beading into sweat that drips down your back, cold and unwelcome against the damp of your shirt. It’s already been two days. The morning of the third day is just on the horizon, sun due to come up, you think, within a few hours. Your mouth salivates at the thought of it, the idea of sinking your teeth into sweet, sweet victory. Of winning. Of beating him.

You take a moment to stop and reassess, swiping your palms along the wall and floor, working on controlling your breathing. It’s becoming jagged, anxiety spilling out through your lungs with each step you take, fear moving through you like ice freezing in your veins, creeks and streams being lost to the winter’s chill, a disease slowly spreading towards your heart.

You use it to focus. You cannot see, but that doesn’t mean you've lost, and it doesn't make you weak. It makes all your senses stronger, your hearing, your ability to smell, your translation of touch into sight. The wall turns here, the floor dips there, does that feel like a ledge? You crawl in your crouch, lips sealed tight against soft whimpers that threaten to expose you over the little pieces of wood that get lodged in your palms.

Splinters. Unfinished lumber.

It confirms your theory. The mansion itself is old, stuck up on this plot land, nestled in the thick of the forest, abandoned, nearly completely forgotten about by all… save for one. One, who’s been building inside of it, one who’s been creating in its guts. Hollowing it out and remaking it into something new, a hellscape of hallways, a complicated vision executed by someone who’s running from the same demons, the same nightmares that you are.

Your heart sinks past your stomach, down into your knees. Continuing to run this rat race is foolish. He built it. He knows it. He pushed you here, urged you over the hill, across the stream, beneath the barbed wire. He dictated your path, forcing you into the light of the porch, herding you closer and closer because he knew. He knew you wouldn't be able to resist it, in the end. He knew you.

Find a different part of the house. Escape. Hide, until sunrise.

You keep going, carefully, creeping along the walls, navigating lefts and rights and forks in the labyrinth until your fingers tap silently across an empty door frame, nothing on the other side except the continuous black void of darkness.

Your feet slide forward, boots sliding until the floor disappears. A drop off? There’s more, a flush piece, a curved groove.

Stairs.

You blink, even though it will do you no good, it won’t clear your vision or make the lights in this decrepit place suddenly flicker on. Your hands are your sight, and you run your fingers along the curve of the top step, until you feel the next, and the next.

You take them half on your belly, half on your knees. It’s slow, achingly so, and puts you in a vulnerable position, but the fall, if there were to be one, would be much, much worse if you risked attempting them fully standing. It takes forever to get to the bottom, and you feel a small tug of relief when your palms rub across a cold concrete floor.

There’s a noise. It’s a banging, of sorts. Like a door swinging, and you jolt, reaction fueled by adrenaline, barreling forward into the dark, slamming into the wall with your hip. It stings, the slap of concrete zinging across your skin and you hiss instinctively, before clapping a hand over your face to muffle the sound.

You curse yourself. That was too loud.

A floorboard creaks above your head. The acid in your stomach rises.

You hold yourself as still as you can, palm still pressed over your mouth, body bent low. You keep contact with the wall as much as possible, shoulder, thigh, part of your back. Stay low. Stay small. It’s an advantage you have, your size versus his. Even if you aren’t particularly petite, you’re nimble, graceful and quick. Something you’ve been using for the past two days to stay one step ahead, something you used earlier to orchestrate your narrow escape in the woods. You use it now, to find a corner, a little nook of rough cement, and squeeze your body inside.

Heavy feet take the stairs slowly, step by step until you see the bright white beam of a flashlight sweeping across the floor methodically, back and forth, back and forth. It moves across the room, around the stairs, opposite of the corner you think you’ve tucked yourself into.

Just hold your breath. Stay quiet. You can still win. You can still make it.

The flashlight flicks off with a dramatic click. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip so hard it draws blood.

Maybe he didn’t see you. Maybe he doesn’t know you’re even here.

Seconds drag into minutes, and you think you hear heavy footfalls upstairs. Or possibly on the stairs. You can’t be too sure. It’s too dark, and the pitch is disorientating. It’s hard to tell right side up, up from down.

This could be heaven. It could be hell.

You stay burrowed in that corner against the cinderblock for what you believe must be at least fifteen minutes, if not longer. Your body aches from being pushed in on itself, and you blink in the dark, breathing slower than a corpse, listening. Waiting.

Your boot slides across the concrete. Seeking. Touching… bumping into solid mass. You realize it a second too late. Time freezes, and you with it, heart encased in ice. Your eyes slam shut, and a whimper builds in the back of your throat.

A hand wraps around your ankle, and you screech, curling forward with your fingers bent like talons, flying towards what you hope is his face, desperate to sink your nails into his skin and tear, rip him open so you can get away. He grabs your arm, stabilizing your contact, the strength in his grip that of more than two men, at least, and drags you across the floor, iron bar of his ulna holding you still and steady.

A piece of metal scratches against wood. A flick, a flicker, and then-

A wash of orange-yellow light. You’ve been in the dark for hours at this point, and your sight struggles to refract, pulling back behind half shut lids even though the light itself is not that bright.

You tilt your head back and look up.

String lights. He’s hung string lights up down here, little bulbs on black wire stapled to the rafters like you’re in some romantic comedy. Like there should be a two top table here with a pile of spaghetti and meatballs, carafe of wine and checkered tablecloth.

“Hung these just for you, dove. Knew you’d like ‘em.” His breath is burning hot against your face, and you twist, swinging your entire skull into his chest and trying to dig your heels into the ground for leverage. You catch a glimpse of his face, maskless, the twice-healed broken nose, cheek scar and sharp edged jaw unmistakable, even with your fogged vision.

“Get OFF me you FUCKING FREAK, I-“ His thigh presses against your knee and then you’re swooping, thrown off balance in a second thought with a scream, free hand ripping across into his hair and yanking with everything you have.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t flinch, wrestling you to the ground with ease. You don’t have much fight left in you, after two days of hiding, running, trying to be smarter, be faster, and you’re spent on all ends, this last little spat the end of everything you had. He knows it.

Still, when he fish hooks his thumb into between your lips, you bite down with all your might, sinking your incisors into his skin in hopes of drawing blood.

He laughs, and your mouth fills with the mineral-metallic liquid, his thumb swirling inside your teeth and across your gums.

