#cod ghost x reader smut | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

had to see you

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%. word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here

simon ghost riley masterlist

You love the rain.

Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit.

But, at home, it’s refreshing.

It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next.

Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.

It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called.

On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices.

At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat.

Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather.

Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.

You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts.

Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.

You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.

The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.

When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.

That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them.

Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness.

It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.

It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock.

Short. Deliberate.

Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door.

When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them.

Only to see him.

“Ghost?”

He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face.

His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.

You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.

Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.

“You lettin’ me in?”

Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it.

Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks.

He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second.

Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“

“Someone broke into my place.”

You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was.

Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back.

“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?”

“Not sure.”

Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”

He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain.

“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper.

As if it’s so rarely ever said.

You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything.

He’s Ghost.

Silent. Quiet, Ghost.

Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound.

Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?”

Silence.

A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.”

You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.”

He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to.

“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.”

You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him.

But you’re more nervous.

Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is.

Him being here.

And yet, not that odd at all.

“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.

He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him.

His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit.

“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add.

Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show.

And then, he says, “It’s nice.”

“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”

“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly.

“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.

Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.”

His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table.

“It’s not what I expected.”

“You’ve thought about my place?”

Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down.

You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward.

“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”

You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement.

“You were closer.”

Oh.

Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason.

Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months…

It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.

Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat.

“I had to see if you were okay.”

You don’t place the plates down, not immediately.

Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat.

He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue.

Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you.

“Well, I’m fine.”

“Had to be sure.”

You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.”

His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.

“Tea?” you ask.

Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips.

“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”

You make him snort.

And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.

If anything, it adds to it.

Shit.

Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.

“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand.

You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him.

Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between.

He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it.

It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down.

That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room.

He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes.

You cannot die.

Why?

But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again.

Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost.

Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm.

“What?”

Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’.

You forget how good he is at reading people.

Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle.

Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart.

Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat.

Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.”

Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk.

But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you.

Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.”

“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.”

“How then?”

Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit.

“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.”

You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name.

Your real name.

Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier.

“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”

“It?”

You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense.

“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?”

Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you.

He’s silent.

So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it.

Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.”

You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.

For what you’re not sure.

Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination.

So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.”

He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.”

But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape.

Go back.

Go back to him.

Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.

He came to check on you. You.

Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak.

It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.

It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again.

His hoodie is gone.

Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.

Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin.

“Tell me to go back to your living room.”

Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side.

You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again.

As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined.

“Words, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you.

“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.”

Speechless, your lips part.

Yes. Please, yes.

Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—

His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality.

“Simon…” you manage to whisper.

Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough.

He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.

Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips.

Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed.

He smells different than usual.

Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough.

“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?”

His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for.

“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up.

His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.”

If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it.

All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.

And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do.

“Wait.”

It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you.

Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.

And he smirks.

The devious bastard smirks.

Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him.

“Fuck…”

“Part them, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back.

The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.

You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big.

Almost too big.

The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans.

He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers.

You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him.

The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side.

“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours.

Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you.

“I want you.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”

“I hope you fucking don’t.”

His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.

You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds.

You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.

“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.”

“Simon…”

Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched.

He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you.

You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows.

“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.”

It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.

He does ruin you.

Not the first time, the second, but on the third.

Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom.

You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.

A painting in colours of his own design.

You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care.

Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe.

You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.

"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.

Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.

Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.

“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”

He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move.

Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building.

"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."

His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.

"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."

You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.

Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.

“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.”

Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.”

You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart?

His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.

“The latter.”

You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.

Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.

“You make shit tea, though.”

read part two

a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost riley #cod ghost x reader smut #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost angst #cod ghost smut #ghost smut

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tawnfawn · 4 months

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i just KNOW that simon riley is a messy kisser. this mf is grabbing you by the hips, waist, hands, thighs, neck, he does not care—hands rubbing up and down your curves like he doesn’t know where to touch first. it’s all teeth and tongue—he’s one impatient mf. he’s waited long enough to kiss you, he’s not gonna be light. and i know he doesn’t half ass that shit!!! this man is either kissing your forehead softly or making out with you like there’s no tomorrow. definitely the type to “accidentally” bump into you while you’re doing something and use it as an excuse to kiss you. he’s not a PDA person, but when you’re alone he’s always, and I mean always got a hand on you. one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh or holding your hand. he lets you have aux too, but he’ll complain about your “shit music” every time. EVERY TIME!!!

can you tell i’m in love with this man

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #it’s unhealthy how down bad i am #my tumblr reposts are why i’m not getting into heaven #lord forgive me i have sinned and i am down on my knees praying for his dick in my mouth #fuck i need help #nah i need him #he needs me fr #he wants me so bad i swear #can you tell i’m in love with this man #cod ghost x reader smut #ghost cod #ghost headcanons #cod headcanons #he’s not even real

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sergeantnex · 3 months

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Zombie!Ghost x Reader: Relearning (Smut)

When I had been called in to work with Ghost, I knew it wasn't good. He had gotten bitten trying to save people. What was his higher-ups response to this? Break his jaw and keep him confined until a cure could be found. I knew this was going to require a lot of time and patience, fixing his broken jaw and figuring out how sentient he was. Most zombies were mindless and out of control, but Ghost... Ghost seemed aware and scared. So I made it my goal to be the only person he had contact with until he was better than the way I first got to him. I knew what I was doing was working because there were signs. His graying cold skin started to gain color and a bit of warmth. His pale blue cloudy eyes began regaining their brown. Each progression was little, but I noticed them and made sure to take pictures of him every day, marking and labeling the pictures.

