Reclining Nude By Luis Ricardo Falero (1879)

Welcome to the Show

Hello, hello! I'm Ghoul(they/them) and I write fic, like a lot of fic. This is my Directory

I write in second person(you) so all of my fic can be read as x reader, and you can think of any callsigns/nicknames as your own. However, my fic is technically x oc, if that's not for you no problem! I don't include descriptions or names in any of my fics. MDNI

COD AUs

Cowboys Fae Demons Ballet Medieval Sin Summer Ghost!Ghost Regency Au Cyberpunk Au I want the Darlings

FAQ:

Can I write Fic with your OCs?

Yep! Just tag me in it if you post it.

Can I tell you about an OC I have for [insert au]?

Of course! OC talk is always open, but posting is contained to the morning.

Can I draw you OCs?

Yes. BUT I try to keep their descriptions vague so people can use them as Reader inserts, so I might not post/reblog it if you submit/post the art.

Do you take requests?

Sort of. If you have thoughts I'd love to hear them and if they inspire me I'll write something, but it might not be exactly what you requested. I tend to use asks as jumping off points rather than direct requests.

Do you cross post to anywhere else?

Not currently! If you see my fic elsewhere that isn't me. I don't give my consent to have my work reposted anywhere else.

Could you make a character AI for [insert character or au]?

No. I absolutely abhor ai and hope it crashes and burns before it does any more damage to art and creativity. Role-Play in a discord server like an adult.

Do you have a list of your OCs anywhere?

Yup. Here you go!

Ghoul's Hozier Bullshit

Pillow Princess Ghost

Little Fantasy

Josh Kiszka X Fem Reader

18+ only, minors DNI

Warnings: unprotected sex, public sex, fingering (fem rec), choking, dirty talk, exhibitionism kink, I think that’s it!

This fic is heavily unedited, sorry!

Moodboard by @allieisacrybaby 🖤

You slowly opened your eyes as the sound of soft music pulled you from your slumber. Josh often put on music in the morning when he was home. Turning to his side of the bed you weren't surprised to see it empty. He was probably outside on the balcony meditating or sipping a warm glass of tea. Glancing over to the alarm clock you shoved the book you were currently reading out of the way and saw that it was 8:30. After enjoying the comfort of your bed for a few more minutes you finally mustered the motivation to make your way to the bathroom for a shower.

Turning on the water to heat up you stripped out of your clothes, breathing in the steam that was now quickly filling the room. Almost as soon as you had stepped foot into the shower you heard the bathroom door creak open,

"My love," Josh called out, you could see his blurred form on the other side of the glass door, "Did you have any plans for today?"

You watched him as he talked, he was looking in the mirror, messing with his wild curls, you smiled before you replied,

"I don't, did you have something in mind?" you leaned your head back under the water, letting it warm your body

"I was hoping we could go into the city today, go for brunch, maybe do some window shopping?" he requested.

"Yeah, that sounds perfect actually" He had been gone for the last week or so, spending the day with him sounded amazing.

"Great, I have to go make a quick phone call but I should be done by the time you're ready" He replied and then made his way out of the bathroom.

After showering you wrapped yourself in a towel and brushed your teeth. Opting to let your hair air dry for a few minutes you decided to go see what the weather was like so you could decide what to wear.

You stepped out on the balcony but froze when you realized Josh had taken his phone call out there. You started to shrink back into the house, not wanting to disturb him. He shook his head softly and waved you over with his free hand as he spoke into the phone. You walked over to the chair he was sitting in and when you got close enough his hand landed on the outside of your thigh, thumb moving in slow loving circles,

"Did you need something?" He asked genuinely, holding the phone away from his face as his eyes locked on yours,

"No, sorry, I was just checking the weather so I could choose an outfit" you whispered back,

"Don't apologize," His hand went from your thigh to your hand, bringing it to his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, "Lets see the options" He whispered quickly before replying to whoever was on the phone.