You know you’re well and truly fucked.

The knife makes quick work of your shirt. Your tac pants, the good pair, go next, along with your boots. He lurks above for you a long moment before he cuts your bra away, your nipples tightening in reaction to the temperature, to everything that’s happening in this moment, in this basement.

“Gave me the slip in the woods earlier, little dove. Very clever.” He praises you, bending your arms behind your back and then working a rope around your wrists, knotting it securely, but not too tight. “Almost made it. Think you might’ve, if you hadn’t come in ‘ere.” Your underwear rips away without pretense, without hesitation and you swallow, mouth gaping wide, teeth trying to cut over the gag. “But I know why you did. I know you wanted to get caught.” You shake your heard furiously, and he clucks his tongue in mock sympathy, soothing a warm hand up and down the outside of your thigh. “Come on dove, let me see.” He pries your legs apart, baring you wide, where you drip for him, slick with arousal, with heat. He hums something to himself; two blunt fingers stroking down your seam and then back up around your swollen clit. You buzz with his touch, muscles reacting on their own, spine curving just a little, hips twitching. He stays there, on his knees between your thighs, an immovable force, keeping you from closing up around him or blocking his touch, and his thumb rubs your clit in a circle. “What a good girl. Gettin’ all wet for me.” You shake your head, and he tips his head back and laughs. “Don’t lie. Pretty little cunt here loved bein’ hunted, eh? Look at how soaked she is. Practically dripping.” He presses a finger inside, the depth of his reach enough to punch your lungs out, body seizing up around him as he strokes upwards, thumb slicking across your clit until you're writing underneath him. You’re going to cum, you’re going to cum on this dirty fucking floor like a- “Ah, ah. You know the rules.” He rasps next to your ear. “What do you need to do?”

“Nnrgh!” you spit through the cloth, and he sighs long and loud, like he’s emptying himself of all his breath with exasperation, fingers smearing your own fluids over your face as he pulls it free. “Please.” You gasp. It’s barely a plea, something more venomous, more spiteful, but it’s enough for him, and he nods, placing the fabric back into your mouth with a pop of his wrist. You don’t want to, you don’t want to give in, let him win, let him have this, make it so easy but he's playing your body so well, expertly, making you sing for him from behind the gag, and you cannot stop the tidal wave that swims over you, your orgasm breaking you apart, smug grin scrawled across his face with pleasure.

When he takes his cock out, dragging his briefs and pants beneath his hips, all while keeping a single hand pressed to your belly, your eyes widen. He’s huge, thick with a fat red tip, dribbles of pre cum leaking above where he’s got you splayed open. He’s going to tear your apart.

“You put up such a good fight, dove. Made me wait so long, hid so well.” The heat of his cock sears against your thigh, and you grunt, brows furrowed, mouth dry behind the gag. Your tongue pushes against it helplessly, fingers fisted tight in the binding beneath your lower back. It’s not particularly comfortable, but the position bares your breasts to him, and keeps you off balance enough that he can manipulate you as he sees fit. “But you still lost.” The gleam in his eye is wild, wicked enough to make your toes curl, hair on the back of your neck standing straight up. Is this a man? Or a monster? Or both?

He presses inside and you see stars, you see the whites of your own eyes, see the currents of electricity in the air. It hurts, a gnawing bite that spreads to your cervix, magma spilling forward and scorching along your walls. He doesn’t slow either, doesn’t stop, just thrusts all the way through, deeper and deeper, splitting you open on his cock just how he likes.

“Ffuumph-“ You moan, and a plate sized palm pats your face soothingly, your knees pinned back towards your ears, his chest against yours. He knows it hurts. Knows it stings, his hips stuttering with his strokes, tongue hot against your neck, mopping up the tears that leak from the corner of your eyes.

“I know, I know. Be good." He licks your cheek before taking it between his teeth, and you keen, clenching around him the heat of his cock without a thought. It’s wild, and violent, like you’re being ripped open raw, torn apart by the weight of the end of it all, the consequences of your loss, of getting caught. “Is this is what you needed? What you begged me for-“ You sputter a refusal, a wail of nonsense but there’s no denial of your body’s reaction, the way you tighten around him, the way your body goes gooey for him, cunt glossy with it.

He thumbs your clit, and you moan, half agonized, half delirious, stuffed full, neurons firing across your brain, cunt spasming in time with his thrusts. "So proud of you. Did so good, dove." Your back arches involuntarily, legs trying to snap closed, burn in your belly growing and growing to a precipice, a reckless edge that you know you’re going to be thrown over in a matter of seconds. He reads it, reads you, and plucks the gag free, swooping low to replace it with his mouth, holding your jaw steady, the kiss long and lingering. He gives you more and more, spearing you with his cock, dragging in and out of your pulsing cunt, cooing in your ear over the sound of your moans. "That's it, that's my girl. There you go, come- come on." Your muscles tense and you explode with an orgasm, body melting with a shudder. You turn to liquid, practically putty, all soft and malleable in his arms and he fucks you deep, frantically, chasing after his own release, dragging his nose into your hair with a groan of something unintelligible. You're still clenching around him, wired tight, little explosions of fireworks reverberating through your cunt as he takes his victory, notching himself to the very depth of your body and flooding you with come.

“Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist it. The house.” His arms cradle your limp body, nose skimming up your jaw.

“It was a nice touch.” The words come out as a yawn, stretched out and spent, like your body. Like your mind. Just how you like it.

“You lost, dove.” He murmurs and you nod pathetically. “Want to try again?” He works his touch in the wet mess between your legs, flicking through his own come, your slick and you mewl in his palm.

“Yes."

“I think I should get more of a head start this time.” Simon raises an eyebrow, a shadow of greed, of hunger arcing across his irises before his arm is curling around your back and pulling you into his chest.

“Don’t I usually give you enough of a head start, love?”

“You do, but… Si. Come on. It’s hardly fair.”

“You’re faster than me.” Lips press tenderly against your temple. “Beat me every time in a foot race. Besides, I have something… for you. A gift.” Your head spins when you think about that word, gift. It frightens you. It electrifies you.

“I know but… I want to build it up a little more.” Still, you have to protest a little. You want a longer chase. Need it. Crave it.