Ghost seemed nervous, for lack of a better word, when it came to relearning to eat and drink. So I took the lead, showing him and letting him touch me as I did. Before I gently aided him in eating and drinking, making sure to reassure him that it would take time and that I would still be here to help him. Most days were like that, helping him readjust to simple things, but one big thing remained that I felt needed to be done. Bathing him. He still smelled of blood and death, the dried blood and filth still clinging to his skin and clothing. So I went into his old room, gathered up a pair of underwear, sweatpants, and a shirt. They were clean compared to the ruined gear and uniform he was still wearing. I grabbed a soft wash cloth and gentle body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. Once it was all set up in the private bathroom, I went to enter Ghost's room. His pale brown eyes looked up at me as I stepped in. My (h/l) (h/c) softly pulled away from my face and my (e/c) eyes locking with his.

"I've got something different planned today, okay?" I said softly, watching as Ghost tilted his head curiously.

"I wanna give you a shower, help clean away some of the dried blood and grime. Don't worry, I'll be right there, okay?" I reassured him softly as I offered my hand. Ghost was slow in taking my hand before letting me lead him to the private bathroom. I took the time to slowly remove his ruined gear, setting it all in the corner before softly speaking to him.

"I need to remove your mask, okay? I made sure to grab one of your clean balaclavas from your room." He shook his head at my words and stepped back. It broke my heart. He already felt safe with his mask before he was turned, but having people you trust break your jaw and say such crude things probably made him feel even more nervous to take it off.

"Hey, Simon, it's just me with you. There are no cameras, no one else but you and I. It's okay... you're safe with me." I reassured softly as I gently took his hand and gently touched it to my heart. It was small, but the action told him I was honest. I did it to show him I was honest. Every time I said something like that, I touched his hand to my heart. He was slow to give in, but eventually, he let me pull the ruined mask off. I gently sat it on the sink counter before gently working on his ruined clothes. I made sure to set them all aside before I turned to start the water. I kept it a bit lower than room temp to make sure it wasn't too hot or too cold. I looked back at him and softly turned the water so it wouldn't hit his skin directly.

"Okay, big guy, let's get you cleaned up, okay?" I asked with a small loving smile. Ghost gently tugged my shirt before looking at his ruined clothes. It took me a minute to understand what he was asking, but after a bit, it clicked. He wanted me to join him, to guide him like I had been doing for everything else. Smiling, I gently stripped my clothes before softly leading him to the large walk-in shower. The water was a bit colder than my normal temperature, so it was a bit of a shock when I touched it with my arm. Ghost, ever the vigilant one, noticed my shuttered breath and tilted his head.

"I made sure it was perfect for you, so it's a bit cooler than my body's temperature. Don't worry, it's okay, see?" I gently stepped my body under the water to show him I didn't mind too much. Ghost stepped forward and tugged me close to him as though he wanted to keep me warm. I smiled softly and took the time to gently wet the wash cloth and softly wipe his face. I smiled more at the sight of how much he had actually healed. Of course, there was scaring, but there was no longer decaying flesh. I softly wet his dirty blonde hair, taking special care to not pull his hair. All in all, my heart warmed at the progression of his healing. Sticking to our usual form of relearning, I washed myself first before washing him. I started with his hair and face before moving down his neck and chest. With each rinse of the blood and grime, he looked more and more human again.

I gently moved lower as I washed him, kneeling to wash his waist. I did my best not to stare or let my hand linger when I gently began washing his dick. I gently held his length and balls as I continued my work of washing him up. My mind wondered as I absent-mindedly washed his legs. Could he still get hard? Could he still feel desires or needs? Or would that take longer and more healing? I stood to rinse the cloth and ready more soap but froze as Ghost leaned his chin on my shoulder. I softly reached back and gently carded my fingers through his wet hair. I jumped as his hand softly cupped my vulva, his middle finger slipping between my labia majora. I let out a shuttering breath as his middle finger gently pressed against my entrance.

"Ghost -" I started but stopped at the feeling of his hardening dick touching me. I glanced up at him to see his pale brown eyes watching me. "Ghost, do you know what you're doing right now?"

