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kiryoutann · 1 day

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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, the world was a small, uncomplicated place. Mom and Dad don't have much money to travel abroad and their jobs only allow for little leisure, so the furthest vacation spot is a beach four hours' drive from your home city. School fills your days with lessons, friends, and the promise of weekend sleepovers. Every day, you stroll down the same street and greet your neighbors by name. Happiness was as close as your mother's freshly baked blueberry pie.

But now? When your world becomes wider and the reach of your hand becomes longer, it seems that happiness finds further hiding places. It grieves you that childhood was too brief; that bubble of safety from the world's woes and tribulations burst before you could even appreciate it.

The five-year-old you looked in the mirror, twisting your tiny feet to see the new shoes from all angles. Despite your repeated protests that you preferred the blue one, your mother purchased the bright pink one—she said it matched her favorite dress, and mother knows best, so you don't have to bother thinking about what you wanted. You shrugged to yourself; at least it's better than your old one.

Walking down the hall, you found your father. He's not in his usual play clothes – he's dressed for work, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "My little princess, you look so pretty!"

You beamed at his praise, chubby cheeks glowing. Nothing makes your heart sing like Dad's smile. You spin around like a princess in a fairy tale, showing off your shoes by stomping gently on the wooden surface.

“Mom bought it for me. It's not blue, but I like it!”

Dad chuckled. “Well, at least she spent my money on my favorite girl.”

Your mother emerged from the kitchen, your lunch bag in hand. “I saw them on sale at the store and just knew they'd be perfect for school,” she says proudly. Your father turned to you, opening his mouth to say something but, Mother interrupted. “We'd better get going or she'll be late for class.”

Dad sighs, mumbling a “yes, I know,” and kneels to sweep you into a tight hug. Your secret handshake is special – finger guns with “pew pew” noises, then knuckles bumping before more hugs and kisses. Your mother rolled her fondly eyes. “You two are always conspiring, sharing your little secrets. Now say goodbye, Daddy has to get to work."

You dislike it when Dad has to leave for work—in fact, you prefer him to Mom. But, Mom said he had to go or else there would be no food on the table for dinner; Besides, Daddy will definitely come back home and you can play with him again. You waved, forcing a smile to look as happy as possible.

"Bye, Daddy!"

"See you soon, princess." With a wave of his hand, your father answered and vanished behind the wooden door.

As Daddy's car pulls away from the curb, you hear Mom walking over to where the car keys are kept. You take a deep breath before exhaling slowly, but that strange tightness in your chest persists—one that usually occurs when it's just Mom and you. She opened the door and told you to go to the car. You followed her in silence, eyes fixed on the pattern on your new pink shoes.

Sliding into the backseat, you peer out the window. The car engine started, and the radio played the same playlist. You watch the buildings and trees move backward. Mom glances at you in the rearview mirror and corrects you about your slumped posture, saying it's an ugly look for a young lady. You sat up straight in your chair and muttered an apology. Satisfied, your mother returned her attention to the road.

Secretly, you wish it could be your dad driving you to school instead. He's more fun, telling silly stories to make you laugh, and doesn't mind your messy crayons or clothes that don't match perfectly. Your mother always finds fault with anything that is unclean or out of place.

Looking up at the clear sky, you hope the sun will soon be above, indicating that lunchtime is approaching. Lunchtime means it's a few hours until sundown, and dinner will soon be served. You want to quickly see Dad and hear whatever stories he has during the day—that is, if he comes home. Lately, work has been keeping him from home more and more. However, if he's too busy, then tomorrow will do—Sunday sounds fun. He never missed a Sunday with you.

The weekend comes quickly, and you can barely contain your excitement when Dad takes you to the park Sunday morning. You walk hand in hand down the busy sidewalk, you chat a mile a minute about school. Laughter and barking greeted you both.

A fluffy golden retriever catches your eye, and you tug Daddy's hand, pointing excitedly. “Can we get a puppy, Daddy? Please? I'd take such good care of it, I promise!”

Your father chuckled, then shook his head. “You know how your mother feels about furry friends making a mess in the house.”

Disappointed, you scruff your shoes in the dirt. Dad never refuses what you want, no matter how ridiculous it is, unless it contradicts Mom. Unfortunately, the majority of what you desire is always something your mother despises. You continue walking.

Then he points – an ice cream cart! “Can I have one?” You ask, only to remember. "Mom said no sweets before dinner."

Dad crouches to meet your downcast eyes. “But Mom's not here. And you and me, we're partners in crime, right? I won't tell if you won't. What do you say we keep our sweet treat just between us?”

Gasping for joy, bubbles of laughter escaped your lips. "Okay!" Dad got you cones, of course, chocolate ones, and you swung your clasped hands and gawked at all the colorful, melted options. There's no better way to spend a Sunday than taking a stroll with Dad in the sunshine.

Monday night, however, was spent with you lying in bed with a fever ravaging your little body. Through the haze, you hear raised voices carrying down the hall—Mom scolding Dad for letting you have that ice cream.

“I can't believe you disobeyed me, Peter! One ice cream and now she's sick as a dog.” Her shrill voice pierces your pounding head.

“C'mon Anna, the girl's allowed a treat now and then.” Dad's calmer rumble does little to quell your mother's fury.

“If you'd listened to me from the start, this never would've happened. But you always think you know best.” Their arguing grows more heated, and you curl into a tight ball, wishing you could disappear.

Your mother's booming footsteps grew farther away as their conversations ceased. You open your eyes. When your door creaks and you turn around, the light from the corridor peeks through a tiny opening, and your father's form fills the frame. He sits next to you with a strained, contrite expression on his face.

“Hey, honey,” he started. “I'm sorry our secret got out. Mom's just worried about you being sick.”

You try to smile, though it comes out as more of a grimace. “S’okay, Daddy.” You said, and he stroked your damp hair tenderly; concern etched deep.

“Jesus, you're burning up. How about a story to take your mind off feeling bad?”

As if on cue, you remember – “The Nutcracker, please!”

With a kind grin, your father got up to get the cherished book. He takes a seat next to you, acts puzzled as he flips through a book and clears his throat.

"Now let's see, how did this story go again?" You chuckled at his attempt to divert your attention from your fever.

Soon later, he starts reading aloud with a low, comfortable voice. Sometimes, he stumbles over long words or loses his place, but each time he simply smiles sheepishly before continuing on. His favorite part is the dialogue, as he frequently adopts a different voice to portray different characters. You find yourself entranced, following each magical adventure.

For a little while, you can forget about the uncomfortable heat covering your body and Mom's angry shouts. In these quiet moments with your father, nothing else matters but his gentle company. In this once kinder world, he is still your father and you are still his favorite daughter—his one and only. Even if getting an ice cream is what makes you sick, you would do it all over again just to share this time with him.

By the story's end, your eyelids grow heavy enough, but not quite heavy. Dad chuckled, closing the book. “Still awake, little love? You must be feeling better.”

Your lips curve into a smile, glazed eyes glistening as flushed cheeks rise. “Mom signed me up for ballet classes,” you mumble sleepily.

A gasp escaped his lips, his forehead shot upwards emphasizing the already existing wrinkles. He looked at you with irises the same color as yours. You chuckle from his reaction, but your smile fades when his features swim and blur before you like figures in a dream. His gaze was always so kind, looks darker than you recall. Stubble shadows his jaw. When he smiles now, it doesn't reach as far.

He said your name—but it sounded foreign, it felt wrong. Why can't you see him clearly anymore?

“My little princess, you’re going to be the greatest ballet dancer the world has ever seen.” You wanted to answer, to hold this moment with him forever; but heavy eyelids won the battle and ultimately dragged you down. As the darkness enveloped you, Dad's hazy face was the last thing on your mind.

Thin curtains block the dreary morning light as you begin your daily ritual of waking up. The city has just woken up below; fog still hangs on the streets of London as you pad barefoot to the kitchen, the hardwood cold under your feet.

Filling the kettle, you set it to boil and retrieve your favorite chipped mug from the shelf. Your hand reaches for a packet of instant grounds—two scoops of it go inside, followed by a splash of cream. After lifting the whistling kettle, you poured in the boiling water slowly before taking a tea spoon to stir. The sound of the drizzle striking the glass was amplified by the apartment's quiet, and a small clink! sound is added each time your spoon meets your porcelain mug.

Lifting the mug, you breathe deep its comforting aroma before taking a careful sip, sighing as warmth spreads through your body. Coffee in hand, you turn to the task of packing your bag, put the essentials: water bottle, warm up shorts, warm up sweater, leg warmers, two pointe shoes, skirts, and a pouch containing deodorant, hair spray, comb, pins , and band aids.

Feeling quite satisfied, you finish your coffee and rinse the mug before leaving it to dry. You go shower and do your skincare routine. Pulling out your clothes drawer, you retrieve the leotard and tights, sliding the familiar fabrics over still-damp limbs.

Before the full-length mirror, you start to stretch. First position – feet turned out, heels together, arms graceful at your sides. Middle split – breathe in, reach for your toes, feel the burn in your thighs. Forward fold, palms flat on the floor, spine lengthening. After feeling warmed up for the day, you slowly got up and grabbed your bag towards the door.

The city was already starting to get busy, with the hustle and bustle of commuters making their way to work. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and brewing coffee wafting through the air. You quickened your footsteps on the cobblestone streets.

When the train door opens, you rush out, clutching your bag tight. Racing up the stairs, you burst through the exit and meet the cold air from the rain. You rubbed your hands against your arms in a desperate attempt to warm yourself. Overhead, heavy clouds hung low. You set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

But, as your building comes into view, you slow down—memories from last night fill your head. It was just here—under the awnings of that little café—that you first took shelter from the rain with him.

Simon. His name whispers through your mind like fog swirling around lampposts. If only the place was still open, maybe you would come in for a sweet warm drink instead of that crowded pub. Must've been nice, you think—it must've been nice to chat between sweets, enveloped in comfort that stretches time to be longer. Maybe he won't be so guarded and you'll get more than a name and a job—a promise to meet tomorrow at breakfast, for example.

Realizing you had completely stopped walking, you shook your head as embarrassment settled on your cheeks. Why do you dwell on such fantasies? Despite his kindness, Simon is just a stranger with just a name, one of many faces in this city that you will never meet again.

With a sigh, you continued your walk and disappeared behind the large doors of the opera.

The heavy doors creaked open as you pushed inside, warmth enveloping your cold body. Long hallway echoed with the conversation of the dancers who had arrived, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor while exchanging a joke or two with each other. You turn into the dressing room. Hanging up your coat, you saw a familiar sight—girls chatting and gossiping as they got ready.

You sat down at one of the dressers, placing your duffel bag at your feet. The sound of a zipper being opened sounded in the air; you bent down and reached for your pouch. Then, you pull out your trusty lip balm before applying it to your lips and gently massaging in the colorless formula.

Just then, a girl came and stopped at the door frame, panting. “It's up! The casting announcement is on the board!”

Squeals of excitement and joy were heard as they rushed to see who got what role. You hurriedly closed your balm, returned it to the pouch before getting up from the chair following the others. They had gathered at the end of the hall, jostling to see a piece of paper stuck to the board.

Air fills your lungs slowly when you inhale. It felt like your hammering heart was going to drop to your stomach as your legs started to swing. The pessimistic side of you says to turn around—why bother? It said tauntingly, you know which role you ended up having. But the hopeful side—the little girl still full of dreams stored somewhere in your ribs—insisted on peering and feeling.

As you stepped into the crowd of dancers, they turned around and some started smiling at you. One of them, Jasmine, approached you after calling your name.

“You did it! You got the role!”

As she hugged you, you scanned down the long list. Your eyes freeze on the main role. The Swan Queen. Beside it is printed in big black letters, your name. The Swan Queen.

You detach yourself from Jasmine's embrace, muttering excuses as you flee down the hall to the toilet. Step by step opening each stall to make sure the space is totally empty, you then lock yourself in one of them and sink into the closed toilet lid. Your mind is racing with a plethora of feelings as your eyes are fixed on the sections of tile plaque.

Joy, pride, disbelief... But underneath it all lies a hollow ache you can't place. Why? Isn't this what you've always wanted, to to become more than just another dancer in the group, to stop at precisely the thirteenth, and somehow take on the role of the Swan Queen—the one who shines the most on stage? Perhaps it's the self-conscious part of you, believing that the director must have made a mistake and mistook you for someone else.

Or perhaps this emptiness was once occupied by the never-ending quest for approval. In truth, that person no longer exists; you have no one left to tell this good news to. The chairs in the crowd were empty.

The cost of keeping everyone at a distance, indeed.

You clutch on your leotard, the fabric wrinkling in your tight grip. Gazing up at the ceiling and inhaling again, you make the decision to push up on unsteady legs and get out of the stall.

The hallway seems louder than before. Every footstep and whisper amplified in your mind, eyes tracking you as you pass—all judging, wondering. A flush creeps up your neck. You speed up your steps, hoping to quickly get out from under their scrutinizing gaze. However, no matter how hard you try, your ears cannot be deafened by the snatches of hushed conversation that follow.