“Alright.” He concedes, head tilting to the side, eyes half lidded. “And the prep-“

“Not too much.” You tip back your glass of wine, drop of red leaking from the corner of your lips, tannins blooming across your tongue as he laps it up. “I want it to hurt.” You murmur it into his mouth, rolling the rich liquid from behind your teeth until he’s working you open and it spills forward, drowning the two of you in red cherry and oak until you’re falling to the floor, and he’s kissing your breastbone with a whisper.

“Okay, dove. Not too much.”

#tw dark and twisty #tw dark themes #peaches writes #dove x simon #I really like these two #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod ghost #cod x reader #mw2 #ghost cod

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starstruckmiraclekitty · 8 months

Note

If you haven't already, could you do something where ghost first meets f!reader? Like super cute love story, how it began maybe also how it's going? (can include smut if you're willing love a good smut lol) I'm so down bad for the cuteness overload because I'm waiting for my own Prince Charming 😩

It was a rainy, miserable day in Manchester, and Simon was growing increasingly bored. He'd been home from deployment for a few weeks now, and the pile of books he had waiting for him at home had long been read, leaving Simon with nothing to do.

Deciding against his better judgement, Simon left the comfortable anonymity of his home, and walked to the local bookstore located two blocks from his small English flat.

It was a spot he always visited when he was home from deployment. The little old lady who owned it was always so nice to Simon, and would always set aside books she knew he'd like.

"Hey Barb." Simon greeted in his gruff British accent, smiling at the woman behind the counter as he walked in.

"There he is, I was wondering when you'd come back home, solider. Got a few books set aside for you, but we've updated our inventory, why don't you take a look around?" Barb smiled warmly at him, gesturing to the abundance of shells laid sporadically throughout the small store.

Simon nodded politely to her, a small smile dancing on his lips as he made his way to one of the shelves. The shelf he always started with, Science Fiction.

The minute his eyes landed on it, he knew he had to have it. He'd been looking for a first edition "Dune" for a long, long time, and here it was just before him. He was so tunnel visioned, so solely focused on the book, he hadn't noticed a small hand reaching for it at the same time he was.

His hand grazed the other persons, and he quickly pulled himself from his daze, looking over and finding you, and Simon could’ve sworn his heart stopped right then and there. You were the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, and the small giggle that emitted from your lips as he stared at you caused his cheeks to burn crimson.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't notice anyone else was here." Simon murmured, his voice coming out shaky. Damnit, what the hell was wrong with him?

"Don't worry about it. I didn't notice you were going for the same book.” You replied, your cheeks now as red as his.

There was a moment of awkward silence between the two of you, your eyes still lingering on one another’s, as you were both clearly flustered in the moment.

“Uh, go ahead and take the book, it’s yours.” Simon gestured to the shelf.

“No, no it’s really okay. I’ve read the damn thing at least a half dozen times, I don’t need another copy.” You insisted, taking a step away from the shelf.

Simon grabbed the book, and handed it to you with a smile, as he slowly found his confidence. “Please, take it.”

“If you insist..Have you read it before?” You asked, your head tilting slightly in curiosity. “I’ve not met a lot of people who’ve read it.”

“Not as much as you it seems, but I’ve read it a few times. It was my moms favorite book.” Simon said sheepishly, his mind wandering to thoughts of his mother. “It’s an amazing series, I just wish I had more time to read it.”

“Not enough free time?”

“Never enough free time.” Simon chuckled.

“If that’s not relatable, I don’t know what is. I’m a teacher, over at the university. It seems the only free time I get I’m grading papers, or I’m here with Barb looking at the new books she puts out. I’m Y/N, by the way. I’ve not seen you around before.”

“Simon. I don’t come here terribly often. I'm on leave at the moment and I’m due for a book restock. Teacher huh? What do you teach?” He replied, his eyes drifting back towards yours.

“English, funny enough. So you’re a soldier then?” You asked, your interest in the handsome man before you increasing.

“Something like that.” Simon said, his insides melting as he watched you watch him intensely. Simon wasn’t good at small talk, but he was trying his hardest for you. He didn’t want this conversation to end.

The two of you continued to talk for a few more minutes, the conversation ranging from the weather, to how long the both of you had been coming to this little book store, to your shared interest of science fiction.

“Well, I hate to break this up but I’ve got class in 20 minutes and my students will never let me hear the end of it if I’m late.” You said, not wanting the conversation to end. "It was really nice talking with you."

"Yeah, you too." Simon said, his confidence wavering slightly as he failed to come up with anything else to say. He desperately wanted to ask you for number, but didn't have the nerve to do so.

"I'll ask one more time, are you sure you don't mind?" You asked, holding up the book in your hand. " I feel bad it's the only copy here."

"Of course." Simon nodded, scratching the back of his head nervously. "Besides, it's probably better off in your hands. I'd honestly never get around to reading it, so it'd be more of a table piece."

You nodded, flashing him a warm smile. "Well it was lovely meeting you, Simon. I really hope to see you around here soon."

"I'd like that." Simon agreed, watching as you walked to the front, the smile on his face not faltering in the slightest.

Simon continued to stroll amongst the shelves, nothing quite catching his eye as his thoughts drifted back to you. He regretted not getting your number, and letting his nerves get the better of him. He could only hope that he'd see you in here again. Perhaps he'd make a few more trips here before his next deployment.

He made his way back up to the desk, anxious to see what books Barb had set aside for him. She always knew just the right books for him.

"The woman that was just here left you this." Barb said, passing something to Simon, a knowing smile touching her lips. "Seems you've made quite the impression on our little English teacher."

Simon looked down at the counter, and saw the book he thought you'd left with, and found a small note attached to the front. 'Enjoy the table piece. If you’re interested, I’d love to discuss the book over a tea- Y/N' Simon felt his heart flutter as he re-read your note over and over, his eyes falling to your phone number, neatly written at the bottom of the note.

"Sounds to me like you've got yourself a date, young man." Barb said, meeting Simons eyes with a smile.

"I believe I do." Simon replied, fumbling to put your number in his phone. And he couldn't fucking wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Planning on making this a multi parter? Or just leaving as is- I've not decided yet.

#simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod imagine #mw2 imagine #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley mw2 #simon riley fluff #simon ghost x reader #ghost imagine

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thegnomelord · 5 months

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for the prompt game, if it's still open, maybe 8 with Ghost? maybe with hatefucking and at the point you're both at it's basically a routine but all of the nasty words and cruel moments are really just because you're both brutes that have trouble expressing emotions properly, and all you really want is just some kind of deeper connection with each other, but with your shitty use of words, arguing and eventual growling into into his mouth as you shove him down onto the nearest flat surface is the only way for you to get that. and perhaapps at one point, one of you, reader or ghost doesn't matter, let's something softer and more caring slip through the angry facade? ofc if you already have one for 8 or you just don't like this idea you can im really sorry and you can ignore me, no pressure and I love all your writing :')) <3

Okay anon holy shit this is GOOD! You should think of writing yourself like what I'm seeing in this prompt is good shit :D Play the game HERE

Prompt: "If this is a joke it isn't funny."

CW: NSFW, Sub Bot Ghost, Dom Top MReader, hatefucking, degradation, confessions, soft sex,

It always starts the same; Simon's roughly patting your shoulder and telling you to not cock it up, your equally harsh response for him to keep up with you, rough voices hiding the unsaid 'be careful's. Insults like 'dumbass', 'moron', 'dead weight' crackling over the radio when the other's pinned down by fire, the electric static and suppression fire muting the worry in your voice, the hint of care in Simon's tone.

And it always ends the same; harsh stares across the room while you debrief Price, casualty numbers turning into critiques of the other— you should have noticed the terrorist, Simon should have kept the sniper in mind — prickling barbs and venomed words turning into shoves and punches, leaving bruises on each other's skin instead of the kisses you want to lay down.

Soap loves comparing you to dogs, and that's what you are— animals; talking would kill you both so you end up expressing yourselves through teeth and claws. There's blood on your tongue as you push Simon onto the bed and he pulls you down with his teeth digging into your bottom lip, rough fingers pulling away clothes only to push into bruised flesh, drawing hisses and growls.

'I want you' Ghost wants to say, instead "Stop being a pussy," comes out, blunt nails dragging deep scratches down your back. 'I'm happy you're alive' "You fuck as bad as you fight." Simon tastes blood as he kisses you, both of you struggling to pin the other to the bed.

"Shut up." 'I missed you' you snarl and pin him on his front, trapping his massive arms behind his back so he has no support, his head pushed into the pillows and arse high in the air, your thigh parting his legs. You huff a laugh when you see his cock already hard, hanging uselessly between his thighs. "Slag, good for nothing but taking it up the ass." 'I care for you'.

'You're important to me' Simon swallows the blood and spit in his mouth, jerking in a half-hearted attempt to free himself. "'least ah have a use," he growls, chest stuttering for breath as you bear down even more weight on him. You push your fingers into his mouth to wet them and Simon bites down, loving you with his teeth first, the sting of pain binding you together.

"Yeah, as a cocksleeve." 'I'm sorry' You don't give him a warning, just pull your fingers from his mouth and push into his ass. It's only enough lube to not tear him, but the stretch hurts, burns, and Simon both loves and hates how this roughness makes his cock hard and heart flutter.

"That-hah-" Ghost pants into the sheets, eyes prickling with tears with how he tries to keep them open, body forced to submit to you as your fingers stretch him, fuck him, tenderly brushing against his prostate before pushing to the last knuckle, pain and pleasure burning up his spine. "-that's not true."

Pulling out your fingers you give him a sharp slap on his ass, "Sure is," You use what saliva you have on your hand to wet your cock, swirling the drool in your mouth before you spitting right on his hole for extra wetness, your sudden action making his spasming hole clench and relax reflexively. "Look at how you're clenching." You mount him, pushing your weight down on him until he can barely breathe, cock bobbing against his hole. "Acting like such a bitch!"

You ram in him to put emphasis on the word and Simon bites his tongue so hard it bleeds, resisting letting any noises out. He's never vocal in bed, no matter how hard you fuck him, how many bruises your hips leave on his ass or how many hickeys you lay on his throat, how often your balls slap against his, he never utters more than a low groan.

But he wants to; good god Simon wants to tell you how good you feel, how every brush of your cockhead against his prostate has him seeing stars, how much he loves feeling you pound into him, who bodies bound into one by such a primal connection. . . but he can't, his mouth clamps up when he tries and even if he manages to spit something out it just comes out as venom, earning him firm slaps on his ass and your weight bearing further down on him.

You spill into him, pinning him so hard beneath your weight he can barely breathe, only remembering to rub him into an orgasm when your balls are good and empty, cock plugging his hole full of your cum. Your hands are harsh, his panting ringing in your ears until his cock twitches and he cums onto the sheets beneath him, whole body shaking to hold his moans in.

You collapse onto him, just enough sense in your head to roll you two onto your sides so he isn't laying in his spend or suffocating beneath you. Uncomfortable silence rings in your ears as you pant, bile churning in your stomach; This is your usual, soon enough Simon will tell you to shove off, he'll get up, take a piss, and leave.

And this song and dance will repeat until one of you dies.

Even without sight you feel Simon open his mouth, vestiges of harsh words burning on his tongue. Maybe it's post-orgasmic bliss that makes you speak, "Hey," Your hands tighten around his middle, "Stay the night." You curl around him like a lover; something you know you're not.

He shuts his mouth so quickly you hear the 'click' of his teeth, whole body freezing because this is as new for him as it is for you. "If this is a joke," He growls, turns his head just enough for you to catch his glare. "It's not funny."

Your tongue burns with the usual words— 'Only joke here is you' — but you don't, instead a slow and low "I'm not kidding." escapes you, like something forbidden, something to keep secret lest you get divine punishment.

Simon's mind buffers like an old computer, too many thoughts stuffing his head that he can't understand a single one. This is too far removed from the usual, hummingbirds knocking on his skull as a warning. But his body relaxes while he's still thinking, a stagnant breath escaping his lungs. "Fine."

You think of saying something, but it's better not to. Instead you huddle closer to him, still connected in a carnal way but now it feels so much more. . . intimate. Your hands wander over his toros, a gentle exploration instead of a race for release, your fingers carding through his body hair down his happy trail and up again.

Simon's head tils back to give you access to his neck, your lips soft against his skin as you kiss the bruises you'd left, both of your bodies slowly moving to close the small space between you two, urged to share your warmth.