Ghost nodded softly, a low, rumbling purr bubbling up from his throat. I wouldn't lie. It had been years since I've had such intimacy or contact like this. I whined softly when he pulled back a bit before pressing me to bend over. Following his instructions, I bent at the hips, letting him do as he pleased. I gasped at the coolness of his tongue, lapping at my outer lips. His slightly rough tongue reminded me that Ghost wasn't fully human. He still very much could kill me, bite me, and turn me as well. But as quickly as the anxiety rose, it washed away. Ghost pressed his tongue between my labia majora, letting it rub at my clit before trailing to my entrance. His saliva was shockingly warm as it created a contrast to his cool skin. Whining I reached a hand to hold Ghost's rough hand gently squeezing as he ate me out like a starved man.

Ghost stood, his erect dick rubbing against me as he pressed his hips forward. My mind foggy with arousal and my body aching to be fucked, I moved to help him. I softly pressed the tip to my opening and let him press his hips forward again. His thick shaft stretched my walls beautifully, each inch making me feel fuller and fuller. I moaned out as he finally bottomed out, his hips flush against mine. His rough, firm hands gripped my hips as he pulled out before thrusting forward. I gasped loudly and moaned out at the rough pace he was setting instantly. His grip was firm enough to bruise as he kept thrusting into me quickly. I brought my arms up to brace on the wall as I soaked up each time he bottomed out. Ghost brought one hand up to grip the back of my neck as he pinned me to the wall. Growls and groans leaving him as he fucked me so deeply.

Each thrust filled me so perfectly as his balls slapped my clit just enough to add extra stimulation. I could feel my muscles quivering and tensing as my orgasm approached. His tip kissing my cervix each time he sank all the way in. Ghost leaned in mouthing at my shoulder like he was going to bite me. I knew I should've been alarmed, but I my mind was too foggy with the need to cum that it blew caution to the wind. His hot drool gently trailed down my body only to get rinsed away by the water. His disfigured hand covered my mouth a bit as I grew louder with each thrust. My knees began shaking as my walls pulsed around his shaft. I mewled out loudly, the sound muffled by his hand as I began cumming. My hand desperately grasped at his arm as euphoria flooded my body and mind.

A heavy growl filled my muffled hearing as Ghost also began spilling his seed inside me. The fluid was hot as it squirted deep inside me, some of it seeping out past his thick shaft and began running down my legs. My body felt so tired and yet so satisfied as Ghost pulled away. I could feel his eyes take in the sight of the mess he made of me before a pleased rumble filled the quiet. I felt oddly content and relaxed at what happened. It took me a few minutes to regain my strength before I turned the water off and exited the shower. Ghost following closely behind, I took time to grab his towel and dry him off before helping him get dressed. Once I fixed his mask, I began drying and dressing myself. Ghost's cool fingers softly scooped his leaking seed before lifting it to my lips. Without hesitation, I licked his cum off his finger drawing another pleased rumble from him.

"This better not mess with my body, mister." I lightly scold him. Ghost merely rumbled and held me close a bit. I smiled and led him back to his room before laying on his bed with a soft sigh as my legs felt weak from him fucking me in the shower. Ghost climbed next to me, where he softly held me close. A sense of safety and warmth washed over me, letting my tired body subconsciously lure me to sleep. I knew no one, and nothing could touch me as long as I had Ghost with me. No matter if he was human or not, I knew I was safe with him.

"I love you, Simon..." I whispered as I fought to keep my eyes open. My mind drifted between reality and the dream world as I fought to stay awake. His cool hand gently moved to play with my hair as he watched me.

"Love... you..." His words were deeper and more gravelly, more so than his usual. Smiling sleepily, I snuggled closer to him, letting my body give in to tiredness.

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tacticalprincess · 1 month

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simon and könig being unable to stop bickering for a second, even when they’re balls deep inside of you. they’ve got you in an Eiffel Tower, könig’s cock filling your glossy pussy while simon stuffs your mouth. it took ages of convincing for them to even consider this position, but eventually they decided to put their discrepancies aside for the sake of you, their precious, spoiled little thing. it didn’t last very long though…

“jackhammer much, mate? you’ve got her choking on me over here.” simon points out, his heavy hand stroking your hair soothingly. könig’s using your hips as leverage, bucking into you at a rabid pace, each of his thrusts lurching your body forward and forcing you to take more of simon’s dick down your poor throat. “what happened to treatin’ the princess with care?”

“it’s okay, she likes it. isn’t that right, maus?”

your cheeks warm up as you hum around simon’s dick noncommittally. nothing gets passed the l.t though, and suddenly he’s gripping you by your hair, pulling your mouth off his cock.

“wait, you let him fuck your face?” he asks, sounding genuinely offended.

you wipe the line of spit that trails from your swollen lips all the way to his still hard dick, hovering just out of reach. you huff. “he’s more sadistic than you…” you say sheepishly in response, voice staccato from könig’s thrusts.

“you tellin’ me i’m the soft sex guy? the aftercare fuck?”