“Can't believe they chose her; she's so soulless on stage.” Your throat constricts, and your hands are clenched into pale fists.

Claudine's piercing stare cuts through the crowd as your eyes meet. She rakes her gaze over you slowly, as if trying to decipher what the director found so special. You lowered your eyes, hurriedly passing to the safety of the empty dressing room. Grabbing your bag with shaky hands, you flee once more to the practice studio, desperate to lose their judgment.

The studio door's knob turned, and as you pushed slightly to get a glimpse inside, the hinges creaked. With the coach and pianist, the director was engaged in a serious discussion. He gives you a quick glance and gestures for you to enter.

“(Y/N), it's so wonderful to have you here. I know this role is in excellent hands with you.” His kind words did little to calm your fraying nerves, but you took the crumbs of his appreciation.

More dancers arrive behind you, their excited chatter filling the hallway. Risking a glance over your shoulder, you catch sight of familiar faces: Jasmine, Sophia, Eloise, long-faced Marie—surely she's not used to not being the main star, and you feel like you've taken her place even though you're not good enough. You swallow hard and turn back, placing your duffel bag in the studio's corner.

The director clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. “Bravo to each of you for earning these coveted roles through your talent and dedication. Now, let us begin our work to bring Tchaikovsky's magic to life for our audiences. Places everyone, we'll start from the beginning!”

Your shoulders rise as you inhale a deep breath. Swan Lake. First time becoming the Swan Queen.

Does the director know that his gaze carries a heavy weight? The more sighs he lets out, the more you suffocate, as if the air has been tainted with butane and you've reached the vertigo stage. His eyes followed your every move, but it was his lips that showed dissatisfaction. Something isn't up to his expectations, and it's not the techniques and poses your ballet teacher has been drilling you in since childhood. You are deficient in something that you are unaware of.

The director calls to a halt, praising and giving notes to the other dancers before turning to you. You brace yourself with a deep breath.

“Your technique is truly flawless as always. But I wonder, could you try injecting just a bit more... feeling?” he began. “You portray her innocence and loneliness beautifully. But what is missing is the glimmer of hope she finds in Prince Siegfried's promise to free her.”

Hope? The girl had lived most of her life as a swan; what silly hope did she still have and seek in a man? As if their hearts have the ability to keep a promise. Swan Lake wouldn't be Swan Lake without the prince declaring his love for another woman and Odette jumping off the cliff from the realization that her dreams had ended in vain. Is it not more fitting that she feels only emptiness—the result of years of loneliness leeching any warmth or longing from her soul?

You tell yourself that, if not merely to cover up your poor performance. The director is many years older than you and has directed and seen many ballets throughout his life. If anyone knows how to bring a character to life, it's him.

It begs the question, though, of whether a cursed being like her seems capable of wishing for miracles or fairy tale things like love. Can a withered flower, beaten down by countless rains, still hold the memory of the sun in its crumpled petals?

“I'll do better.” You said.

The director gives a pitying smile; you felt small beneath him. “Good.” Then raising his voice, “Well done everyone today. Let's call it a day and start again tomorrow fresh!"

Snatching up your bag, you rush towards the exit before anyone can speak to you. With your head down, you push through the doors and into the night. Breathing in trembling, you let your legs carry you down the well-known pavement. The sights and sounds of bustling London blur around you.

You shouldn't have believed that girl. You shouldn't have given that dreamy girl the chance to lead a version of herself that has grown far beyond her—because you know her judgment means nothing, just a limited view of the world through rose-tinted glasses. She is that way because a liar once said that she would make a great ballet dancer, and she stuck to it like a devoted disciple to the words of her God.

It was stupid, perhaps a misplaced self-confidence. With your every step, the negative voices in your mind grow louder, jeering relentlessly at your foolishness. This was a mistake from the start. As if you could ever do Odette justice. Best tell him you're stepping down; let Claudine or Marie have the role they deserve. Your heart is heavy, weighing you down to the floor.

You almost pass by without noticing, but there, through the haze, glows the warm orange light of that pub. The one Simon and you ducked into that stormy night, where you shared pleasantries over pints of bitter. As you watch the door open and close for the newcomers, you halt.

You're not sure which Satan incited. But when you push open the pub door, warmth immediately envelopes you, scents of ale and smoke mingling with the bustle of chatter. A lively folk tune played on the sound system as patrons laughed together in the booths and around the bar. Steeling yourself, you approached awkwardly.

The bartender looked up, his eyes widening briefly before his lips curved into a flirtatious smile. "Well hello gorgeous, what can I get for ya?"

Warmth floods your cheeks and you shift from foot to foot. “Um, do you have anything non-alcoholic?” You said, awkward voice breaking easily. Why did you come in here again?

He raised an eyebrow but maintained a friendly smile. “Sure do, love. Give me a mo.” As he turns around to prepare your drink, you glance around helplessly.

Faces blurred in the dim light—all engaged in lively conversation. You sit alone at the bar like you're waiting for a friend while watching everyone else meet theirs. A feeling of loneliness overtakes you – what were you thinking coming here?

Bartender returns, sliding your drink across with a wink. “On the house. Let me know if you need anything else, yeah?”

Giving a mumbled thanks, you take a sip acting busy. As you sit alone nursing your drink, you believe you understand why. Deep down, beneath all the self-doubt and shame, is a glimmer of truth you loath to admit – you desperately seek companionship, if only for a moment.

And the only person close enough for you to consider a friend is a masked stranger you will never see again. That's pathetic; you're pathetic. Clinging to the irrational part to watch Simon walk through that door. He claims he's a regular here—his “I'm here often enough” seems to make you hold out for the chance of running into him again.

Twenty minutes pass in a haze, and Simon still hasn't appeared. Maybe he's not a regular after all. You finally glance at your phone—it's time for your usual subway.

Signaling the bartender, you place some cash on the bar as a tip. “Thanks again,” you murmur, then gather your coat and slip out into the chill night.

“Sorry,” you mumble when you bump into a figure about to enter.

“No worries, love,” a British-accented voice replies smoothly, and you glance up, thinking it's someone. A stranger—tall, broad shoulders, but not Simon. Perfectly coiffed hair and skin as smooth as porcelain. He shot a charming smile at you. “Off somewhere?”

Instantly on alert, your eyes start looking for a way to get away from him. “Just heading home, thanks.”

Making a sidestep, his arms extended to block your path. Your mind's alarm goes off. His gaze burned as it swept over you, lingering in places it had no right to be before he licked his lips. You felt a cold sweat run down your back.

“Don't be like that, darling. I just want to chat. Buy you a drink, maybe?” His smile grows, and the sick glint in his eyes shows how much it amuses him to see you trembling.

“Sorry, I—”

“I believe the lady said she’s not interested, mate.”

A gruff, familiar voice cuts through the haze. You whip your head around to see Simon standing there. His face is half obscured by his black mask, but you'll recognize that steel gaze everywhere. For some reason, your heart gradually calms down in your ribs.

“And who the fuck are you?” the other asked angrily, puffing up his chest. A daring move, you think. His too-tight t-shirt reveals his consistent gym muscles, but if Simon is his opponent, you can be sure he's no match.

“Just not a fan of creeps harassing women. Now do yourself a favor and fuck off before I make you.” Simon threatened.

The color drains from the guy's face when he sees Simon's seriousness. He walked away, swallowing his wounded pride with a huff. The pressure recedes from your rigid frame as you watch the figure leave before turning to Simon.

"You hurt at all?" he asked, doing a scan of you to check for himself.

You shake your head, then manage a shaky “No, I'm fine. Thank you.”

Simon looked at you, then looked behind you towards the pub. When he turns back to you, his eyebrows raise slightly questioningly.

“You were in there your own?”

The warmth from his question traveled across your cheeks, striking a contrast with the night breeze. You didn't dare to meet his eyes, choosing to settle on your shoes instead. Despite having come here just to meet him, feeling under his judgment is like getting a shot of adrenaline into your legs—so much so that you want to run to get away from him.

“I, um…” Words fail you beneath your embarrassment.

How pathetic you must look—a lone girl nursing a drink with no companions, seeking solace in other people's conversations. You can't, however, just reveal your total lack of friends. Your mind searched frantically for a convincing reason.

“Just… needed to clear my head after a long day of practice. Thought the atmosphere might help.”

Even to your own ears, the lie falls flat. You didn't know if Simon noticed. Though you're pitiful, he doesn't furrow his brow or look at you that way. He asks no questions at all, not even about poor attempts at lying, and he doesn't press people on matters they would rather leave unsaid. Simon doesn't pry; you think that's his good quality.

Simon looked up at the dark sky instead. “Getting late, this is. I'll walk you to the tube.” He nodded, gesturing down the empty sidewalk.

Thick clouds rolled low. The two of you make your way towards the subway station, passing one by one the buildings constructed from buff-colored brick. Simon is striding beside you, his long legs eating up the pavement with ease. Secretly, you steal glances at his broad figure against the lamplight. Your eyes follow the line of his shoulders under his leather jacket—the way it molds into muscular arms.

This is different from your first meeting. There's no need now for nervous small talk to fill the quiet; you're not much of a talker, and Simon also finds more peace in silence.

Simon's presence feels more companionable than awkward. Warmth bloomed in your ribs as your lips curled into a small smile before it disappeared again. You both walk in wordless sync before you become bored and break it.

“I didn't really expect to see you again.”

Simon glances down at you, his brows quirking questioningly. Did you sound ungrateful? You rush to explain. “I mean, it was all like a chance thing, running into each other like that. Figured it was just... a one-time thing, you know?”

He thought about your words for a moment. “Funny how things work out sometimes.”

Up ahead, the glow of the station sign begins to appear. You bit the inside of your cheek as you slowly slowed down your pace, but you made sure it was unnoticeable. Your journey's end draws near, but you hope this togetherness can last longer.

Summoning your courage, you try, “Were you meeting someone at the pub? Before…” Your words trail off, but he seems to understand.

“Nah, wasn't meeting anyone,” he said casually. “Just fancied a drink, is all.”

You nodded, acting satisfied, but actually feeling a little disappointed. It seemed that he was in fact a frequent visitor, coming and going on any given evening; it was just for a drink, like before he met you. Meanwhile, you cling to the prospect of another chance to meet like a lifeline. As the station came into full view, your eyes fell, brewing more embarrassment and desperation in your stomach. Maybe he has someone waiting for him. What were you thinking, letting yourself hope?

Yet, though small, the rebellious part of you refuses to let this end.

"What do you usually drink?" You ask again, grasping for any excuse to extend your time, no matter how little.

“Bourbon,” he replied gruffly. “Kentucky, usually. Good drop.”

Twenty-three years old, but this discussion is still foreign territory for you. Your fingers can count the few times you've tasted alcohol—each occasion marred by your mother's voice in your head, warning of its evil. It's rather comical, considering how it once became her loyal companion for several years—that damned thing became the only thing she looked for after coming home from work and gulping it down flat on the living room sofa to dull her broken heart. You cannot yet judge her as a hypocrite or someone who has learned from her mistakes. As if a single glass would transform you into some fallen woman. It was always all or nothing with her; there was no concept of moderation.

Such inhibitions are not for Simon, though. A man of the world who has seen and done things that you could scarcely fathom. For him, a pint after work is as regular as taking a breath.

All too soon, you reach the stairs leading down to the station entrance. Your feet stopped when he did. Turning your body to face him, you gathered your courage and looked up. His eyes meet yours, and you see him about to open his mouth behind his surgical mask. No, you can't bear to hear that final goodbye.

“Do you..” You started. “Like anything else to drink, besides bourbon? I probably have… something at my place.”

There was a change in his gaze before he returned to his usual guarded gaze. Your cheeks screamed on fire at the implication that you didn't quite mean to make. Such an invitation should be the last thing a girl like you offers to a stranger she's only met twice, particularly at this hour. To your defense, though, he's now an acquaintance, and desperation influences people to do the unthinkable. The nights are getting colder and your lonely apartment won't do.

It seems that your question surprised him too. Simon scanned your face carefully before releasing the tension.

“Tea.”

When Simon replies with a single gruff word, you can't help but smile, ducking your head to hide it behind loose tendrils of hair. Lifting your eyes once more, you find him staring at you. Two people engaging in a silent game of deciphering, each trying to unravel the secrets of the other piece by piece.

“Tea,” you repeat softly, as if savoring the taste of the word.

Fingers twisting together, you steel your nerves before turning toward the stairs to lead the way down. You hear his footsteps fall solidly behind you. Not daring to look back out of fear that this dream will shatter, you mentally urge your feet faster.

At the platform's edge, mist curls between the rails like grasping fingers. Simon was standing right next to you. Slowly, the lights of an approaching train emerge, growing brighter by the second. With a weary hiss, the sliding doors open in front of you in welcome. You turned to Simon, then stepped aboard, and he followed, as you already knew.