You shift your hips, only realizing you're hard again when Simon moans. Moans. "Sorry," You duck your head, hands gripping his hips to pull out but he stops you, a rough sound in his throat.

"No," Simon doesn't look at you though the blush across his face is easy to spot. "Keep going," Tilting his hips back into yours tears a moan from both of you. Your cum eases the slide in, his walls stretched and pliant, wetly sucking you in like a needy thing.

Another time you'd have laughed at how desperate he's acting, but the low moans and a little "Fuck, just like that," you earn by rolling your hips has your mind shutting off. You can't believe how vocal he's suddenly become, getting louder the slower and gentler you move your hips, your cock slowly pushing in and out of his hole.

You bury your head in his neck and blindly stroke his leaking cock, kissing the skin under your lips, your eyes closed shut as you thrust into him slowly, your tender and slow movements pulling moan after moan out of him. His hand winds back to cup the back of your neck, pulling you up just enough to give you an awkward kiss but it's sweet and raw and so desperate—

You don't notice he's cumming until his walls clamp down on you, Simon whispering "I love you," so soft and quiet under his breath that you don't hear him, too busy filling him up a second time, but your mind buzzes with warmth all the same.

You lay as you were, somehow so exhausted that even moving an inch is anathema to you. Both of you, it seems, if the way Simon's back is warm and pliant against your chest, his breathing slow and steady. Tomorrow you'll need to talk (or do your best substitution of it), but for tonight, you can hug him close and finally have an answer to what it would feel like to have him close without the sex, to just be with him. . .

#Gnome's Prompt Game #cod mw2 #x reader #gnome correspondence #male reader #top male reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x male reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod smut #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #trinckets of the hoard

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izgnanik-a · 1 year

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CoD ABC’s

NSFW 18+ x Reader Edition - Minors DNI!

Masterlist here

Overstimulation (Werewolf!Simon Riley x Reader)

Tags: breeding, unprotected p-in-v, barebacking, creampie, knotting, consented sex, headspace, forced orgasm, possessive Ghost

Not beta read, we die like men 🤷🏽

Prompt: Simon doesn’t like to be around people when he’s in his rut because he can become easily aggressive. But this time it’s really bad - and there’s no one to help him but you. Of course, you’re willing to help, but you didn’t know it would come with a price.

The slick sounds of Simon’s wet cock slipping into your full pussy reverberated off the walls. You don’t know how long you’d been splayed out under him, your back arched low, a pillow under your chest, and pussy just devouring the werewolf’s thick cock.

You were rendered to helpless whimpering, holding tight to the sheets under you as he pile-drived you with no relent.

The werewolf snarled, his sharp nails digging into the mattress around you, and his blistering hips stilled as he moaned, trembling against your pussy as his cock milked through another orgasm.

Already filled to the brim, you could feel the cum oozing out of your abused pussy, and onto the sheets once more.

The never ceasing knot popped again, for the nth time that night. The barbed edges catching against your walls, and you gave a silent sob as he stopped moving.

You gasped, “Simon.”

His forearms pressed into the mattress as he brought himself down, his gasping breaths brushed over your sweaty spine. He kept himself still as his knot plugged his seed inside of you.

“No more.” You looked over your shoulder with teary eyes. “It’s too much, I-“

“I told you what you were getting into.” He stated. “You said you could handle it.”

You pressed your forehead into the pillow. “Please.” You begged, “It’s too much.” Your mind felt hazy; orgasm after orgasm pulled from your body until you were trembling with dry shudders. Simon’s fingers were stained with the juices from your pussy. Simon could just smell it still.

“I know what you need.” He mumbled against your spine before wrapping his arms around your stomach, pushing down on the knot inside of you.

You arched back with a cry, and clenched down involuntarily.

Simon growled as he pulled you onto himself, lying on his back, his knot still wedged inside. His hand wrapped around your chest, the other navigating down towards your spread legs. “Cum for me, one more time.”

You arched against him. Crying out and trying to escape his sultry fingers against your puffy, hooded clit. You sobbed, pleasure racing through your body defiantly again.

With every movement against him, Simon’s cock itched against your walls, his cum seeping along the edges and onto his base underneath. He held firm to your waist, stroking and pinching your clit. “Just one more. God. You’re clenching around me-so tight-“ he growled, pushing his hips flush to your ass. “I’m going to breed you so well. No one will ever touch you but me.”

You clenched onto his intruding hand, arching your back as he stroked his index and middle finger firmly against your clit. Your eyes rolled back in pleasure, colors bursting behind, you whimpered as his free hand drew circles across your pebbling nipples. With every stroke, you whined in unison as your breath grew heavier.

“I’m going to fuck you until you’re full to the brim. And then,” his hand held firm to the bottom of your jaw to keep your head back over his shoulder, “I’ll fuck it deep inside, to make sure you’re mine.” He suckled along your throat, his teeth grazing dangerously.

His swollen cock thrust deeper inside, and it was enough to send you spiraling with a broken “YES.”

When the white cleared from your vision, Simon’s cum soaked fingers were drawing lines up and down between your breasts and to your belly button. His mouth pressed to your ear whispering sweet praises; “You’re so beautiful. So perfect for me. You do so well. I can’t wait until you’re mine. You’ll never know pain again. God. You’re so sweet to me. You’ll look so full, pregnant with my child. I can’t wait.”

4/8/23

#simon riley imagine #simon riley x you #simon riley #cod mw x reader #cod modern warfare #cod mwii #Izgnanik-a #simon ghost riley #werewolf Simon Riley #supernatural cod

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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HAL, HEAR ME OUT !!! ghost coming home to wis wife on Easter, he thought he wouldnt manage to come back home in time, but Price dismisses him earlier, so he decides to surprise her by making a egg hunt for her, something she always said she liked to do when she was little, I KNOW THIS IS A SPECIFIC REQUEST, FEEL FREE TO DENY DEARIE, i just really love easter loool (and simon too)

love ur works, hal ❤

A Good Man

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Self-deprecating thoughts, allusions to Simon's past & trauma, delving into his psyche, angst, but a lot of fluff, Simon's POV

A/N: I knew I had to get this out before Easter actually came around so here it is early, Anon! This was an adorable request. Enjoy and have a happy holiday! <3

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Skin shredded; showing every tear and rip with a thinly veiled sense of pride along with a detailed description of every bullet wound and burn. Rope tears along the forearms and red stab marks over the visible spine of his back. Tattoos that depict skeletons and war. He couldn’t tell you every life he had ended, but he could name names until his tongue went black and fell off; though he spared you the details.