“‘s alright, mate.” könig reaches over your naked body to pat his comrade on the shoulder. “youve got boyfriend dick. happens to the best of us.”

#sum slight idk i might love them #simon x reader x könig #konig cod #konig x reader #cod smut #konig call of duty #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #könig smut #könig x reader #konig smut #konig x you #könig cod

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deunmiu-dessie · 26 days

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pillow princess!reader who decides that they want to try being on top for once and anchors their small hands on ghost's chest, bouncing sloppily on his cock and whimpering at his praise. “that’s it. good girl, just like that.” pillow princess!reader who pants in small, short puffs, cheeks flushing red and legs cramping. pillow princess!reader whose movements start to get slower just when they're on the brink of cumming. “ i c-can't, m’tired, si.” bf!simon who rumbles deep in his chest at your whiney complaint, "ah, fuckin' hell." bf!simon who grabs the fat of your hips and fucks up into you, hard and fast, gravelly voice mocking. "look at you, can't even fuckin' ride me properly." bf!simon who simpers at your scrunched up face and bleary eyes, mouth open to let out pitiful sobs. "m' sorry, d-daddy--mmn!" he chuckles softly, "'s alright, pet. " ˙ᵕ˙

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ - 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒! ⁽ nsfw ⁾

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mrsariariley · 1 month

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ghost and his tiny gf !

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

simon riley, who is huge! he takes up half of the couch - but when he manspreads? you cant even see the couch under his enormous body!

simon riley, who has to bend down when entering a room otherwise he'll hit his head on the doorframe. he can't possibly live without a high ceiling!

and simon's girlfriend..

a tiny little thing, has hardly ever grown! youre so small, simon has to bend down to kiss you. simon has to lean down slightly to hold your hand - and even then, you can only wrap your hands over 3 large fingers!

when you wear his clothes, it pretty much fits as a blanket!

when the boys from the force first laid eyes on you, they were just so shocked. ghost? as in big lieutenant riley? with a small thing like you? no way!

simon loves seeing his girl all curled up on the bed when he gets home, hardly even taking up half. he loves seeing you nuzzle your face into his big chest when he wraps his large arms around your tiny frame, warming you up instantly.

but, he would be a liar if he said it didnt turn him on.

seeing you whimper and whine when he pushes half of his big cock into your tiny little hole, writhing and letting out small sobs of pleasure.

"mmf.. s-si..!! it wont fiitt!!" youd whine through slutty sobs.

"y'r taking me so well, doll.. y' can do it."

and when he does fit it all in, youre just a mess under him. completely braindead and rambling nonsense about how it just feels too good, and he's too big! all drool and tears :(

but dont worry, he'd be so good to you !

finishing inside of you and pulling out, removing his head from the crook of your neck. he'd kiss all up your body, leaving red hickeys that will eventually turn purple. he'd wipe away your tears, leaving you to rest as he runs you a bath.

and then, when youre back in bed, exhausted, he'll snuggle you into him - youd never sleep any better.

do not re-publish OR translate my work !

mdni / masterlist

a/n: first post kinda nervous !

#♥︎ aria brainrot #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod #cod smut #tf141 #task force 141 #simon riley x small!reader

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emoelvin · 1 month

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#ghost smut #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost x reader

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bitten-fruit · 3 months

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Simon forgets how strong he is

18+ MDNI - cw: bruising - ~700 words

just some Simon Riley NSFW brainrot ♥︎ - part 2-ish, and part 3-ish here!!

Simon forgets how to be gentle.

When he's at war, fighting and shooting and killing day and night, all he knows is hardness. Brutality. Ruthlessness. His hands and heart grow calloused and rough in his months away from you. Using his unfathomable strength to survive is what he grows used to, it becomes second nature.

But it's your softness he remembers, to keep himself sane. It's all he thinks about. Dreams of.

The way the flesh of your hips, your ass, your breasts, your belly, pillows so deliciously between his fingers when he squeezes his handful - so warm, so supple. The way your vanilla-balmed lips graze his scarred skin so tenderly, however undeserved your sweetness is.

And when he finally returns home, after months of missing, craving you - when you stand in the door, honey thighs bare by virtue of the black panties you wore just to torture him, soft tummy peeking out from under your crop-top - he just can't restrain himself.

You greet him with your sugary smile, stretching up on your toes to curl your loving arms around his neck - your gentle voice, music; "Si, ah! I'm so glad you're okay…"

The moment your velvet skin touches his, his shackles crumble. Like a beast starved, he clutches you. Mammoth arms curl around you, constricting, gripping you eagerly like you might be a dream; liable to turn to a memory, to smoke.

His avaricious embrace lifts your feet from the ground, though he doesn't mean to - he burrows his nose and mouth into the crook of your neck, lets the curls of your hair smother him and fill his chest with the faint scent of your fruity shampoo. Fights every urge to take a bite, like you're a ripe nectarine.