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panicflower · 1 day

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What I need:

I NEED a drag of a fic about reader joining the 141. Everyone liking her, but Ghost. Huge enemies to lovers plot. But him being a CUNT!!!!! Ignoring her for the most part, and sometimes being mean as her superior etc etc you guys get it. And then plottwist he was afraid of liking her, thats why he behaved that way. I WANT “WHO DID THIS TO YOU”. I WANT “THERES JUST 1 BED” ETC!!!!! 👹👹👹👹

(Yes spicy in the end, but after like chapter 7373828)

I’ll eat this up so hard omg but i cant fucking write!!!

If this was a book 💥💳💥💳💥💳💥💳

#ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost angst #task force 141 #call of duty #simon riley x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod modern warfare #cod #cod x reader #fanfic #series

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ponyosmom35 · 21 hours

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Apologies

Simon Ghost Riley x reader

liability series chapter 7:

synopsis: reader feels guilty for her behavior swallows her pride and apologizes to Ghost.

warnings: slight angst

master list: https://www.tumblr.com/ponyosmom35/733401347573088256/simon-ghost-riley?source=share

MDNI

It had been nearly a week since she had fought with Emma. The days passed quickly, she was busy from the moment she stepped into the medical bay and from the moment she collapsed in bed. There was a constant stream of soldiers needing medical attention. She didn't mind the fast-paced job, it kept her mind busy. Prevented her guilty consciousness from filling her mind with regrets about her behavior. The truth was that she hated the way she'd been acting. John Price's harsh words had made her realize just how insufferable she'd been.

Since the confrontation she kept her head down, desperate to keep herself out of trouble. She loved her job, and though she never felt as though she was wanted, she knew that caring for people was her purpose in life. She was determined to prove herself not only to her sister but to Ghost as well.

She hated the fact that someone perceived her differently than who she knew she was. Her behavior with the LT had been unusual for her. She wasn't one to snap so easily, she also wasn't used to blatant disrespect to her face. She wished she would've handled the interactions with him with more grace, however, she'd let her ego get the best of her. Now most of the people on the base hated her and thought she was sleeping with one of the higher-ranking men to keep her job. The thought made her sick as it couldn't be further from the truth.

After a long day, the girl had finally finished her tasks and filled the night shift medics in on the status of the patients staying the night in the bay. She cleaned her hands, took off the black scrub top and shoved it in her bag. She heads to the dining hall, hoping that she would be able to eat alone since dinner had been served an hour earlier. As she enters she notices a few people sitting at a table together, along with her sister sitting with Ghost of all people. She tried to back out of the room before she was noticed, but her eyes met those of Emma's and she cursed. She knew that it was too late now.

She smiles awkwardly and grabs a plate of food, she holds her shoulders high and walks over to her sister, taking a seat beside her. Emma looks at her in annoyance and turns back to Ghost, continuing her conversation about some form of combat he'd been teaching her. She listens awkwardly and waits for a pause in the conversation. It was not even two minutes later when Emma turned to her with an angry glare.

"is there something you need?" Emma asks

"I was hoping to talk to you, actually the both of you" she says, noticing how Ghost's body turns towards her, acknowledging her presence for the first time since she sat down. His dark eyes pierced directly into her soul. She rubs her hands together nervously.

"I have nothing to say to you - excuse me LT, I'll see you for training tomorrow" Emma says before picking up her plate and leaving the table. She sighs and watches her walk out of the room, embarrassment and sadness fills her heart as her face burns bright red.

Ghost sighs trying to figure out how he would be able to get himself out of the incredibly awkward situation. His mind races for something, anything to say. He hated seeing the look of sadness on her face. He felt a pang in his heart as she stood.

"you wanted to talk to me?" he asks, her gaze shifts to meet his own, she blinks back her tears and sits down once more.

"yeah, I uh - I wanted to apologize to you for my past behavior. I never should've spoken to you like that, it's not who I am or who I ever want to be. The last thing I want is to make any more enemies on this base, and I can promise you that It'll never happen again. No matter how much my ego hates it, I won't be arguing with you or any other superior. I just want to do a good job here"

Ghost was shocked at her words, the last thing he'd expected to hear from her was an apology. She was constantly surprising him. His mouth went dry as his heart raced. He was so taken aback that his mind went blank, unable to form any coherent thoughts he nodded and mumbled out a short response.

"already forgotten"

"right, well have a good night" she says softly before walking out of the room.

Ghost clenches his fist as she leaves, cursing himself for not offering her his own apology. He knew he never should've spoken to her in that way, she'd caught him at the worst possible time. He'd just gotten off a call in which Colonel Shepard tore him a new one for not having any additional information about their target. He took his anger out on the first person who spoke to him, which happened to be the medic. He had not expected her to fight back and stand up for herself. He was used to respect, the soldiers on this base wouldn't even look him in the eye. Then this young woman marched into his world and changed everything.

He'd been attracted to her from the moment he laid eyes on her. He thought she was simply the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. Her captivating eyes and bright hair. Her kind smile and big glasses which sat on her nose. He would never forget the way that her smile dropped after he made that rude remark when they met. Her eyes unable to hide the hurt and anger she felt towards him. As much as he wanted to deny it - Ghost wanted her. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to go after her and show her just how much she'd messed with his head. But it was just a fantasy, he'd never allow things between them to grow. Relationships were not his style, he couldn't imagine committing to someone forever. Yet the idea of another man laying a hand on her made him sick to his stomach.

chapter 8: https://www.tumblr.com/ponyosmom35/752480231502315520/sisters?source=share

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truetogaia · 5 months

Text

just thinking and crying over the way simon would continue to refer to you as “his girl” even after your sudden passing.

he would talk about you as if you were still alive whenever relationships came up in conversation. and he’d be so reluctant to allow anyone, even his respected comrades, to try and comfort him.

“yeah, me n my girl have been together for years now. she’s everything. all i’ve got, ya know?”

he would make sure to always keep your resting place full of life. Whether that was by planting your favorite plant, and naming it after you, or always keeping it filled with bouquets of your favorite flowers. and he’d always take your beloved pet that you left behind to go see you.

“did you miss mommy, p/n? i bet our girl missed you so much.” and he’d smile sadly when your baby showed signs of recognizing your grave. his heavy hand petting it comfortingly “so excited to see her today, yeah?”

cod masterlist

#in my crying era #drabbles #simon riley x reader #simon riley #cod ghost #ghost angst #simon riley angst #ghost x reader #cod angst #cod fluff #ghost fluff #simon riley fluff

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empresskylo · 6 months

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simon ‘ghost’ riley is a light sleeper. he’s so well trained to be on high alert that even when he’s not on duty he wakes at the smallest sound.

sometimes you’ll get up in the middle of the night and he immediately sits up. “you alright?” he slurs.

you make a small sound of discomfort or wiggle a little too much and his head is turning on the pillow, his eyes on you. and he always asks if you’re okay. you’ve told him he’s being silly and sometimes you just have to get up to go to the bathroom, but you gave up on telling him that—he’s adamant on checking on you.

and anytime he wakes up, no matter where the disturbance comes from, he’s looking over to your side of the bed to make sure you’re okay first.

and if you ever do need him in the middle of the night, all you have to do is whisper his name. he opens his eyes almost immediately and instinctively tightens his arm around you. “everythin’ alright?”

and one time you couldn’t sleep. your face was buried in his chest as he clung to you, the soft rumble of his snores letting you know he was knocked out. you didn’t want to wake him, but you were crying. you barely even moved as you teared up into his chest. suddenly, his hands squeezed you tighter. “whats’a matter?” he coos softly.

you tilt your head up to him teary eyed. “i didn’t mean to wake you.”

he clicks his tongue. “tell me what’s wrong, baby.” his hand gently caressing your face, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear.

and he’s so protective. if you roll over and out of his hands he’s quick to pull you back into his grip. he likes having his hands on you while he’s sleeping. it makes him feel more secure knowing you’re okay.

when you fall asleep together on the sofa, your body pressed to his, his arms are wrapped around your waist, clutching you closely against him. it doesn’t even matter if he’s too warm, he wants you touching him at all times whenever he’s asleep.

it’s gotten to the point where he can barely sleep when he’s not with you. without you safely in his arms, without being able to physically feel you under his fingertips, it continuously wakes him up. he’s lucky to get two hours in a row without waking.

post that inspired this | my cod masterlist

#ghost #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #cod #ghost fanfic #simon riley fanfic #ghost call of duty #ghost angst #cod mw2 #cod fic #call of duty fanfic #mw2 fanfic #mw3 #ghost mw3

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criminalamnesia · 4 months

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Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

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hxltic · 10 months

Text

bein yelled at by ghost. you’ve been in the army this long, been yelled at by sergeants and others alike, majority men—obviously—but none of them like this. The others you didn’t even flinch as they screamed directly into your ears, probably even worse than other men just to intimidate you as a woman.

You caught him in a bad mood and it seemed completely unrelated to work, but as his partner and soldier, he had to tell you things that you didn’t want to hear.

“Hey, I got your message Simon, didn’t mean for that to happen. Won’t let it happen again.” You place some things of yours down on the dresser as you enter his quarters. He’s standing there in thought, unreadable.

His mask is still on with his gear connected to his body.

“Damn right, you won’t.” He gruffs, heavy in his accent.

All you could do was question what this meant. Would he not let you do it again? Were you being thrown in a different squad?

“What does that mean?” You stop your moving for a direct answer. You almost took that personally.

He explains, “You made an impulsive decision that would have led to half our unit being taken out. The amount we sent to that building was more than usual.”

“I understand, and that was on me. In my defense though: it was a suggestion in the moment, one that the other members also formally agreed to. It wasn’t just me.” You giggle, even though you’re aware these aren’t giggling matters. You just needed to lighten the mood.

“There were 35 men in that building alone. Led by Gaz and König!”

He fully pronounced the words, turning to you aggressively. Had you known this was the severity of his mood, you never would’ve taunted him in any type of way. This was when he had to be your boss.

“I understand but-“

“It doesn’t matter who agreed! You are seen as a leader standing next to me and you introduced the idea. I cannot be there to stop you every time you do something stupid.” His eyes were laced with anger, an anger that arose out of the protection built for his squad over the years.

“Every time?”

He said that like you did something stupid every day. He’s had bad missions before too, and we should all just be happy everyone made it back safe. Well, maybe one or two. He quickly turns to you, but stays in his spot.

“Every bloody time. It’s the mission before that. Then that. You cannot keep jeopardizing this team.”

Despite the offense you took to his words, you understood him.

“I understand.” You speak. For the night, you split off into your own quarters, not wanting to anger him any more than you already have. You’ll just have to be better with your decisions. There’s more than just your life on the line now.

The next few days, you’ve been kind of stand off-ish, hoping he’d come to you when he was feeling so. Instead, you were all assigned a mission, one they’d put you in charge of. Naturally, you’d felt it best to prove yourself and win his attention back. He was still Simon, and you still loved him.

. .

You all returned back to base with a more than successful mission under your belt. This made you extremely happy, as it’s finally a good time to speak to him.

You approach his door, then knock. You never knock.

A deep, “Come in,” is all you get.

You walk in to him sitting at his desk, his back to the door.

“Hey,” is all you can muster. You’d had the balls to walk in, but Simon is still a scary man. Your hands come down from his shoulders to massage over his biceps.

“I’m sorry for the past few days. I hope I redeemed myself?” You try.

“Hm,” He grunts, standing from his desk and filing papers into the drawers. This made you a little wary.

“Are you feeling okay Simon?” You fiddle your fingers together as you watch him walk around to the other side of the table.

“Fuckin’ fabulous.”

Your hands drop. You’d expected something, or some type of praise. Instead, you got this.

“What’s wrong? I thought I did good this time?”

“Is there something you want?” He shoots back. You glance at him, then around the room, then the floor. “No? Alright then.” He continues on as if you aren’t there. You stand in disbelief.

“What has got you so upset Simon? You can talk to me.”

“Did ya come in my room with nothin to say? What are you here for?” he snaps back.

This was a knife in the heart. You’d been terrified of the business portion of your relationship engulfing the rest, but you didn’t want to believe it. Maybe that wasn’t the case. Maybe it wasn’t you.

“Literally what is your problem?” You wanted to yell, but you couldn’t. It wasn’t in your nature. It didn’t feel right yelling at him.

You attempt to walk to his front, hoping that seeing your face would bring him some sense of calmness or bring him back down to Earth, but that was long gone. He’d lost all professionalism or softness.

Or maybe that was just it, and there was too much professionalism.

You reach him and plead, “Simon please, let me help y-“

“Fuckin’ hell, I don’t need your goddamn help!”

His head whips around, and that was all it took for you to realize the severity of everything going on. You’d physically retracted back and flinched. It’d been a long time since you’d done that.

“What do you want?” He throws the pen he’d held to the wall, and if you could see, you’d say there was a visible dent. That was your second step back, and you only took more as he came forward powerfully, his frame enlarging with each step.

“I-“

“Do you want me to praise you for your fuckin’ job? Now that you’ve decided to take it seriously?” He growls.

This was completely untrue, it wasn’t easy getting into 141, and it didn’t take anything but seriousness. Despite this, it didn’t take away from how his voice seemed to reverberate through your bones. You were retreating from him the best you could, but you didn’t want to look away, afraid it’d make him angrier.