Simon Riley was a devil incarnate. Dead-eyed and robust of body. Muscles wound with promised death and the trigger finger to prove it. His life was measured in an hourglass, the sand cascading down like the blood from his knife after a kill; it would stop flowing, one day – abrupt and final. Simon Riley was a demon, a monster. Simon Riley was a Ghost.

A ghost with an impeccable memory and a deep love for the woman currently on the living room couch.

The man blinks, slate eyes taking in the steady rise and fall of your chest with a slow melting of his shoulders. He had a doubt that you had planned to fall asleep with the Tv on – or the floor lamp, for that matter.

Its golden light slipped over your form, and he traced the flow of it as the voice of the news anchor went in one ear and out the other. Gradually, a hand slipped to the balaclava over his head as your lips let loose a grumble, nose nuzzling the feather pillow.

Simon often found himself watching you sleep when he was home; how your face would lose all tension in those brief intermissions between oblivion and awakeness. When his own nights were restless, it helped to know that at least someone was at ease, especially if it was you. The fabric slips from his tired visage, the mess of blonde locks atop his head sticking this way and that; layered with the gleam of grease. As the black face-paint stains his sockets and spreads with a swipe of a stiff palm, the ever-constant cloud over his head peels back but for a brief moment of peace.

His bag was still in the foyer, holding three months of dirty clothes and gear hostage in its zipped space; stained, and bloodied. The man himself wasn’t much better.

It had been a long few months.

Hooking the balaclava onto the belt of his cargo pants, Simon bends down on an achy knee, a grunt in his throat sounding off like a boar. Scarred fingers go to brush your cheek, though no words exit his mouth, no whispers of adoration. Just a glimmer in his eyes, a release of that furrowed line in the center of his forehead that seemed permanent these days.

Staring, the faint twitch of his lips is the only tell at all that he was content at all, feeling your skin as a feather would slide over water. He takes down a breath.

There were few instances that Simon fully remembers from his childhood – most displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole – though there is one he refuses to lock away. His mother. He can’t help it, and before he can stop himself the words are spilling directly from his heart to his mouth.

Hell, he really must be tired.

“She’d of loved you, Sweetheart.” It’s like he’s startled by his own voice, head pulling back and walls going back up, but that delicate glimpse was enough.

A gravel voice and manchester accent bleed together to form some piece of the puzzle that was his pure adoration for you; small cardboard cuts and divots that had been given over to create a picture. Simon Riley was a ghost, yes, the Ghost, but he was never that when he was home.

He was just Simon to you.

Blue eyes study the small smile that blesses your face when the man runs his fingers into your hair and attentively separates knots; your body unconsciously molding to his touch. With a kiss on your forehead, Simon chooses to not wake you. It’s late, the man reasons, and he knows how hard it is for you to sleep when he’s gone. Almost as hard as it is for him when he can’t feel your weight on the opposite side of the thin mattress he’s cursed with in the barracks.

Against his better judgment, he’d learned to love your contact; your presence next to him and the way you fit into his arms.

As gently as he’s able, the black ink of his tattooed arm slips under your shoulders, pushing between the cushion and your limp body to lie still. The other hooks around your knees, and with a pause to make sure you weren't going to wake up, Simon lifts you as easily as a piece of paper. Your weight lays comfortingly against his chest, shallow breath hitting his neck and he thinks for a moment just how it was possible to love something more than you can love anyone else that came before.

“Simon…” Your voice brings goosebumps to his forearms, his fingers tightening over the shirt he now recognizes as his own clothing you. A smirk runs over his face.

Lips caress his pulse, a nose taking in his scent of canvas and sweat; a tinge of barely restrained corruption, a soul more damaged than a window shattered into a million pieces.

How can you stand it? How could your body instinctively lay into him and give redemption willingly?

Simon grips you ever closer, using his own body heat to lull you back to oblivion. He didn’t have an answer – probably never would – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t forever grateful.

But he was a stiff man; a stoic one.

He slips through the bedroom door, navigating in the dark as if his eyes had built-in night vision, and hums out, “it’s me. Go on – back to sleep now, Love.”

Air communes with a soft grunt, and Simon watches from the side of his vision as your lids flicker open and closed. As desperate as the fight is, it’s over fairly quickly when he lowers you to the sheets, cupping your head and setting in on the pillow.

Soft fingers wrap his lower arm, and with trapped breath, Simon watches your lips connect to the pale skin of his wrist before your form once more goes slack; ever the stubborn one to greet him even half-gone. Weak mumbles stuck forming ‘welcome home’ and ‘love you’ on a lead tongue garble to nothingness like a gargoyle’s stone speech.

“Hmm.” The Lieutenant smirks as the area tingles, preening like a bird. There are many things to say to you, but he settles with a mumbled, “Don’t hog the sheets. Gotta go take care of the mess first, copy?”

You don’t answer, of course. With a delicate pet on your head, Simon exits the room silently to take a shower and organize his gear; closing the door behind him only halfway so he can still keep an eye on you as he passes. Ever the neat partner, he wouldn’t go to sleep until all were in their proper places – clothes in the washer, knives and various licensed weapons in the nightstand, and paperwork in the office.

There was a sanctity in this. A way to get rid of the lingering adrenaline of being on Base or in the field – deterioration of the mind but in such a way it would be described as a boil to a simmer.

All of it is uneventful.

He enters the kitchen with only a white towel around his waist sometime later, flicking on the lights and running his fingers through his damp hair before bee-lining to the fridge. If there needed to be a list made of the things he loved the most, it would be fairly short – only three.

One, you, two, the adrenaline rush of a good deployment, and, finally, your food.

Simon would listen to Johnny’s rambling for days if it ended with an excellent heaping plate of whatever you cooked for supper.

Opening the fridge, the man’s eyes widen, shimmering with azure glass.

“Fuckin’ hell, Sunshine,” he breathes to himself, hand reaching inside the box with fervor, “you’ve been busy, then, eh…? Bloody feast in ‘ere.”