Growls into your skin, through his jaw; "I fuckin' missed you, love. Christ, you have no idea how much I missed you."

"I missed you too, baby…" you coo into his ear, even your breathing is tender - he can't take it.

So he ferries you immediately to the sitting room, scoops you up like you weigh nothing, lets you coil your buttery thighs around his waist as he sits you on his lap on the sofa.

His wide hands take their greedy handfuls of your body - of your waist, of your hips, of your thighs, of your ass. Finally indulging the impulses he had dreamed about for so long - the very image he had fucked his fist to more times than he could count while parted from you.

With his teeth on your shoulder, tongue laving your warm skin; "So fuckin' soft," he grumbles deeply, and urges, "pretty thing. So soft. Fuck, I missed you."

His cock is hasty to grow boulder-solid under his trousers, and he chastises himself - but you answer with a cloying giggle, grinding your mound against its rigidity as if to torment him.

"Mm, you did miss me," you tease, little brat.

Then in an instant, all he can think about is the softness of your syrupy pussy, the gumminess of the inside of your cunt as its walls caress and milk his cock like it was built just to fit him.

You make him fucking ravenous, so voraciously eager to have you that he doesn't even notice his hands turn to vices around your flesh - fingers burrowing so deeply into the cheek of your ass that he might break through the skin.

"Ah!" You yelp, "Ow - Simon - you're hurting me-"

Your squeak of pain is enough to immediately shatter him - so he rapidly lifts you off of him, protecting you from his impulse. Stands you on your feet so that you're no longer victim to his inability to control himself.

"Shit, I'm sorry-" he grunts under his breath, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it's-" Your brows curl in worry, turning to look at where he had clawed you - and he sees the purple bruises where his hand had wrenched the flesh of your ass, the red lines where his fingernails had nearly punctured you. "Oh," you breathe at the sight, "…wow."

Drowning in visceral shame, he can barely bring himself to touch you again. But your soft hand caresses his hair, running through the sandy tresses - you, somehow, the one to comfort him.

"It's okay, baby, I know you didn't mean to," you purr fondly, and he leans forward to shamefully press as soft a kiss as he can into the bruise he gave you. Fucking monster.

"I'm sorry," he croaks into your skin, hoping his guilt will reverse his barbarity. "I just missed you."

"I know," you croon, turning to plant a loving kiss into his hair. "It's okay."

You guide him to lean back, mounting his lap again, letting your pelvis grind against the erection you were quick to reawaken.

His hands barely ghosting over your skin, he restrains himself, touches you carefully.

You whisper, into his stubbled cheek; "I'll show you how to be gentle again."

#bet simon knows how to apologise to you #spoilers it involves his tongue #cod fic #cod smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x female reader #ghost x reader #call of duty smut

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suguann · 1 month

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When you first introduce him, Simon instantly knows that he hates your now ex-boyfriend—especially after he broke up with you only two months into the relationship, and the reason behind it sets his teeth on edge.

You’re perfect and so sweet; how could he—

“He broke up with me because…I um…Do I really have to say it? It’s embarrassing.”

He bumps his knee into yours because he really fucking sucks at saying the right thing when the moment calls for it. “You don’t have to say anything.”

With a huff, you get a little flustered and glance down into your glass of beer, brows furrowed. “I couldn’t make him fit.”

It’s so soft, but he hears it as if you’d shouted it across the bar.

The only thought he can think of is that your ex-boyfriend is an idiot once he has your back pressed up against his chest and trembling thighs spread over top of his. Three of his thick fingers already work deep inside of you, filling the room with filthy squelching sounds and your breathy moans.

His thumb carefully drags over your clit, loving how you twitch in his arms. “See? Someone just needed to stretch your little pussy properly, huh?”

“Mhm.” You nod, pressing yourself further into him, thighs butterflying open. “It feels so good.”

“You’re so loose and wet. I bet my cock would slip right in.”

Your walls clench and flutter around him, and it takes everything in him not to toss you onto the bed and fuck you into his sheets. “Simon, can you fuck me? Please?”

It’s hard to deny you when you ask so sweetly, but he can’t give you what you want—not yet. You whine when he pulls one of his fingers out, but it cuts off into a surprised squeak when he grabs your smaller hand to bring it between your thighs.

“Put one of your fingers inside your pussy.”

You turn your head to look up at him, kiss-bitten lips pulled into a pout. “But—”

“Come on, love, be good for me.” Teeth nip your jaw as a warning. “I know you can be so good for me.”

Slowly, you ease your finger in beside his with little pants of his name. His cock jumps against your back as he watches your cunt open up to suck in the intrusion—it makes his stomach twist. Simon traps your finger between his and curls them alongside his inside you, tearing a sharp cry from your chest.

“You’re so gorgeous.” His words are raw, rumbling somewhere deep within his chest. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. So full. Better than your boyfriend ever could.”