Your hands felt around behind you as you got closer and closer to the wall, but not before detecting a small table that almost had you stumbling backwards when you knocked it over. Along with some more pens, a vase fell, shattering about and leaving tiny shards for your feet to step on the one day you decided not to wear the house slippers Gaz always made fun of you for.

He could literally take your breath away, but the piercing sensation under you couldn’t compare to the expression he wore that was dripping with malice. You felt like prey under a predator, caged to the wall with nowhere to go.

Your back hit with a thump, your hands flying back to the wall but close to your figure. You’d wanted to put them between you two, hoping it’d prevent him from coming closer, but it wouldn’t work. So now you search for separation by forcing your cheek against the wall, eyes frantically darting back and forth between nothing in particular and the raging man towering over you. You don’t think you could look at him anymore.

You whisper, “S-Simon. Please-”

He was so close his breath was to your ear as he leaned over. You were scared. In fact, you’d spoke it so lightly, you don’t even remember if you did or if it was just a thought.

“This,” he was referring to today, “is absolute bare minimum. Your job is to take orders, then get it done with the least. Casualties. Possible. Do you understand me?” He enunciates every part of the sentence, every word, so deep and low but strong that you had no choice but for it to be engraved in your brain. He was infuriated.

You didn’t want to breath too hard, afraid it’d also upset him, so your shortness of breath had you quickly nodding. The last words had you trembling.

“Do you fuckin’ understand me?” His words seem to shake the room, booming loud and clear enough to make you flinch again and your eyes squeeze shut. It was even worse than before—you were terrified.

He made you feel like a little girl again, answering to her father that she could never seem to impress no matter what she did. That’s why she joined the army. So she could be in charge.

But it didn’t stop because your eyes had to blink open to reality, and the time bomb called a response was ticking, just like his already gone patience. It also didn’t stop things from getting blurry, and before you knew or could stop it, there was a tear gathering that eventually released to your cheek.

“Y-yes sir,” you whimper on unsteady breath, Closing your eyes in prayer he would retreat. He was there for a little longer, but once you felt his presence leave back into the heart of his room, you still didn’t move an inch. You eventually shuffled uncomfortably to the door, not even feeling okay enough to close it behind you. You dashed as fast as one could go with millions of tiny glass in their feet, and before tending to it, you shut your door and fell to your butt with your back pressed against it and cried.

It’d been so long since you’ve cried over this specific issue; you thought you’d left it behind you. You technically had, but it was reawakened. The mission fatigued you, and you were so exhausted, but the only reason you didn’t lay your head down in the bed and fall asleep was the glass that would distribute painfully throughout your sheets.

You wrapped your feet and slipped into the night with the occasional sob.

. .

Sometime in the night, your locked room was intruded, assumingely by the one man graced with a key. Large hands scooped you up effortlessly, before bringing your head to one shoulder. You felt warm lips seep into your forehead.

He whispered things to you, things you couldn’t hear, but your head was held protectively with his strong hand over your ear. You’d been rested in another bed, one that smelled like him. He removed the tape from your feet and actually cleaned your wounds before tucking you in and sliding in beside you.

He felt like he didn’t deserve it, the guilt enough to bring him to tears, but he also felt like he didn’t deserve to cry. So instead, he tucks your head into his body closer, praying the sleeping version of you would recognize this as an apology until the morning.

©️ hxltic pt.2!

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miserycanary · 3 months

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BREAK MY HEART INTO TWO ᡣ𐭩 ⤷ next

pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley & fem!reader

synopsis: Ghost has been feeling pissed off lately, and happens to lash out on you

tags: slight angst, misunderstandings, very slight mention of violence

He knew he was not in the right headspace. With the newly added task of training new recruits, the dead-end mission, and overall exhaustion. Ghost could feel his patience nearing nothing and he could feel it in his bones that he wouldn’t be able to control himself from lashing out soon— even if it was you.

That’s why he started to distance himself and avoid you like the plague. Only responding with grunts or one-word answers. It’s not the best action but he couldn’t think of anything else. Despite the frustration clouding his mind, he still vows to never hurt you. He promised you that; reassured you that he would never ever raise his voice at you, his hand stroking your back and kissing your temple, after you told him about your past one drunken night.

The first time Simon came home and didn’t immediately wrap his arm around you, nosing the crook of your neck, you knew something was up. You didn’t push the matter though. Brushing it off as something trivial and proceeding to go your usual routine. You did notice things that you never brought up with him: heavy footsteps, the lack of teasing from him, and uncharacteristically never clinging onto you

What finally pushed you to visit the base was when Si, your husband who would go through all levels of hell just to be close to you and never lets a night pass without you with him in bed, suddenly tells you he will be sleeping on the couch. It baffled you. This is the same man who wrapped all his limbs around to keep you from leaving after a big fight. The same man that acts like a big baby when you tell him you’re gonna be away on a work event. Suddenly, the idea of him getting bored of you and finding entertainment with another woman intrusively swirled in your mind.

Were you too loud? Too chatty? Clingy? Maybe you didn’t satisfy him enough. Maybe he wanted a wife available to always cook for him after work. It scared you. You love him; love him enough to change just to keep him.

You needed to talk to him. Whether he likes it or not.

“Price, please. Just call him for me?” The captain looks at you, hesitating. Even though he was aware of Ghost’s thinning temper and didn’t want to put his comrade’s wife in a position that could result in a fight, he also knew that you needed to solve this. He scratches his beard, nervously looking at you.

“Sweetheart, I don’t know. The man.. he.. he hasn’t been the best these days? Maybe you should go home and wait for him—“. You cut him off, “he doesn’t want to talk to me! Please, just 5 minutes and I won’t even cause a scene. I promise!” With a sigh, he finally relents and tells you to stay there while he calls for your husband. You crack a smile, nodding and feeling a sense of relief wash over you.

Moments after being alone, a new recruit (you assume considering you’ve never met this man nor did Simon ever mention him) approaches you with a low wolf whistle. His hands find your waist before you can even comprehend what’s happening, pulling you close to his chest.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing here?” You freeze, and disgust starts to bubble up inside of you. You plant your hand on his chest in an attempt to pull away in fear that Simon would witness this and think differently. Before you could say to leave you alone, a voice booms out. A voice you know too well.

“Y/N!” Simon takes three strides and he was near enough to pull the recruit away from you and land a punch. Scandalous gasps went around while the yells of other members went inaudible to you. You stood there in horror as Price stepped in, pushing Ghost away and yelling to stand down. This was not your Simon. Your Simon would never be this violent in front of you— he was too scared to frighten you and do something to push you away. These weren’t the same hands carried you as if a delicate flower he plucked as well. The hands that routinely offers to brush your hair every night and washes you every sex session while he kisses your shoulders, showering you with endless praise with a voice filled with adoration.

Ghost whips his head. His cold stare made you falter, taking a step back. Something you never thought you’d do when faced with him. You could see his mask move, undoubtedly hiding his disappointment and furrowed eyebrows.

“What are you doing here?” He seethes, roughly gripping your arm tight enough to leave a bruise.

“I-I... I wanted to see you—“ Before you could even finish, Ghost groans with frustration. “I fucking told you to not come to the base. Were you even thinking? Use that pea-sized brain of yours once in a while! Just.. leave me alone and go home.”

Silence. The whole base quiets down with his words, a tense atmosphere building up. You freeze. From the corner of your eye, you notice Price’s contort with concern and hesitation if he should meddle.

The pain you felt was indescribable. It was as if Ghost took your heart and crushed it with his bare hands. Your breathing got labored, your eyes flicked down, taking deep breaths to hold back tears. Before the realization has fully settled, you pull away from Ghost, mumbling something incoherent. In that moment, Ghost knew he fucked up. He hurt his darling flower. He hurt the only person he treasured. The person that stayed with him through thick and thin. The person he married, vowed in front of God to love forever and to never hurt.

“No, baby— I didn’t mean to—“

You cut him off, telling him you were going back just like he wanted. You didn’t even call it your home. You always do. Saying it with pride to have something to call home with him.

God, what has he done?

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱: dare I say this man needs a break :} Second part is out. Little detail: I use ‘Simon’ during Y/N’s pov and Ghost for the rest, but used Ghost for her after he yelled at her. :3

dividers by @cafekitsune

Please reblog!! Ask is open!

⟢ taglist is open!! Comment if you want to be tagged in the next posts.

check out my other works in the masterlist: ୭!

#simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod mwii #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod #simon riley x you #simon riley cod #light angst #ghost mw2 #ghost angst #ghost fic #simon ghost x you #canary’s melodies

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thewriterg · 8 months

Text

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐰

pairing(s); simon riley x fem!reader, reader x toxic family

summary; You tried to keep it together to keep him away from it to not get attached but it only take one situation for you to come crumbling down reaching out to simon for comfort —angstober day;14—

word count; 900+

warning(s); age gap, sweetheart is her/your own warning, thinking college student reader so like early twenties and simon is about mid to late forties, arguments, crying, angst, kisses, pet names, mention of violence, simon abt to risk it all, and language

playlist; nothings new by rio romeo

A/n:—GIFs; @astrolux111 & @silenthqll— GIF does not determine race

Simon was up it didn’t take much to wake him and when he heard the footsteps approaching his flat front door he was up the handgun from his scratched wooden nightstand that he’d bought off some older man who he was sure had passed to the unknown by now

The rough knocks on his door frame were demanding and rushed as if the person behind the wood was on time crunch he approached the door the firearm clutched in his hand his finger taking no time to rest on the trigger his hand was on the nob before he swung the door open his eyebrows furrowing not expecting to see what was in his line of sight

Your eyes were red and puffy tear streaks stringing your face your hair out of place as well as your shifted clothes Simon swiftly setting down his defense on standing table next to his door grabbing your arm to bring you into the shelter of his home he checks over your body to find nothing alarming but the soaking wet clothes clinging to your body

“S-simon” Is all you can get out as your body racked with sobs you shoulders hunched and he wraps an arm around you littered with tattoos your face hidden in his chest covered by the cotton tshirt that was a little small on him your cold wet clothes transferring onto his as shushes you slowly moving you into his bedroom sitting you on his mattress slipping your drenched shirt over your head as you sniffle your head throbbing from the continuous tears and energy spent you didn’t realize you were dressed in dry attire until you were getting picked up and suddenly the weighed down fabric wasn’t overwhelming you anymore your legs wraps around the blondes torso lying your head on his shoulder you body still shivering as you felt yourself dip onto his worn mattress rubbing his hands down your goosebump covered arms

“Come on love what’s the matter with my sweet girl, hmm? Tell Si what’s the matter” Something triggers in you causing more streams of tears to fall down your face and you try to speak choking out incoherent words and sniffles simon rubs a hand over your hair pressing a kiss your forehead his brain screaming at him to to go punch the nearest punk out on the street because there has to be something, something major to keep you acting this way

“I don’t want you to leave me” You body wracks you chest feels like it’s gonna cave any minute you feel like your airway you’ll be cut off and your sound will be free from your body

“Sweetheart it’s gonna take more than a few tears to get rid of me, matter of fact you won’t be able to you understand?” You nod your head before your spewing everything weighing your chest down to the floor about you family and how they make you feel more down then you’d ever been without meaning to the situation I particular causing your weaker construction to tip over and collapse your siblings couldn’t keep their hands out of your things and this time it had did it you’d been saving for a new laptop for class it cost more than you liked to admit and your sister god you loved her but she was at the age where she couldn’t keep her hands off of thing your things to be exact and long story short your laptop was broken in your sisters hands you berated her scolded her it was the least you could do for the trouble she caused you

When your parents arrived home you expected them to finish the job rip your sister a new one she ran into your father arms rambling of how mean and what a monster you are and even after you told your parents about what she had done she’s barely get a slap on the wrist you were older you shouldn’t yell at the younger ones defending your honor and standing your ground got you yelled at a stinging mark on your cheek

“My h-head hurts” You whimpered after a moment of silence and it was true you didn’t know how long you’ve been crying for and your head felt like it was going to explode Simon sets you down on the mattress briefly your head still spinning and pounding in your ears he leaves and returns again two pain killers that look like a spec of nothing in his palm he sets and on your cheek gently prying your jaw open setting the drugs on your tongue before you swallow the he praises you for it and your realize how much of a all time low you are

“Come on sweetheart no more tears you know it’ll make it worse” This time you’re not sobbing from the pain your chest but rather the pain your head hiccups slipping from your lips falling apart in his grasp and he held you like he always will and as he always had

He’d glue all your broke pieces back together

NEW; sweetheart and simon headcanons

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qwimchii · 8 months

Text

𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘱𝘵 2) — 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘙𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘤𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯!𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘤 — 3k

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵(?)

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘥𝘰𝘮-𝘪𝘴𝘩!𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘷, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘮𝘴, 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢, 𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦, 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘺 & 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 😵‍💫

note: not proofread... pls excuse any shitty grammar 🥲

pt 1, pt 3

Simon held you to his promises. he held pinned your leg up while he fucked you through another earth splitting orgasm on his fingers, long and thick and stretching you with a careful practiced hand. prying your thighs wide open with a tight grip, warm strong chest right at your back and his deep voice in your ear.