The Lieutenant drags out a heaping plate of steak and potatoes – a side of greens covered in plastic and a sticky note on top.

‘Save for Simon.’

The food didn’t look older than a day or two…did you save him some of your meals every once and a while just in case he would show up?

He grunts, re-reading your chicken scratch with a swelling of his chest and a foreign heat on his cheeks. Simon moves to the oven, preheating it and placing a cooling rack on a metal pan over parchment paper. Damned if the man would mess up your masterpiece; he’d reheat it properly.

With minimal noise, he waits for the meat to be done and settles on placing the potatoes in the microwave with the greens for time's sake. Standing in the kitchen, his eyes gradually fall closed, their weight heavy. But his ears perk at the faint pitter-patter of bare feet.

The sneaking arms around his waist don’t startle him, and with a sigh on his lips, Simon feels you melt into the curve of his open skin. A head connecting with his spine.

“Thought I brought you back to bed?” He whispers, flesh melding to you like hot iron, a scarred hand resting over the one that’s on his abdomen.

Your nose nestles into the burns over his back, and even if you couldn’t see it – the sudden sweep of vulnerability is nearly heard. You lay a kiss and think no more of it, but Simon shivers with beautiful agony; eyes gazing off.

“...Erm,” you groan, fingers tracing the build of his ribs, “needed to hold you.” Your breath stills – half-asleep. “You’re…here?”

Simon chuckles, hearing it echo off the walls.

“I’m ‘ere, Love. Few more bloody cuts,” he breathes, “but I’m here.”

“Good. Missed you.” A second of kisses and distant blue eyes. Muffled yawns into his flesh. “Didn’t think you’d be back in time for Easter.”

Simon twists, aware of the delicate fold of his towel, and lifts your fatigued form onto the counter, settling you down so you don’t fall sideways. He blinks down at you, cupping your cheek when your neck gets too heavy to hold up. Your lids rapidly move, your nose scrunched at the overhead light and the man knows you’re only awake because he’s home.

He utters out to you, faces close, “The Old Man let me off early,” and lays a peck to your forehead, holding his lips there for a long second. Mutters into your skin, “prickly bastard’s been antsy – hasn’t had a good drink in weeks. Was about ready to strangle someone.”

She’s warm.

His body slots itself between your legs, one arm around your back and the other placed on the counter. Simon’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and with a groan of satisfaction, he feels your fingers go through his locks; itching at his scalp dreamily.

“...Dunno whether to thank him or send ‘em to a therapist.” You whisper, kissing his neck, unable to keep your hands off each other for a mere second.

“Better to place money on the both.” His grumbled words are barely heard. “I’ve got two weeks ‘fore they need me back.”

A soft hum is all he gets before the timer goes off and he takes down a breath, forcing himself to peel back from you and grab his supper.

By the time the both of you are in bed, he’d nearly forgotten about your comment, and as he stroked your hair and felt you bring him closer under the covers, he remembers. He’d asked Price to give him two weeks on account of the holiday you’d loved so much – Easter – and had used the Captain's deteriorating attitude as a pry. It had been easy enough, the two had known each other for a long time. They knew their breaking points.

Sometimes living around a handful of other men formed unbreakable bonds of brotherhood, and while that was true for 141, it was also a pain in the ass. People long for home at the end of it – a soft touch and sweet kisses. There’s only so long you can go with yelling orders into the same faces and playing Poker in a shitty safehouse.

Simon never thought he’d be worthy of it, a home, but here he is regardless and here he would stay. And he knew Easter was your favorite time of the year, and he also knew that Easter was…tomorrow. His dead eyes widened.

The plan formed quickly, his strategic mind helping as it always does, and as he snuck out of bed and laid his lips to yours in a tiny kiss, a shirt was tossed on along with boxers. You never heard the door to the garage door opening, just snuggled back up to the pillow and an old t-shirt he’d placed in his spot instead; inhaling his calming scent.

—

When the sun had risen an hour ago and Simon had finished with heavy fingers. Groaning, the back of a hand meets a forehead, trying to swipe away sleepiness as one would a fly. But he says nothing, feet hitting the floor as he enters the kitchen, an object held in his palm that was quickly stashed in the breadbox.

This was childish, he knew, not at all like the deadly Lieutenant of TF-141. Like Ghost. The boys would tease him relentlessly if they found out.

“Simon…?” Your voice draws him back, and with a look over his shoulders, he finds you wrapped in the comforter like a mouse. “What are you doing out here?”

The lie comes easily.

“Fixin’ breakfast.” Your eyes flicker to the open breadbox, eyebrows furrowing. A smirk grows and you walk over with a laugh living in your expression.

“I don’t even trust you to toast bread, Love, go sit down. You’ve been stuck on rations for too long.” Simon only steps back, gazing over your head and seeing your hand pause. “I’ll make us some…”

He watches as he loves to do, memorizing the parting of your lips and the recognition lighting like a shy fire. The man smiles then, and it is a delicate thing; an expression not tainted with sarcasm or deception.

Your hand delves into the box and pulls out a plastic egg softly as if it would snap in two.

It’s cheap, made of thin plastic and fading in colors of the shade of pastel pink. Chipping. There’s nothing inside of it, just a bare piece of holiday joy that never meant too much to anyone beyond children. But with how you’re staring up at him, Simon thinks all the searching in the bins from the garage was worth it.

“What’s this?” Your voice wraps him close, and your hand holds the object close. Simon shrugs, digging deep into your vision.

“I’ve the faintest idea, Sunshine.” The giggle flies to his cold heart and he pulls you to his chest to still the raging of it. “My guess,” he raises a stiff brow, “intruder broke in, yeah?”

“Did this intruder have ears and a pink nose?” You ask, noses brushing. “A hop in his step, maybe?”

“Hell if I know,” Simon grunts, eyes flickering away before he can break before you. “Best get my gun just in case – you’ll ‘ave to find the rest ‘o the bastard things, though.”

You kiss him then, and he captures the back of your head, holding you to him as if you’d disappear if he let go. He doesn't know what you did to possess him so, to make his thoughts be only of you even when he’s halfway around the world. Were you an angel? A shred of light made physical? Perhaps an embodiment of all the good in the universe?