Masterlist

#simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost imagine #ghost smut #cod smut #cod fic #cod imagine #cod x reader #mw2 smut #mw2 x reader #mw2 imagine #.things i write

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undercoverpena · 8 months

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see me in a vest

cod ghost x f!reader | ghost masterlist

Summary: “You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?” Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk. “Hilarious.”

Warnings: Brief mentions of smut. Mentions of a wound, blood (Ghost's but he's obv fine). Flirting. Feelings. FWB to something - they're a mess, but yeah. And, maybe unedited writing? AN: I don't know if I'm on the Ghost train again, but I'm at the station. Wordcount: 3k (this was meant to be 500 words).

Eye contact is a dangerous, dangerous thing. But lovely. God, so lovely — Hedonist Poet

It’s a sight watching you laugh, how it blooms like wildflowers in a wasteland. Your lips are parting around the sound—neck exposed. He can faintly spot the sight of bruises from when his hand last became your necklace.

He shouldn’t be looking your way. Most definitely not be thinking about how he wishes to press your cheek against the tiles of his shower. Ghost really can’t be considering how to ask you to come to his room tonight.

Even if it’s all he thinks.

His fingers brushing against his thumb, rolling and rolling as he tries not to grind his teeth or glare with any more intention.

All about to move his glare, try to find a spot on the table or the wall, but his eyes latch with yours.

The room silences, pausing. Just the two of you, breathing, living—blinking. Or, it feels like it does. Like some poetic bullshit from some film, a scene he’s sure you’ve tried to explain to him when you’ve attempted to fill the silence.

He thinks you smile. The edges of your lips twist further into your cheeks. But it never quite lands, never sticks.

Ghost shouldn’t be thinking about you. But all he does is think about you.

In another life, where he wasn’t dressed in scars or his belief in happiness and thereafter’s hadn’t been stripped from his remaining soul, Ghost suspects you’d be the one he’d want to keep around.

It’s the only reason he clenches his fist, watching you through the outer rim of his mask’s eye sockets and always watching, never intervening. Not even when soldiers below your rank let their eyes drift to your rear—or worse, from your face to your chest.

He lets them.

Allows them to ogle you because he knows they won’t ever be fortunate to see any more. Not just because he’d have their heads but because you’d turn them inside out before you’d even let them touch you. Plus, you ridicule them enough when you catch them—tongue all poison and razor sharp, a thing not to be messed with, something which barks as bad as it bites.

“You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?”

Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk.

“Hilarious.”

Sighing, you roll your lips. “You gonna keep boiling everyone alive with your eyes whenever they talk to me?”

“I’m not.”

“For someone who has likely been required to lie for their work, your pretty awful at it.”

Grinding his teeth, he bites the inside of his cheek. Not wanting to rise, to give in—to fucking begin this tedious game of bickering. Instead, he allows a heavy breath to escape through his nose, long and slow, pushing the fabric out before it clings back to the tip of his nose.

Hoping you hear it, take note of it.

But from how you shift your stance, playing with your water bottle—crunching it in your grip—as you tap your boot against the floor, he doubts you have.

“You think too highly of yourself, princess.”

”Princess, ay?” you grin, far too wickedly to be innocent. “Thought you preferred seeing me in a vest, than a crown.”

Clamping his mouth shut, you take a sip of your water—letting the droplets hang on your lip, only wiping them from your chin at the last moment—a knowing look, all telling and haunted with lust and something else.

“Let’s walk.”

And, somehow, against all better judgement, he follows.

The first time it happened, your eyes had been shimmering. A softness to your features aided by alcohol bought by Price in celebration. It allows him to see his reflection in them—finding he’s all cold eyes. Around that though, he’s confronted with something stitched, carved, into the usually hardened expression he’d come to respect. Then it all shifted. A sound, one that was similar to how droplets of watercolour change a plain piece of paper, fills the air. It spreading shades in front of him that filled the scenery—the one the two of you were admiring as the others continued to be loud inside. Ghost can’t recall what he said, but he remembers what you’d said the moment you’d laughter had died: You’re funny for a skeleton. It was stupid. Foolish. Barely funny—in the grand scheme of things. But then, the building next to them had begun counting down, and you were looking at him—stars shimmering above the tips of the Siberian cypresses. There was just you, and him, and a crack of amber light across crisp, disturbed white snow. “Be rude to not kiss at New Year, wouldn’t it, Ghost?” ”Suppose so.”

You didn’t ask for his jacket immediately.

Even if he’d spotted you fighting off a shiver in your two’s awkward ‘walk’. No, you wait until the two of you are far past your usual building, and even then, you don’t ask. As usual, you pulled—tugged, and practically dragged it down his arms—until he surrendered it.

It was easier to bite back a groan. To look at you. Stick his pupils into your unbothered appearance. Allowing, instead, for his displeasure at your insistent but silent demand to show through his body language.

Not that you fucking care.