“like this, luvie? still want more?”

when you had whined, rolling your hips down onto the curl of his big fingers, he had praised you. praise, praise, praise—you couldn’t get enough of the sweet words he whispered against the shell of your ear, lips warm and soft.

“good girl. so, so good. c’mon, i need to see you cum, pretty girl.”

in reply, you had raked your hand over the muscle of his forearms, drinking in the sight of his full sleeve of dark ink with a heady greediness as you keened and whined his name.

then, when you soaked his hand in a thick ooze of your juices, he had sucked them off his own hand like they were the sweetest thing in the world.

“where do you wanna be when i fuck you, baby?” he asked with a mouthful of fingers, voice rough but sweet all at once.

“under you,” you whispered weakly, letting him manhandle you into the blankets, legs lolled out as he pushed them up and all pliant from the double orgasmic bliss hanging over you like a hazy cloud.

he leaned down to swirl his tongue around your sensitive nipples till your hands were in his hair, begging and pleading for more.

you watched him slide off the bed, dark gaze still on you as he unbuckled his belt, nothing in the room but your shallow breath and the metal clicks and rustles as he kicked off his pants, prowling back onto the bed with a tight looking pair of boxers that were stained with a dark patch around his strained cock.

impatient, you hooked a thumb into the waist of them but he pinned your hand above your head with a low grunted warning, stooping down to run his nose over the skin of your collarbones and neck, licking over your skin.

“eager?”

you nodded quickly, spreading your thighs a bit wider for him as he nestled between your legs, impatience only growing when he kept sucking at your neck and jaw.

finally, after what felt like forever, he shifted back, admiring the spit and slick over your skin and the light pink marks over your collarbones before pushing down his boxers, thick and veiny cock springing up against his stomach.

you moaned softly at the sight, resisting the urge to paw at the aching tension between your thighs. he kicked his boxers off somewhere so that they landed on the floor and then he leaned over you, knuckles braced against the bed beside your head.

“ready, baby?” he asked, low and throaty as he picked up a hand to cup your cheek softly, rubbing his thumb over your lips before hooking it inside so that it pressed firmly against your tongue.

you could only hum, wrapping your lips around his thumb and sucking on it, satisfied when you drew a gentle groan from the back of Simon’s throat.

“so fuckin’ pretty,” he rasped, reaching down to pump his cock a couple times before lining up against your entrance.

after a bated breath, you felt a familiar, pleasurable stretch, back arching at the sensation as he pushed the leaking head of his cock in slowly, grip tight on your hips and his breath shallow.

once he was seated fully inside, pushing your thighs up so you could hook them around your waist, hips flush to your ass, he leaned down to pepper more kisses over your chest and tits as he ground into your heat.

you whined, hands snaking into his hair and pulling.

“move please,” you squeaked, eyes pricking with tears at how delicious the head of his cock felt rubbing against that sweet spot inside you, how sensitive you were after two orgasms.

“patience, baby,” he whispered, nose brushing over your own and black pupils blow-wide gazing down at you, blonde lashes looking long and full in the dim light.

you crept your fingers to the base of his head, pushing him down to your lips, humming when he easily complied. his lips enveloped your own, soft, warm, and wet when his tongue slid along yours. you would’ve got lost in it if he didn’t lift his hips and roll them back down, sliding against the gummy, textured walls of your cunt.

the movement left you breathless and wanting, fingers tracing from his hair to his muscled, broad shoulders as you dug your nails into the flesh. he practically growled into your mouth, fucking you with a slow, sensual intensity that left you squirming beneath him.

the dark hair littered along his navel brushed over your clit when every thrust, and his lips trailed down to clasp onto your swollen nipples, pinning you down to the bed with his large hands wrapped around your forearms. pinning down so you couldn’t do anything but squirm.

“what a perfect little pussy,” he grunted against your skin, the blatant praise making your face heat up. “finally got you exactly where i want you.”

the words were so hushed that you almost missed them, but the sparking ache deep in your tummy clutched onto his words, a spasm going through your core at the prospect that Simon had you trapped exactly where he wanted you—squirming beneath him, unable to move, unable to do anything as you just took every inch of his big cock.

“just take it, pretty,” he whispered into your ear, and you whined, bucking your hips up in time with his own thrusts so the hair at his naval rubbed against your clit harder.

“Simon,” you warned, shocked at the pleasure rippling through you.

his shifted, towering above you as he fucked you just a bit faster, those deep, rolling, slow thrusts pushing you closer and closer to a chasmic edge. the pinched look of concentration on his face—intense and clouding his eyes, jaw clenched and sharp in the dim light—sent another spasm through you.

“gonna cum on my cock?” he asked in a heady, rough tone. there was a ghost of a smirk gracing his lips that twisted the heat in your tummy harder.

“mhmm,” you squeaked, squirming in his immovable grasp.

“s’okay,” he whispered, leaning down to peck your forehead. “you can do it. let go for me, baby.”

the twitchy ache of your clit was brushing against his naval and the way he was fucking you so slow and sensual and not even chasing his own pleasure and leaving you a writhing, overstimulated mess beneath him—

you came all over his cock, spasming tight around him as you moaned out, breathy and whiny as he fucked you through it, murmuring sweet little praises in your ear as a dreamy white haze blanketed your mind.

you were lost in the sheets, body leaden and soft as you sunk down into the mattress, barely registering his gentle touch against your skin until the rough pads of his fingers were rubbing against your clit.

you jolted up with a gasp, snatching his wrist to push his hand away, overstimulated and oversensitive and—

“alright, sweet thing?” he asked softly, kissing your cheek.

you whined, pushing at his hand, but he was just so much stronger than you. “Simon, please—”

“shh,” he hushed, slowly pulling out of you without a warning, a raw gasp torn from your throat.

you felt empty and cold without the warmth of him as he sat back, a thin sheen of sweat making the muscles of his stomach gleam in the low light. you looked further down, seeing a creamy white coating over his swollen cock, flushed tip leaking pearls of precum.

whimpering, you crawled forward as best as your limp body could move, eyes darting to his as your lips parted, tongue swiping along your lower lip as a silent offering to take your mouth as well.

but he just pushed you back to the bed, rolling you so your cheek was pressed to the mattress, hands braced against the bed as he arched your ass up just a little so your tummy was still against the sheets.

“how does this feel?” he whispered, and you shivered when you felt a finger trace down your spine, stopping just above your ass.

“good,” you whimpered, craning your neck to look at him from over your shoulder.

the look on his face was insatiable. almost unrecognizable as he stared at you in the position, muttering a low curse and then something like pretty as he swung a leg over the back of your thighs, cock pushing up right between your asscheeks.

you whined, reaching back to grip at his meaty thigh, willing him to move—to do something even if your body was still twitched with sensitivity.

“you sure?” he asked, smoothing a hand over your ass and cupping it lightly before squeezing.

you yelped, jolting forward, but his weight on the back of your thighs caged you down to the mattress.

“think you can cum again?” he pressed on, groping your ass now.

you nodded against the sheets.

“words, luvie.”

“yes,” you whispered, nose wrinkling up with embarrassment. he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. you felt the sticky tip of his cock press against the tight rim of your swollen cunt.

“still gonna bake me those brownies if you do?”

he slowly pushed in, your little laugh cleaved by a pitched whine as you pressed back against him so he bottomed out with a wet smack against your ass.

“hm?” his pinched the fat of your ass gently and you squirmed.

“yeah, anything,” you gasped against the sheets, wanting him to just move already.

“anythin’?” he probed, sounding almost bored as he continued to just massage your ass.

you were about to send him a confused look over your shoulder when there was a light smack and an acute sting in your asscheek, ripping a loud moan from your throat. the sting turned into tingles of pleasure.

“Simon?” you gasped, feeling high and delirious when his hips pulled back and snapped into your ass, his grip on the flesh borderline possessive as he started fucking you. faster now. rougher than before.

“what is it, baby?” he asked, voice deceptively soft and even when he smacked your ass again, lighter this time, almost affectionate as the sting dispersed over your body in a shower of tingles, pricking heavy tears up in your eyes.

“s’good,” you admitted, the tears spilling from your eyes when you jolted as another smack came down on your other asscheek.

“yeah?” his voice was breathy—less even when it was pressed right against your ear.

you searched behind your shoulder for him, making contact with the soft skin of his shoulder and something mottled beneath your fingertips, a scar perhaps, when he caught your wrists and pressed them beside your head. he pinned you beneath him as he fucked you down into the mattress, your swollen clit brushing against the sheets with every thrust.

“your ex fuck you this good, sweet thing?” his tone was throaty, aggressive, bordering on something dangerous and lustful and possessive. it sent your mind reeling.

“never,” you admitted, more tears spilling from your eyes when your eyelids drooped shut, just taking his rough fucking like the good girl you were and loving every second of it.

“ever since i first saw you,” he rasped, breath shallow and fast as his hips slammed into your ass, “wanted to fuck this sweet pussy.”

a raw moan was ripped from your throat, your cunt throbbing around his thick length stretching you wide open.

“bakin’ me sweet things. such a sweet girl. donating to vets n’shit. fuck.”

that spongy spot deep within you throbbed with a wild, pulsing need.

“my own soft ‘nd pretty little housewife.”

at that, the tight coil in your tummy snapped and you were coming around his length, your fourth orgasm tearing through you like a blazing wildfire, sweeping you away somewhere delicious and sweet and distant. you were faintly aware of the tears staining your cheeks and his soft whispers in your ear.

“such a good girl. my good girl. mine.”

shaking with overstimulation, his rough thrusts suddenly overwhelmed you, twitchy clit brushing against the mattress stringing you through razor sharp sensations. little whines and whimpers falling from your mouth, he gently shushed you, reaching down with a strong arm to bind around your waist, pulling your hips up from the mattress as he continued to rut into you.

“shh, shh, s'okay. you can take it.”

and you could. wanted to, for the first time in a long time. wanted to please him not just for him but to please yourself—because his pleasure melded into your own and it was submerging you into overwhelming waves of pleasure, half-begging him to just fill you up already.

“please Simon,” you gasped, feeling him smile against the nape of your neck.

you jolted when his arm bound around your waist snuck down, fingers rubbing at your clit as he grunted in your ear, blurring into slurred groans as he reeled closer to an edge. just the sound of him so close and needy and desperate for it had you coming all over again, ripping you through an orgasm that you didn’t even know you were approaching.

soon after, he was spilling into you with a low tortured groan, face pressed into your neck as a slimy, hot liquid rushed into your womb. it filled you, leaving you full and satiated when he collapsed to the bed, practically crushing you beneath him as you both fought to catch your breaths.

after some more silent moments in the dark, you felt Simon’s hand stroking at your hair, returning soft and sweet just as he had been at the start of the night.

“gonna pull out now,” he warned, and you just nodded, feeling sleepy as he clambered to his hands, sliding out his softening cock inch by inch until you were empty, save for the gooey mix of cum and saliva and ooze between your thighs.

you didn’t bother to move, just laid limp against the bed as you heard him moving around behind you, grabbing something from your nightstand as he gently lifted your leg.

a tissue, you realized, as he wiped your skin free of most slimy debris.

“alright, luvie?”

you nodded. his warm hands were at your back, smoothing over your back and sore ass before he was gently turning you over to your side. you met eyes with him from where he sat at the edge of the bed, gaze dark and softened in the dim light.

“you sure?” he probed, thumbing over your tear stained cheek.

“yeah,” you croaked, lazily lifting a hand to touch his back, broad and adorned with a few scars before you.

you ran your fingers over a textured one, fingertips tracing lower. you gasped when you spotted a green and yellow mottled bruise over his lower back. about the size of a peach. you ran your fingers over it.

eyes flitting up to his in question, he twisted around, clambering into bed beside you.

he pulled you flush into his bigger, muscled form that easily swallowed you up, warm and strong and the steady swell of his chest right by your ear.

“compliments of the job,” he explained.

his fingertips spidered over your throat and down to your sore breasts.

“will you be leaving again soon?” you asked, craning your head to look up at him.

he stared at you for a long moment. “not for two weeks.”

you nodded. two weeks was all you would need.

“stay with me,” you offered, voice soft and open. you could only hope it didn’t sound half as desperate as you felt.

his brows rose slightly. “m’only just across the hall.”

at that, you blushed, feeling sheepish as you gazed up at him. “i just mean that…”

you didn’t know what to say. what you said was exactly what you meant. and looking up into his strong, honest gaze, you couldn’t force your way through a bluff.

“i’ll bake for you every day,” you promised, biting down a smile when he grinned, wide and sort of wolfish.

he leaned down, crushing you to his chest as he peppered kisses across your cheek.

“in that case…” he whispered, low and sultry by your ear as his other hand ducked down to your naval, creeping closer to your cunt.

with a choked guffaw, you squirmed away from him, relishing in the way he laughed—silent and suppressed. but looking over at the way his shoulders shook, hiding his face behind a palm pressed to his eyes, it was laughter nonetheless.

“don’t start, Riley,” you chided him, weaseling your way beneath the covers and turning so your back was to him.

“no first name basis?” you could feel him prod at your shoulder.