Simon had no answer, as he usually did when it came to you, and you sighed into him, whispering redemption to his soul.

You said you loved him, and he said it back with every ounce of him that was untouched by death. And then you pulled from him with a laugh that could throw away darkness and disappeared with promises of finding the remaining eggs. Like a loyal hound of hell, Simon followed, pulling on the comforter to slow you down so you don’t trip. He would always follow.

The vision of a good life starts with a view of the present. Who you choose to care about; how you make meaning of nothing but a shared morning and a memory of youth. Simon does not remember much of his childhood. Most of the memories are displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole. Cast away.

Coated in fear and lies.

Some days he asks how he can still call himself Simon Riley – it’s the name of a dead man, after all…and then he looks at your beaming face, and his question is answered as fast as it was thought up.

You deserve Simon Riley, not Ghost. Not a devil incarnate or Dead-eyed. A demon, or a monster. If there was even a shred of purity left in him, that was what he knew beyond doubt.

Simon Riley was selfish, he admitted, and he was loathed to leave you…so here he would stay. Hiding easter eggs and giving veiled hints when you were close to one near the planted flowers in the backyard. There was a simplicity that the man bathed in – the blatant enjoyment of a plain life.

With a chuckle in the back of his throat, Simon pushes off the back porch and makes a comment about how you were closer to the dead bird you had buried in the garden bed than an egg. A flick of your middle finger leaves him smirking, and he splays a hand over your back, angling your body farther north. The kiss left on his stubbled cheek makes him warmer than he wants to admit; cold eyes soften.

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it…but he was trying to be damn near close. Until then, the ring he had bought would stay in his office.

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @shoe1412, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @john-pricee, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce

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kechiwrites · 1 month

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mirror image

toxic baby daddy!ghost x reader

part 7/8

synopsis: two weeks into your uneasy truce, simon gets introspective.

wc: 811

cw: afab!reader, angst, banter that becomes arguing, hurt and the tiniest bit of comfort, language, trust issues, simon's pov, no gendered language. no use of y/n ever.

author’s note: well, we back at it, the second last installment of this verse. i'll still take requests/thots for it of course, but soon we'll get closure for these two. for now, simon's thoughts on their situation.

new to baby blue? start here.

It’s disarming.

And Simon Riley doesn’t like being disarmed. He doesn’t like being caught off guard, off kilter, unstable.

It’s been happening more and more often though.

When you and Tommy look at him in perfect unison, he is struck stupid by your eyes, like you copy and pasted them onto your son. His son. His kid. His perfect, funny kid. Unmuddied by everything bad in the world. His life is pancakes and dinosaurs and that horrible fucking tv show that he’s sure rots his little mind. His life is you. Your smiles, your laugh, your cooking, your hugs. Things Simon cheated himself of when he walked out on you, choked with fear and bleeding misery.

Simon is disarmed, totally fucking helpless, a veritable babe in the woods when you let him hold you. When for the first time, in a long ass time, he gets to watch your lids flutter closed and slip into unconsciousness, in that quick, carefree way he’s always envied.

He barely sleeps, even less so lately.

After all, no sleeping meant no nightmares. No cloying, choking smoke-like fears reaching for the frayed edges of his subconscious. No sleeping meant he couldn’t play on your kindness, your goodness, and guilt you into holding him back when he woke up screaming, sweating, no matter how bad he wanted it.

It’s two weeks later. Two weeks after sleeping together but not sleeping together. After breakfast and an uneasy truce. Two weeks after kissing you and touching you and holding you like you both had all the time in the world.

You’re not in a good mood. And he knows that. But he pushes you anyway, pokes and prods you even as you slam through your kitchen, noisily pulling out a pot and a huge bag of pasta shells.

“Let’s talk.” He approaches, arms crossed, full kit traded in for a skull emblazoned cloth mask, jeans and a threadbare black t-shirt, one he’d found in your bedroom days ago, stashed in the back your drawer, crumpled in a wrinkled ball, like you didn’t want to see it, but you didn’t want to trash it either. He’s been doing that lately, staying over for days and rifling through your shit, finding old relics and artifacts from a time neither of you can let go of. An old mask, a hat, t-shirts.

So many goddamn t-shirts.

“Talk?” you snort derisively, filling the pot with water. He watches you test the water with your fingertips and curse under your breath, mumbling something about shit pipes. When the pot is full, you turn to face him, lips curled, sneering. “I wasn’t aware you were capable of that. Thought you just communicated in grunts.”

“You’re funny. That's new.” He jabs, advancing in the conversation much faster than he should have, comforted in familiar territory, finding solace in what used to be commonplace for you, banter, barbs, teasing. The tense set of your shoulders should’ve warned him off it, should’ve told him you’d take it as well as a bullet in the back. But God help him, he’ll take whatever you give.

“Mm.” Your tone is casual but your answering nod is jerky, too fast, “Yeah, I developed a sense of humour when I realized our relationship had been a joke.” You slam the pot onto a burner, giving him your back.

The air is suddenly devoid of mirth, utterly obliterated where it had been floating between you before. Now the living room and kitchen are a smoking crater, an oil rig on fire, a disaster site.

He’s never been more grateful for his son’s propensity to nap like he’s dead.

Neither of you say anything. Simon is waiting for you to say something, to dress him down, but when you lower your head and sigh, heavy and deep with pain and exhaustion he planted within you, Simon withers. He slinks back to the living room and drops himself onto your couch.

You wait, he’s not sure what for. He used to be so good at preempting your actions, your thoughts, your words, now he handles you like you’re a venomous reptile, looking for exposed, vulnerable flesh to strike, to bite.

You set down the glass you’d been drinking from hard. And he’s surprised you didn’t crack it.

“What do you want, Simon?” Question of the goddamn century, it is. And you’ve asked it of him plenty of times. But he never has an answer, can never really deduce just what the fuck he’s doing here, with you. With Tommy. Playing a game? Playing a role? Punishing you? Himself? All of it could be true, but none of it seems right.

“I want to try.”

All he knows is that before this, four years seemed like a short time, nothing really. But now?

It’s an eternity. Reflected back to him in broken glass, in half full drawers, in his son’s eyes.

In yours.

comments + tags + reblogs are so appreciated

oh simon...what do you want?

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