Chin all tipped up, meeting his stare boldly. Practically egging him on, pushing him, goading him.

Because you do that well. You like to push—not for a reaction, but to crack him.

Cause a break in him that you can slide through and make yourself at home. Somehow, against his better judgement—and usual practice—he lets you.

Each and every time.

Because even if he’d never admit it, he would—and could—go as far as to say he likes that you’re wrapping his jacket around your arms, head tilting up to look at the sky—observing how the stars are flickering. Because he rather enjoys seeing you coated in something of his.

Not possessively. Not because he needs some unhealthy confirmation that you want to be in something of his over anyone else. But because it's nice. A niceness he won’t ever admit. A confession that’ll never be spilt, not even under the most difficult of tortures. Not even if you sunk down on him, buried him inside you and refused to move until he did.

His resolve was stronger than that, something you’d learnt.

“Love it when the sky is clear,” you mumble.

Blinking, he looks up, realising the night looks so similar to the night in that small Canadian town.

When you’d offered to kiss him over his mask but eventually retrieved his lips—front sitting just under his nose, hands splayed across your lower back, pinning you flush to him. Because if he only had one chance to do it, he was going to milk it. Not that it was ever just that once, hence this—the two of you outside, close to an abandoned barrack under a flurry of stars and a half-gleaming moon.

He’s aware of the parallels.

How you’d been wearing his jacket that night, too. Albeit then because he’d given it to you when you’d come looking for him, rather than yanking it from his arms and burying yourself in it.

Ghost should mind.

Should find the idea unbearable, just like he should find you intolerable.

You sigh, not softly or sweetly, but difficulty and loud. “I don’t belong to you, Ghost.”

Ghost. Not the name you called him a few days ago when his fingers were curled inside you—his breath hot on your throat. Your pulse hammering against his tongue.

In a way, he thinks he should find you annoying, insufferable. Instead, he just finds you’re odd.

Odd in the sense that you stick around—not questioning his mannerisms or demands. That you fight everyone out there when sand tries to find places it shouldn’t, snow makes you shiver and blood stains skin—including him, on occasion.

But, when it’s the two of you, you bend so easily—all submissive, desperate. Mouth wrapping around his fingers, tongue swirling, before he’s so much as touched you.

It is why he snorts—and for a multitude of reasons.

Finger and thumb stroking his bare jaw, letting his eyes cast to the ground before looking in your direction. “Bet if I stick my fingers in your knickers, your cunt will say something different.”

You stare. Blank. Unreadable.

Something which makes his jaw tense, and his spine straighten. Because there aren’t many expressions he finds unbearable about you, except the unreadable one—the one you’re so skilled at pulling out across your face, hiding your thoughts and opinions.

He watches as you unfold your arms, displaying the hardest, squinted stare imaginable as your nose scrunched and your lips thin out. Leaving it there, hanging between the two of you—it not swaying as the seconds tick on, to the point he wonders if you genuinely expect him to be the one that cracks.

Then, you shift. You allow the lightest smirk to spread across your mouth into your perfect, soft, unscarred cheek. “Most likely. But, then again, on a base with a bunch of men, my underwear doesn’t tend to be dry.”

He has no retort, no initial thing to say.

So he says nothing.

Because everything he could say wouldn’t land in jest, would likely have his jacket thrown back in his face. And, the one good thing he has waiting (but not waiting) for him when he comes back—from fuck knows where—would be gone, vanished.

Not that he ever wanted this. Never mind needed it.

“Guessing that wasn’t the answer you wanted, Lieutenant?”

Keeping his mouth clamped, he remains silent. Lets it smother, wrap itself around the two of you and embed itself into the silence. Because no, that wasn’t the fucking answer he wanted.

There hadn’t been a reason as to why he knocked on your door, or why he had stuffed a nicer loo roll under his arm and brought you a bowl of soup. He could ration that you were a good solider, a solid member of his team. A reliable force that would get the job done. Someone who questioned and also obeyed. If needed, he could likely list a bunch more reasons why you were integral to whatever operation he was next sent on. But even he knew that wasn’t why he was outside your door. Why he turned the handle when you coughed and spluttered a weak ‘come in’. Whatever sight he’d expected, wasn’t close to what he saw. Your door closing behind him, your hand trying to cover your chapped lips as you splutter half a lung up, allowing him the chance to take in the rest of you. How your eyes were hollowed out by tiredness, your skin tacky and shining in the low light from a cracked curtain. ”D-did I miss a meeting or ‘sumthing?” Shaking his head, he placed the soup down by your bed—using the bowl to nudge several used tissues from its path, as he manoeuvred the roll from under his arm to hand it to you. Your eyes lighting, ever so slightly, by the softer—more nose-kind tissue. ”Jus’ came to check on you.” Blowing your nose, you offer a half smile. ”Because my aim is better than MacTavish’s?” Smirking, he watches as you shuffle over on your bed—allowing him room, something he takes without thought. In the same way he doesn’t need to think about lifting his mask now, how you’ve seen him—bruised, bloody, broken and so much more. An answer in itself as to why he’s here. One he could say with relative ease if the words would form. Instead, he throws his legs up—feels your eyes take him in as you try to clear your throat. “’cause you’re sick.” ”Oh.” And because I care. The latter not leaving his tongue, never mind his lips. Instead, he slides his arm around you, pulling you to lie in the crook of his arm and chest. Hoping that said enough. Explained it adequately. Incase it didn’t, he offered: ”Brought you soup, too.” ”Tomato?” Snorting, he rolled his eyes. “Chicken.” ”Guess that’ll do.” Your head tilting, staring up at him—and he hoped you couldn’t hear how loud his heart was hammering. Because even if this is what he wanted—to be there for you. To have you curled against him for reasons he couldn’t articulate, he hadn’t expected it. Even less the whispered, simple, ‘thank you, Simon’. Never mind that you barely finish the soup before you’re asleep against him.