“maybe if you sleep with me,” you said, letting your eyes close.

he slid into the blankets behind you, curling a strong arm around your waist—the inked one, you noticed with a quiet giddiness—and tugging so that you were against his bare chest. his sigh, low and rumbled, spread a tingle through your back.

“no brownies either?” he asked, sleepy and raspy by your ear.

you hummed. “in the morning.”

with a gentle grip, he turned your chin so that you could see his face. just one of his eyes was cracked open, peering down at you and then your lips. you craned up to kiss him, soft and sweet and slow. so slow it felt like you were melting. so slow your heart was bursting with warmth.

“in the morning,” he confirmed against your lips, laxing back down to the bed and curling around you—a strong, protective force at your back that coaxed you into a sweet sleep, his soft breath by your ear, and even sweeter words on his tongue.

“i missed you, sweet thing.”

taglist: @ivybeeloved @rayamaya

#simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost smut #ghost angst #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost fluff #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst

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romanticintheory · 1 month

Note

Hello!!!! I was wondering if you could write an angst with Ghost/Simon where the reader was too clingy after having a bad day and he lashed out on her but he didn't think anything of it because the next day the reader was acting normal. He only noticed after a few weeks when reader became more distant and quiet. Feel free to ignore if it's too weird or you don't like it!!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

this one is dedicated to all the ones who were hurt and never got that apology. hope this alleviates the pain.

simon "ghost" riley x gn!reader || masterlist || request rules

-there was no one specific reason as to why today turned out to be a bad day. it just was.

-from accidentally burning yourself trying to make breakfast after waking up late to having to deal with the most insufferable customers, it just wasn't your day today.

-but it was okay, because you had simon to return to when everything was said and done.

-the frown on your face immediately softens the moment you see him walk through the door to your shared home. as soon as he pulls his mask and boots off, you make your way toward him and engulf him in a tight hug.

-you are painfully (but understandably) unaware of the thin veil of his patience and the frustration that had been brewing within him in the past few hours. he half-heartedly returns the embrace.

-"how was your day, si?" you ask him gently.

-"fine," he responds shortly, hoping there isn't more to the conversation.

-even after you pull away from him, you trail behind him as he moves around the house. this wasn't irregular behavior from either of you. simon wasn't usually the most talkative person in the room, anyway, but he loved to hear your voice. that was one of the things he loved about the two of you together; you filled the space he couldn't.

-today, though, was different. he was pissed off at all different kinds of people. for some reason, couldn't bring himself to tell you that he was having a bad day and needed some space, especially because it was evident you were having a bad one yourself.

-so when he turned on his heel after listening to your rambles for as much as he could take and lashed out at you, he tried not to think about the unbearable amount of guilt seeping into his veins.

-"would you just stop clinging to me for five minutes? god, 's like i can't get away from you or your constant fucking talking!"

-you had heard stories, mostly from simon, about the kind of man he could be when pushed to his limit. mostly, it was of violent, physical acts when it came to work or protecting the ones he loved. other times, he would tell you about when he'd lash out at others just like he did to you, now, and he always told it to you with a quiet fear. there was an unspoken meaning to him telling you about the times he's acted out: i don't want to do the same to you. i don't want to hurt you.

-but here he was, towering over you with a coldness in his eyes and a dryness in his throat from the sheer volume of his words.

-averting your gaze from his, you let out a meek, "'m sorry," and watch as he slams the door in front of your face.

-when he slinks into bed next to your sleeping form later that night, ridden with shame and guilt, he misses the tear-stained face hidden from him. after his outburst, you felt like all of the energy in your body had been taken away from you and retreated to bed early. you cried on and off for hours.

-you always thought you had a clinging problem. it was an insecurity you carried with you starting from childhood. friends would become acquaintances and family would keep you at arms-length. after years of believing the issue was you, simon walked into your life and told you different.

-if you stopped talking because you thought he stopped listening and was uninterested, he'd always turn back to you and genuinely ask why you stopped talking. whenever you apologized for hugging him for too long or asking to spend time with him for the third time that week, he'd always tilt his head at you and say in that low, sincere voice, "but i love you?"

-for all those reasons, you tried to give him the benefit of the doubt despite how much he hurt you. so, when he tries to bring it up the next morning, you do your best to brush it off. he was having a bad day. that was all. no need to make a fuss.

-"listen, love," he calls to you as you pop your piece of toast out of the toaster. "about last night-"

-completely disregarding his words, you look at the clock and stuff your phone into your pocket. "it's fine. honestly, simon," you tell him with the best smile you could muster. "i'm gonna be late. i'll see you tonight."

-you were so adamant on getting out as quick as possible that simon had no time to respond. he thought to himself that maybe he was making a bigger deal out of it than you. maybe there were no hard feelings and you were completely fine. after all, he was always overly worried for you, anyway.

-so, when you came home, he didn't mention it. it was as if last night didn't happen, and the two of you were perfectly fine. there were times where simon thought you were being a bit more restrained in your movements or words, but he tried to chalk it up to just him being overly paranoid. you said it was fine, so it was better not to push you on it, right?

-at first, you were doing really good at keeping yourself from overthinking the situation. however, as time went on and you paid more attention to how you acted around your boyfriend, you began to wonder if you were really that clingy.

-as the week progressed, your state of mind would deteriorate. what if it wasn't just a bad day? what if that was what he thought the entire time and was just waiting for the right moment to tell you? had he just been trying to cheer you up about your insecurities the entire time? and if he was, how much of this relationship was even real, then?

-the more you thought about it, the more distant you became. the last thing you wanted to do was make simon feel like he was being suffocated by you. you slowly stopped initiating physical affection with him, restricted talking about your day to a few sentences, and tried to answer simon's questions in one word when possible.

-he notices. of course he notices, it was like a stranger was living where you were supposed to be, and he missed it. he missed you.

-he asks you about your change when you're getting ready for bed, pulling the rest of your nightshirt over your head. despite being exhausted from work and looking like you were sitting out in the wind, he thought you never looked more ethereal than you did now.

-"(y/n)," he said.

-"hm?" you hummed to him, not turning toward his direction. you sat down on the edge of your side of the bed, turning off the lamp at the same time.

-your lack of emotional presence was starting to eat at him. he sat down next to you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight and forcing you to lean toward him.

-"you alright?"

-"yes. why?"

-"i dunno, you just seem..." his eyes tried to find yours, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. "quiet."

-it was then that you looked at him, and it was scary to simon because he couldn't make out the emotion in your expression. there was nothing he could read.

-"isn't that-" you had to pause to try and stabilize your wavering voice. "isn't that what you wanted?"

-there was a tension-filled silence that settled in the room, and for a second you were worried that what you said was somehow incredibly offensive.

-finally, he chokes out, "i'm sorry."

-again, you try to muster up a smile. "it's fine, i already told you. i should've known you wanted space."

-"no."

-"no?"

-"it was my fault," he explains. "how could you 'ave known? i didn't tell you i wasn't in the mood that day, and that's not even considering the way i talked to you. i shouldn't have- nothing excuses what i said to you."

-still, you were convinced you were to blame. "well, i have a history of being clingy, so," you were trying to come up with more excuses for him. for most of your life, you had decided that you were the issue. it couldn't be any other way, right?

-"i know. it's one of the things i love you for," he says quietly. "not to sound cheesy but it's what makes you you, and i don't want you to lose that jus' 'cause i'm still shitty at communication."

-you knew in some capacity he was right. there was no excuse for how he talked to you, but the next words you wanted to say evaded you.

-simon thought about talking some more. instead, he grasped your back with one hand and slid his other underneath your legs, repositioning you on his lap. it was like a silent plea from him, a way of proving that he wanted to be close to you just as much as you wanted to be close to him.

-"you're sure i'm not too clingy?" you ask tentatively.

-"positive," he reassures you, rubbing small circles on your back with his thumb. "you wanna know something?"

-"what?"

-"if i wasn't so fucked up-"

-"you're not fucked up."

-"right." you never let him talk badly about himself. that was something he was still getting used to after all this time. being loved and learning to love himself. "well, if i didn't grow up the way i did and became the person i am, i'd probably be way clingier than you."

-"that's impossible," you deny, unconsciously letting yourself lean into his touch.

-"you don't know how much i want you. if my mind and body would let me, i'd be close to you all the time, showing you the attention you deserve."

-"you give me plenty."

-"agree to disagree," he stops with the circles and pulls you impossibly closer to his body. "but 'm trying. 'm trying to learn to let you love me and to not be afraid to love you. 'm sorry, love. i stopped trying that night, and i think it'll be the death of me."

-you let his words sink in, a thoughtful look on your face.

-"next time you'll tell me, right? what you're thinking?"

-"pinkie promise," he agrees, letting the hand under your legs slide out and raise his pinkie finger toward you.

-in return, you link your pinkie with his to seal the promise, and it feels as though the heavy tension in the air has cleared away.

-"i love you," he says, feeling bold from his previous admission.

-"i love you, too." there's that smile on your face. he never realized until now how he probably couldn't live without it.

-he kisses you on the lips, and for a moment the two of you just stay there in each other's arms, forgiving the past, healing the present, and dreaming of the future together.

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sinkovia · 5 months

Text

Consequences

-Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Angst, mention of miscarriage, mention of death, blood.

Alternative ending

You sat on your bed, a book in hand, your other hand gently resting on your stomach. The room was filled with a warm and serene atmosphere as you flipped through the pages. You were reading about first-time parents and tips on what to do when you first bring your baby home. It was a moment of quiet joy, and you couldn't help but smile.

You were happier than ever, your face radiant with the anticipation of the life growing inside you. After a string of painful miscarriages, you had made it past the usual time period of uncertainty. You were now six months pregnant, and the relief of reaching this milestone was evident in your expression.

You and Ghost had been trying for a baby for the past two years. Each time you got pregnant, you miscarried around the three-month mark. His deployments often left you feeling lonely in the house, and it was time for you to expand your family. The idea of having children had always been a shared dream, and you were now well on your way to realizing it.

Ghost had just returned home, his hands full of grocery bags, which he placed on the table with a heavy thud. He was in the midst of a heated phone call, and you could hear his loud, strained voice from the adjacent room. Closing the book, you set it down on the nightstand and slowly made your way to the kitchen, your footsteps filled with a sense of anticipation.

His voice grew louder as you approached, you strained to listen as you heard his words spill from his mouth, the tension and frustration evident in his tone. He cursed in exasperation, abruptly ending the call and slamming the phone down on the kitchen counter, the resounding noise echoing in the room.

"Is everything okay?" you asked him, walking up slowly, your voice filled with concern. He took a deep breath, his gaze heavy and tired, and then turned to face you.

"Price is deploying me," his words landed like a heavy blow. Your heart sank, and your eyes began to well up with tears.

"What do you mean Price is deploying you? You told me that you talked to him about not sending you on missions while I was pregnant," your voice shaking with emotion. You took a step closer, desperation creeping into your tone.

"You did talk to him, right?" searching for any sign of reassurance. But he wouldn't meet your gaze, his eyes fixed on the counter. Your heartache deepened, and a single tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek.

"Simon!" you cried, flinching as he slammed his fists down onto the counter. He raised his voice, his frustration turning into anger.

"For fuck's sake, Y/n! No, I didn't talk to him!" he shouted, and you were stunned into silence. The words he spoke were a painful betrayal. You remembered vividly that he had assured you he'd spoken to Price about this.

"I never got around to it, okay? I didn't think you would make it this far. I assumed you would miscarry again, so I didn't bother telling him. I'm sorry, okay?" he admitted, his voice laced with guilt. The room felt heavy with the weight of his confession, and disbelief washed over you as you struggled to comprehend what he had just revealed. Your heart felt as if it had been torn in two. The man you loved and trusted had let you down in a way you never thought possible.

"Are you serious, Simon?" The disbelief and pain in your voice was thick as you confronted him. "This whole time, you were just pretending to be happy, but in reality, you were just waiting for me to miscarry again?" The weight of your words hung heavily in the air, and you fixed your gaze on him, waiting for his response.

He couldn't even bring himself to look you in the eye as you spoke to him, and his voice was heavy with guilt as he admitted, "Yes." Your tears were now falling freely, and your chest ached with the pain of betrayal. He moved past you, grabbing his keys from the counter, his actions leaving you bewildered.

"Where are you going?" you asked, your voice a mixture of confusion and hurt. You moved closer, positioning yourself between him and the door, your determination to address the situation clear in your eyes.

"I'm going out; I need a drink," he responded, his words sounding callous and uncaring. You scoffed in disbelief, feeling the need to get to the bottom of this situation.

"No, you're not. We need to talk about this—" You reached for his hand, but he forcefully ripped it away, turning to glare down at you, his anger laid bare.

"There's nothing to fucking talk about, y/n. I'm deploying in two weeks, and nothing will change that!" He raised his voice, his frustration evident.

Your heart ached as you took a step back, struggling to understand his behavior. "Why are you acting like this? Why are you yelling at me?" you asked, your voice trembling as tears continued to fall.

"Because I'm fucking stressed, y/n. I didn't think you would make it this far into your pregnancy. Now, I'm getting deployed, and I don't know when I'll be back," he snapped, his own frustrations and anxieties taking over.

"Why are you taking it out on me?" You couldn't hold back the pain in your voice. "It's not my fault you didn't tell Price. You should have told him. I'm six months pregnant, Simon! How long were you going to wait until you told him?"

"Did I say it was your fault?!" he shot back, his anger flaring. "I know what I should have done, but I didn't, and now we are here. Now, get the fuck out of my way."

The harshness in his words cut deep, and you looked up at him in disbelief. He had never spoken to you like this before. While you knew his temper could be volatile, he had never taken it out on you in such a way.

"No, I don't want you to leave," you pleaded, trying to keep him from walking out the door. "We need to work this out, Simon. You know how I feel about things like this." You were insistent on resolving conflicts, always wanting to talk things through.

"I don't care how you feel; I don't want to talk about this right now," he retorted, his voice filled with frustration. "I need a fucking drink, so get out of my way." The desperation in his words hung in the air, and you couldn't believe the person he was becoming in this moment.

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. "No, I won't let you leave." Your resolve was strong, and you were determined to keep him here until you could address the issues at hand. His frustration had pushed him to a point where he was leaving the house in anger, but you couldn't let that happen. You would never let him leave the house when you guys were upset with one another. It was always something you were insistent on.

His hands went to your shoulders, and he harshly moved you out of the way. You stumbled, almost losing your balance, but you steadied yourself. He walked out the door, slamming it behind him, leaving you alone with a heavy heart and a whirlwind of emotions. You couldn't hold back the overwhelming flood of emotions that consumed you, and you collapsed onto the floor, your body wracked with deep, wrenching sobs.

In all the time you had been together, he had never laid his hands on you in anger like that. His temper was known to flare, but this was an entirely new level of intensity, especially considering he was the one at fault for the situation. You remained on the floor for what felt like an eternity, weeping into your hands, your heart heavy with a mixture of pain, betrayal, and despair. It was an hour of solitude in your sorrow before you mustered the strength to get up.

Getting up to your feet, you made your way to your room, your phone in hand, desperate to reach him. You attempted to call him, your fingers trembling. But just as you were about to press the call button, a sharp and agonizing pain coursed through your stomach, stopping you in your tracks. You were begging, repeating the words, "Please, not again," as you made your way to the bathroom, tears filling your eyes. You were in agony and feared for the well-being of your baby.

You collapsed on the bathroom floor as the pain became nearly unbearable, unlike anything you had experienced before. It felt as though your insides were being torn apart, and you couldn't bear it. With trembling hands and tears streaming down your face, you pressed the dial button and called Simon, your voice choked with pain and desperation.

You cried out as the agony radiated through your body, each moment feeling like an eternity. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer from him. It eventually went to voicemail, leaving you with a sinking feeling of abandonment and despair. As the pain intensified and your vision blurred, you set the phone down on the bathroom floor, your sobs echoing through the empty room.

Your trembling hands moved between your legs, coming away soaked in blood. Panic and fear gripped your heart as you propped yourself up against the toilet, leaning over it for support. Desperation consumed you as you reached for your phone once more, this time dialing 911 in a desperate attempt to get help.

But the blood on your fingers made it difficult, and the phone slipped from your grasp, landing with a sickening splash in the toilet. Your heart sank as you watched the screen turn black, your lifeline to assistance lost in the crimson-stained water.

Tears streamed down your face as you sat on the bathroom floor, gripping your stomach. You watched as the blood began to pool beneath you, and you cried out in anguish. You mustered all the strength you could, attempting to get up from the cold, hard bathroom floor. You needed to get help. Panic and agony coursed through you as you struggled to rise.

The pain was unbearable, and you knew something was terribly wrong. This was beyond the point of a typical miscarriage, given how far along you were in your pregnancy.

As you moved, a searing, relentless pain tore through your body, causing you to scream out in sheer agony. You lay on the bathroom floor, helpless and writhing in pain, your body refusing to cooperate.

An hour had passed, and in your hands, you held your stillborn baby. You sat against the bathroom wall, surrounded by a growing pool of your own blood. Emotions swirled within you, leaving you feeling numb and empty. You asked yourself what you had done to deserve this.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring the world around you as you sat there, grappling with the reality of the fifth baby you lost. Your body was supposed to be nurturing new life, but instead, it had betrayed you once again. It felt like a cruel and never-ending nightmare.

With great pain and effort, you retrieved a small box from under the sink. You had experienced miscarriages so often that you'd prepared for such moments, stashing the small boxes under the sink. Gently, you placed your baby inside and closed the lid, tears still silently falling.

You lay on the cold, tiled bathroom floor in a growing pool of blood, your body trembling with exhaustion and pain.

In your arms, you cradled the small, delicate box, the weight of grief pressing heavily on your chest. Every passing moment seemed to drain you further, and the relentless flow of blood showed no signs of stopping.

Each breath became more laborious, your vision blurred, and you could feel your strength waning with each passing second. Your sobs and cries were replaced by an eerie silence as you struggled to hold on, the world fading around you as you clung to the precious, heartbreaking reminder of the life that would never be.

Ghost, sitting at the bar with Soap, had been sharing the situation he was in. It was late into the night, and the bar's dim lighting seemed to reflect the weight on Ghost's shoulders.

He ended up calling Price again, explaining that you were pregnant, and the conversation had been a long and tense one, going back and forth as they argued about the deployment. Finally, Price made the decision not to deploy Ghost on the mission.

With a deep exhale, Ghost felt a mixture of relief and guilt. He knew he had to make things right with you for the hurtful words he had spoken. For the way he treated you when you only wanted to talk it out. For breaking the promise you made to each other to never leave the house when one was upset with the other. Soap patted him on the back, offering his support and reminding Ghost that he really needed to make it up to you.

They ordered a few more drinks, and as the night wore on, they both realized they were in no condition to drive. It was then that they decided to walk to Soap's house, which was conveniently located only five minutes from the bar.

Their plan was to return in the morning, and whoever was in better shape would drive to the store to pick up the things Ghost needed for you.

Morning came, and they walked back to the bar to retrieve Ghost's car. Ghost ended up driving to the store where they selected a variety of items, ultimately deciding to make a basket filled with things you liked.

In the passenger seat Soap arranged the items in the basket while Ghost took a quick detour to the florist, picking out the largest and most beautiful bouquet of flowers he could find before going home.

Soap followed close behind Ghost as they entered the house, he placed the gift basket in the kitchen, and Ghost slowly made his way to the bedroom. He slowly opened the door, and noticed that you weren't in bed so he started to walk over to the bathroom.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he noticed the blood that had seeped from under the bathroom door. Panic surged through him as he rushed to open the door.

His heart dropped, and his breath caught as he found you lifeless, lying in a pool of blood. Your gaze was far away, and you held a small box beside you. He recognized it immediately – the same small boxes you used for the miscarriages.

With a rush of emotions, he took a hesitant step forward, but his balance wavered as he almost slipped on the blood-soaked floor. Rushing to your side, he carefully set the small box aside, his trembling hands unsteady. Ghost cradled your cold face in his hands, tears streaming from his eyes as he sat on the floor, your blood seeping into his clothes.

"Y/n baby look at me, please look at me, love. You're okay, it's okay, it's going to be okay."

He called out for soap, who was in the kitchen. Soap attempted to approach you, but Ghost, his voice strained with grief and guilt yelled at him.

"Johnny just call 911!" he hurried to the kitchen to make the call, leaving Ghost alone, cradling your lifeless form, lost in a world of anguish and guilt.

He called out to you, his voice a desperate plea, but there was no response. Ghost's cries of anguish filled the small bathroom, echoing the unbearable pain in his heart. Tears streamed down his face, and he continued to rock back and forth, cradling you against him.

His voice quivered as he muttered, "I'm so sorry, y/n... It's all my fault... I should have told Price… I should have told him…" he breathlessly whispered against your cold cheek. The weight of his regret was crushing, and the burden of knowing that his actions had led to this moment was almost too much to bear.

Simon held your lifeless body in his arms, the weight of your cold form pressing on him physically and emotionally. The room felt suffocating, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and grief. As he cradled you, all he could think about was the what-ifs and the guilt that gnawed at his conscience.

His mind tried to replay the scene of your final moments over and over. The thought that you were in pain, alone, and scared haunted him. He pictured you suffering, reaching out for help, and he wasn't there for you. The echoes of laughter and clinking glasses from the bar where he was drinking seemed deafening in his mind. While he was having drinks with Johnny you were here, alone and dying.

His eyes wandered to the toilet, where he saw your phone lying there. A chilling realization struck him — that missed call he ignored. Did the phone slip from your weakening grasp after calling him for help? Did you wait for a lifeline that never came? Guilt, heavy and consuming, pressed down on him, making every breath a struggle.

In that heartbreaking moment, Simon felt the weight of the consequences of his actions. The regret and sorrow mingled with the deafening silence of your absence, creating a painful symphony of remorse that would echo in his heart forever.

The memory of his last words to you, spoken in anger, haunted him. Those words, "I don't care how you feel," echoed in his mind like a relentless mantra. He wished he could turn back time, go back to that moment, and change everything.

He longed to take back the hurtful words he'd spoken and to be there for you in your time of need. He wished he had never stressed you to the point of pushing you into another miscarriage. But it was too late, and the reality of the consequences of his actions had come crashing down on him.

Grief enveloped him as he clung to your lifeless body, your silence an agonizing reminder of the happiness he had let slip through his fingers. The guilt and regret were insurmountable, and Ghost's world had shattered into a never-ending nightmare of his own making.

Alternative ending

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truetogaia · 4 months

Text

simon keeps his late girlfriend's things long after her passing.

simon, who keeps your scarves because the scent of you still lingers on the fabric, your perfume embedded deep into your favorite one. the one you always wore or brought (you said its for emergencies) on rare dates.

simon, who keeps all your jewelry on display. who can't bring himself to get rid of anything at all, no matter how puny. he thinks throwing out your old belongings means throwing you out of your home. and his heart physically ached every time he so much as thought about it.

simon, who starts noticing how the laundry basket grows smaller and smaller, filling with only his clothes. who doesn't have to buy as much laundry detergent anymore, who still buys the one that you used to buy.

simon, who either eats with his crew or doesn't eat at all. simon, who can't stand the sight of your empty chair by the dining table.

simon, who still only uses half of the wardrobe, because the other half is yours.

pt 2 of pt 1 !

#still in my crying era #drabbles #simon riley x reader #simon riley #cod ghost #ghost angst #simon riley angst #ghost x reader #cod angst #cod fluff #ghost fluff #simon riley fluff

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empresskylo · 1 year

Text

call of duty ೃ⁀➷ NSFW headcanons

↳ includes: ghost, price, soap, and alejandro.

⋆｡°✩ CONTENT WARNINGS | afab!reader, rough sex

cod masterlist | main masterlist

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓

Ghost

♡ ghost has a size kink for sure. loves being bigger/taller than you. loves towering over you. loves covering your whole body when he fucks you.

♡ he’s a growler (-: i mean, his voice is just really deep and that in combo with his accent causes him to make growling-esque noises in bed.

♡ but he was really quite quiet when you first fucked. he was used to having to be silent when he jerked off because teammates were always around somewhere. and so he didn’t even realize how quiet he was being until you said something. he was even a bit shy at first but once you showed him how much his sounds got you off, he was glad to oblige and let loose.

♡ he doesn’t like to “choke” you, but he likes to rest his hand around your neck in a firm hold allowing him to hold you steady so he can fuck you deeper.

♡ he’s rather simple. he likes a few basic positions. it gets the job done. he doesn't see the need for any wild or crazy positions when fucking you missionary, doggy style, or against a wall gets both of you off. he will do new stuff with you if you ask tho.

♡ really likes to praise you. he’s got a praise kink but only for being the praiser lol. he loves to tell you how good you feel, how pretty you look, how well you’re taking him. especially when you react to his words, fuck, he loves knowing he can do that to you.

♡ however, when you praise HIM, he gets all flustered and legit fucking blushes! my guy isn’t used to soft compliments, only ones about his combat skills. so when you say sweet things to him like how good he feels, how hot he looks, how turned on he makes you, how perfect he feels inside you, how badly you want him… he blushes. every. time.

♡ professional pussy eater. he very much enjoys going down on you, usually touching himself simultaneously. he’ll yank you to the end of the bed and wrap his arms around your thighs to hold you down. he likes when you ride his face too. he’s been known to get you off like that and make the two of you late. he moans a lot too when you ride his face. loves when you use him to get off and he can't help but moan at that.

♡ he has fucked you with the handle of his knife before and then made you lick it clean.

♡ gets a perverted sense of gratification when he sees you limping after fucking you senseless.

♡ has a breeding kink. he accidentally let it slip one day when he was fucking you, just about to come, when he moaned out in strained breaths “i need. to fucking. breed you.” (my brain: *414 error*) it doesn’t necessarily mean he wants kids, but he just loves the idea of getting you pregnant/coming inside you/breeding you.