Kicking at the ground, it’s a stone which pays the price for your annoyance with him. It rolls off, grating against gravel and grass before it came to a sad stop.

“What I was going to say,” you continue, huffing—in that way you do when you’re interrupted by lesser people and idiotic souls. “I don’t belong to you, but you don’t need to worry about every person who makes me laugh. I’m yours. Have been for a while.

“And before your strategic, get-out-alive brain begins firing on all fucking cylinders, I don’t… don’t need a declaration—didn’t need a menial question being asked to certify it. Don’t need you to tell me shit. I’m just telling you that I don’t—well—fuck around lightly.”

Lifting your arms, gesturing to you in his jacket—his clothing. Face pulling into an expression that makes him feel like he’s got a fucking egg on his face. As though he’s a fool, a fucking imbecile for not seeing what it was in front of him.

Maybe, he is.

Which is why he steps closer. Boots crunching gravel in the quiet, you stare at him—gazing through the cutouts and scorching your glare into him, scratching another line on his soul. Marking him. Like you have been doing since the first time he lost himself in your iris’s as your tongue curled out his name.

“I don’t… I don’t do this with others. What we do—is just what we do, Gh—”

“Simon,” he interrupts.

All sharp, like he’s stabbing you with his name, rather than handing it to you. Even if you’ve called it him before—you never have out here. Outside the confines of four walls, with your skin bare and his mouth latched to some part of your body.

“Jus’ mean, if y’gonna talk to me about it just being you and me, should at least call me my name.”

Slowly, you lower your arms, lips spreading into a line before they slide into a smile. “Simon. I don’t do this with other people.” Your eyes look up as you sigh. “Mainly because I don’t think anyone has a bigger cock than you.”

He brings you flush with him in one tug, watching your lips purse—a smirk attempting to grow behind it.

It’s more a grunt than a murmur how he tells you to ‘behave’, gloved fingers in the loops of your belt—a warped noise from the back of his throat beckoning to come out when your hand presses against his abdomen. Right against the clotted scarring of an old bullet wound—the one you’d pressed your palms into when he’d earned it—vermillion staining, clinging to your fingers and arm. Tears hanging from your lashes that you’d attempted to blink away, staring anywhere but at him.

Don’t die on me, Ghost. We’ve not done the wheelbarrow just yet.

When he’d been stitched and released, he finds your hand always goes there. A place you always seek, always find. You never touch his heart—never the thing that beats. You choose the pain embedded in tissue, the one he wonders if you hope to heal whenever you get the chance to brush your touch against it.

Rising on your toes, you roll your lips, softening your smirk into a smile. “It’s just you.”

“Because of my cock?”

He grips you tightly, not allowing you to descend to flat-footedness or move from being against him.

“Oh, a hundred percent. But you’re also a lot funnier than most people we meet, and I really like a man who makes me laugh.”

He pinches lightly—right on your side as you tip your head. “Y’know, don’t you?”

Ghost watches, waiting. Flicking from one of your eyes to the other.

And then you nod. “I know. Don’t worry, won’t make you tell me that you love my company as much as you do my tits just yet.”

He’s close enough for you to kiss the edge of his chin if he doesn’t move. But he does. Squeezing your hips, dropping his head enough, allowing your mouth to brush over his mask-covered lips.

It's enough for now, as you lower back to the ground. Feeling you turn in his hold—back to his chest and stomach as you wrap his jacket around you tighter.

Because he’ll kiss you better later.

A promise he makes silently, feeling your fingers take his, tugging his arm around you. He doesn’t need to see you to see that you’re smirking.

He can sense it.

AN: huge thank you to G. this wouldn't be possible without you nudging me, and making me accountable. dedicated to @theashfallx because she says she'll devour more of this man if I write it, so i had to finish it for her too.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost riley #cod ghost x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost smut #cod ghost x you #cod x reader #ghost cod x reader #cod mw x reader #call of duty fic

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