♡ definitely a dom. but can be a sub when need be. he wasn’t sure about being submissive at first, but he’s learned to love it. he likes when you boss him around and tell him what you want. even likes it when you edge him and don’t let him finish, dragging it out painfully. but that’s only occasionally, he usually likes to be the one in control.

♡ comes the hardest when you tell him you love him as you're orgasming. he's a romantic at heart.

Price

♡ daddy kink.. i mean… com’on! he gets flustered as fuck when you call him that in public. usually, you’ll say it quietly or whisper it to him. it’s a rare sight to see Price so flustered. and he definitely punishes you when you get home. (that’s if you even make it home. as long as no one can see, he’ll fuck you anywhere)

♡ wants a video of you for when he’s away. you were shy at first so he just recorded your lower half while he was fucking you, the only thing visible was where your bodies were connecting. but he could hear all your moans in the video and that was plenty for him. he’s watched the video countless times.

♡ keeps a naughty polaroid of you in his wallet

♡ reallyyy likes to go down on you. he would spend the rest of his life between your thighs if he could.

♡ loves to tease you and make you beg. he’ll have you on your knees, begging him to fuck you. and of course that gives the cheeky bastard an aura of arrogance, but it’s hot on him so its ok.

♡ he specifically likes to tease you while you’re training together. watching the way you get flustered and try to ignore his innuendos and subtle hand movements on the more intimate parts of your body. then, when he has you alone, he’ll make it seem like you were the one causing all the distractions. he’ll stay fully clothed and strip you down, fingering you while you stifle your moans. “this why you were distracted today, love? thinkin’ bout my fingers inside of you?” (when, in fact, you were trying to train and he was the one being all cheeky)

♡ over the clothes... he is fond of letting you ride his thigh, both of you fully clothed (that, or you're in underwear and he's fully clothed). sometimes he'll fuck you with everything on, dry humping you so aggressively that you come harder than you ever have. my guy is good at what he does.

♡ quite intense and intimidating when having sex. he's demanding in a way that makes you nervous and embarrassed. always making you say things that make your face heat. "is this want you want, pretty girl? gonna have to say it. unless you want me to stop?" "tell me what you want, love. use your words." "you want me? where? gotta spell it out for me."

Soap

♡ doesn’t love the fact that you might get off to porn when he's not around, so he sends you audios of him jerking off, whining and moaning loudly for you. he gets so turned on when you tell him you got off to his video.

♡ likes to switch between being dominant and submissive. he’ll fuck you hard and fast, make you beg, tell you what to do, and edge you until you’re a crying mess. but he also likes it when you take control, riding him and stopping just as he’s about to finish, making him whine and whimper as you suck his dick, not letting him touch you as you tease him mercilessly, likes when you wrap your hand around his neck as you ride him.

♡ likes when you scratch him up. he wears all the marks you give him proudly and secretly likes being teased by the guys about it. he'll even tell you to be rougher on him. "bite down, love, I can take it."

♡ loves blowjobs. and loves finishing on your face with your tongue out. he finds it so hot when you lick your lips, his cum dripping down your chin.

♡ likes to be slow and gentle with you, dragging it out. he wants to take his time with you. and he'll do whatever you say or want. he's constantly making sure you're doing good or you like what he's doing. Sometimes you end up getting a bit frustrated, "yes, johnny, that feels fucking fantastic, now shut up and fuck me!" "yes, ma'am!"

♡ aftercare involves cleaning you up. taking a shower together. lame jokes. braiding your hair. giving you his sweatshirt to wear. and spooning you.

♡ almost came in his pants the first time he saw you in sexy lingerie that you bought just for his viewing pleasure.

♡ has a slight oral fixation and likes to keep his mouth busy the entire time. he's always kissing or nipping somewhere on you. he loves kissing your neck, jaw, chest, just anywhere really. he often groans into the kisses, making you swallow them.

Alejandro

♡ "if you're a good girl and don't come until i tell you, i'll make you come over and over again"

♡ for some reason, he likes to leave hickeys on your inner thighs, teasing you mercilessly as he kisses you everywhere below your hips except where you need him most.

♡ he lives for teasing. he wants you a withering mess before he even considers giving you what you need. will have you crying because of how bad you want him. those are his favorite tears from you.

♡ he will overstimulate the fuck outta you too. you come at least 3 times every time you fuck. and he'll threaten to keep going, your core throbbing in painful overstimulation, unless you do exactly as he says.

♡ leaves bruises and scratch marks all over you. but he also expects the same in return. both of you look like you got into a gnarly brawl every time you fuck. "jesus christ, were you two fucking in there or wrestling a wild bear?"

♡ he is amazing at aftercare, a big switch up from the dominant, rough sex. he'll clean you up while muttering little praises. he'll carry you to the bathroom, sometimes taking a warm bath with you and washing your hair. he'll get you situated into clean comfy clothes and curl you up into him in bed. whatever you need, he'll do.

♡ likes the thrill of getting caught. he doesn't actually want to get caught, but it's the rush of it all. he's down to fuck anywhere. he's sneaky too and can be really subtle about touching you under the table, or in a dark corner of the bar, or on the roof while you're on watch duty. but he definitely prefers when you can both let loose and be loud.

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criminalamnesia · 3 months

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the 141 x reader fic that you did was so yummy!!! pls make them suffer the wrath of reader and make 141 realise how much they need them when they leave,

your work is so amazing btw and your way with words is simply ✨chef’s kiss✨ (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

thank you!! here’s part 3 :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

angry didn’t even begin to describe how you felt as you slammed the door to price’s office behind you.

you were tense, muscles taut and poised to fight. your fists clenched at your sides, blunt nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. your jaw was clenched, teeth grinding together as you resisted the urge to march back in there and unleash your fury.

no. not like this. not when you weren’t a hundred percent. not when they would still look at you like you were a wounded doe, stumbling around on broken legs.

in the back of your mind, you can hear that psychologist saying ‘this anger will eat you alive if you let it. you need to let it out somehow.’

you inhaled, unclenched your fists, and made up your mind. you pulled the iv from your arm, wincing at the pinch of the needle.

you left the iv pole standing there as you made your way to the gym.

the gym was empty when you arrived, which made sense for this time of day. many would be occupied by drills or in the mess hall. others would be sleeping off long nights. you had the place to yourself, and you were grateful for the absence of watchful eyes and sweetened tongues.

you were tired of those who knew nothing acting like they knew something. of those who apologized or asked if you were okay. word spread like wildfire around base, and the subject of your ‘betrayal’ had been front-page news since the start of the witch hunt.

the gym door clicked shut behind you, and you surveyed the room. you knew your doctor would have a fit once you returned to the infirmary, and that she probably wouldn’t let you out alone again, but you didn’t really care.

you needed to let off some steam, and the best way you knew how was with your fists. either you start swinging at a bag or at a certain someone’s face. the bag won’t be condescending, and that makes your choice easy.

you approach one of the bright red punching bags in the corner. it’s scratched and taped from where someone had busted it open. scars that didn’t go away, that wouldn’t— just like yours.

you huffed. it didn’t do any good to start feeling sorry for yourself. you hadn’t done anything wrong. your team had.

you stretch your arms out in front of you, fingers interlocking to pop your knuckles. you catch sight of your severed finger, still healing. they’d recovered what had been chopped off, but hadn’t been able to save it.

just another permanent reminder, something to make sure you didn’t dare forget. you didn’t think you ever would regardless.

you shook out your hands and rolled your shoulders back. fists raised, you angled yourself towards the bag. feet spread, shoulders squared, thumb tucked under your fingers instead of inside. a stance that was second nature after years of sparring and hand-to-hand drills.

the bag was firm when your fist connected with it. you would have been lying if you said it didn’t hurt. you punched with the other hand— same results. the time you’d spent confined to an infirmary bed had done a number on you. muscles had atrophied, bones had weakened. the leg you’d suffered a bone-deep cut to shook under your weight.

you didn’t care. you kept punching, your breathing picking up as your emotions guided you. sweat dripped into your eyes and rolled down your back. you felt weak, physically and mentally. you hated feeling this way, and so you punched harder.

“slow down,” a voice grumbled from behind you.

you ignored him, continuing to punch the bag. you hadn’t heard the door open, nor heard the sound of him approaching, but you would have been surprised if you did.

simon always had a penchant for sneaking up on people, intentionally or not.

“gonna pass out if y’don’t stop,” he said after a minute. you could feel his eyes on you. you ignored him again.

you didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing there with his arms crossed, eyes full of something unreadable.

“stop,” he says firmly, and you sense his movement as he surges forward. his hand lands heavily on your shoulder, pulling you back from the punching bag. you heave in a breath before spinning around and punching him in the nose.

simon stumbles back a step, eyes widened slightly. for someone who prided himself on being so observant, he clearly didn’t see that coming. it made you feel the tiniest bit smug that you’d caught him off guard for once.

you dropped your hands to your knees then, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of nausea washed over you. damn the bastard, he had been right. you shouldn’t have even been in here in the first place, let alone exerted yourself as much as you had.

your hands were shaking as you tried to pull yourself together. you opened your eyes to see drops of blood on the gym floor, by your feet. you had split your knuckles open.

there were also drops of blood at simon’s feet. you looked up then, slowly straightening your posture. he’d removed his mask, his face bare as he stared at you. blood dripped from his nose.

“gonna have to hit harder than that if y’want to break it,” he says, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“did you follow me in here?”

“no.” he says, and you’re giving a mirthless laugh.

“oh, please. im sure price sent you, yeah? you’ve always been his little lap dog. he says ‘jump’ and you say ‘how high,’ isn’t that right, lieutenant?”

your tone is tense, angry. you throw his title in his face, seeing as he’d been so quick to remind you of yours back in price’s office.

simon watches you, and you want to tackle him. he had always been quiet, always stoic. you’d been with him for years, but you still didn’t think you’d broken down all of his walls.

he was so good at masking his thoughts, his feelings. you weren’t. soap had always called you an open book. whenever you were mad or upset, everyone knew it.

no one knew anything about simon unless he wanted them to. it drove you mad then, and it was sure as hell driving you mad now.

“you need to get back to the infirmary,” he tells you. he wipes the back of his hand under his nose, smearing red across his skin. for a moment, you want to chastise him, reach up and wipe the remnants from his face.

you quickly shake that thought from your head. what is it they say— old habits die hard?

these habits would die if you had to strangle each one with your bare hands. anything you harbored for the four men on your team, for the one you’d called yours, was dead and gone.

“fuck off,” you tell him.

“why are you so damn stubborn?” he says then, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him start to crack since everything had happened. emotions are beginning to leak through his stony exterior, whether he means them to or not.

“you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. none of you do,” you say, and you take a step forward then, eyes blazing as you stare up at him. “not after what you did.”

he doesn’t speak for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. his eyes never leave yours.

“it shouldn’t have happened like that.” he tells you. you scoff.

“like that? you mean the four of you torturing me? tying me up and mutilating me like I was just another fucking target?” your voice was rising as you took another step forward, shoving a finger into his chest.

“if I’d treated you like another target,” he said, tone even. “you would’ve been dead.”

“so you showed me mercy, is that it?” you bared your teeth, a hollow laugh escaping your throat. “oh, thank you simon. I really felt that fucking mercy when you cut off my finger, and when you cut through layers of skin to get to bone.”

you inhaled before continuing. “I should be grateful then, right? is that what you want from me? for me to recognize your fucking ‘mercy’ and take you back? take you all back?”

he just stands there. you can see his jaw clench, but he makes no move to speak. you find it funny that he hasn’t even tried to apologize. john, your ever prideful captain, had swallowed his failure and pleaded for your forgiveness.

johnny and kyle would surely have done the same if they’d had the chance to speak to you, even if they only had a minute.

but simon? simon doesn’t. he doesn’t outwardly admit his wrongs. he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t seem sorry, even. you don’t know what’s going on inside his head, but you find yourself not really caring to know.

the fact that he can’t bring himself to admit, in blunt words, that he had astronomically fucked up and that he felt even the slightest bit of remorse, told you everything you needed to know.

cold, stoic ghost. you hadn’t been afraid of him when you’d first joined the squad, and you weren’t afraid of him now.

but back then, you’d wanted to break down those stone walls of his. you’d wanted to be someone he felt safe around, someone who knew him inside and out.

now, you’re packing your time with him into a box in your mind and dumping it into the trash. simon riley means nothing to you now.

“take your mercy and shove it up your ass,” you tell him. you step back and drop your hand, your eyes still locked on his.

“and by the way,” you say as you start towards the door. he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move an inch. it’s as if he’s rooted to the spot.

“you should’ve just killed me.”

author’s note:

not really sure how I feel about this one tbh. I have plans for a part four, but I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be making this series.

and as for simon— I want to write an extra part about his thoughts/feelings about everything. let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in!

anyways, let me know your thoughts please :) (I honestly may end up deleting this and rewriting it when I’m not tired lol)

taglist: @preeyansha @igotmajordaddyissues @nanatheoaktree @aesthetic0cherryblossom @oceanicexolorer @soph121212 @liv2post @cupid-eclipse @angels-despair18 @k4marina

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