It was a beautiful day outside, warm but with a nice breeze, the perfect combination of sunny and cloudy. You knew in the back of your mind that the weather could change on a dime, but you decided to risk it. Making your way to the closet you located two of your favorite sundresses, which also happened to be 2 of Josh's favorites too. Grabbing both of the hangers you walked back out to the balcony and held both up for Josh to see. Still chatting away on the phone he eyed both of them, tilting his head and biting the inside of his lip as he considered. After a few moments he pointed to the one in your left hand. Nodding with a smile you walked over and kissed his cheek to say thank you.

Hurrying back inside you quickly got ready. You half dried your hair and then put it in a loose braid, pulling out a few pieces to frame your face. Not wanting to spend a lot of time on makeup you decided to go simple, some mascara and lip tint was all you applied. Content with your look you moved to grab the dress Josh had picked. It was a white and yellow dress that had small floral print on it. It had spaghetti straps, a V-neck, and the hem of the skirt landed about mid-thigh. Slipping out of your towel you grabbed a pair of underwear and began putting them on when a knock against the window got your attention.

Huffing a laugh you shook your head when you realized Josh was watching. He wiggled his eyebrows at you as you sauntered over and closed the shades, taking a chance to stick your tongue out at him before you did so. You walked back over to where your dress lay on the bed and put it on. After finding your favorite strappy sandals and putting them on you stood back in front of your dresser and started to put on the little gold hoop earrings you wanted to wear.

"Well that was rude" You heard Josh tease as he walked in the door, tossing his phone to the bed,

"You're lucky I didn't lock the door, creeper" you grinned as he feigned offense, bringing a hand to his chest.

"I was just enjoying the show" He walked up behind you, putting his hands on your hips and watching as you secured the second earring. "You look beautiful" He said as you stood up and turned to face him,

"You always say that" You rolled your eyes as your cheeks turned pink. You had been dating Josh for almost a year, and still his compliments never got old.

"I always mean it" He replied. You knew he meant it, in fact he was the first person you'd ever been with that made you believe he meant what he said. A soft smile appeared on his face as he leaned in to kiss you. He had a habit of sighing through his nose when he kissed you in the morning, like he was glad you were real and not a dream. It never ceased to make your heart melt. The kiss had started innocent, but as your hands moved to his waist and your fingers skimmed the warm skin under his shirt the kiss deepened. Josh's hands that were still planted on your hips had pinned you against the dresser,

"Josh," You pulled away, smiling when he tried to reconnect your lips. You turned your head, giggling when he settled with kissing your neck instead

"Hm?" He hummed,

"We have to leave" You reminded him, "I don't want to miss the brunch menu" His kisses didn't cease. "Josh" You said more firmly this time,

"Fine" He pouted, "It's your fault for wearing that dress"

"Oh it's my fault?" You grabbed your bag and started to walk towards the door, "You're the one who picked the dress"

"That I did," He conceded as he grabbed his keys, "You don't wear it enough"

"Thats because for some reason I never make it out the door once I put it on!" you said playfully as you poked at his side,

"Touche" He laughed, taking your hand as you both walked out to the car.

After enjoying your coveted crepes and sangria at your favorite brunch spot you found yourself walking down the sidewalk with Josh. Hand in hand you chatted as you went into different shops. You were stealthily leading him to one of your favorite stores. You got about a half block away when he suddenly stopped,

"I should have known" He laughed as he started walking again, shooting you a side eye as you tugged him along

"Come on please," you whined "Ten minutes tops"

"Ten minutes my ass" He teased back as he followed you into the massive bookstore. "We'll be in here for hours"

"You're being dramatic, you like books just as much as I do"

"Alright fine, it looks like it's about to rain anyways, might as well be inside"

You were right, he did like books just as much as you did. The difference was Josh always went searching for specific books, you liked to just stumble upon them. This meant you liked to just browse. You just loved bookstores in general, always had. You found them mystical and almost romantic for some reason.

This particular bookstore was 2 stories, and it had lots of isles packed with books. It was an old building with exposed brick, the soft warm lighting made it feel cozy. Just like many other bookstores there was music playing and chairs scattered about for readers to sit and enjoy a book. The second story had these big windows and you could see that it had suddenly grown dark outside and was now raining. You kept Josh close, every time you stopped to browse a shelf or pick up a book you'd maneuver yourself and him so that he was standing behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist or placing his hands on your hips.

"For someone who cut me off earlier you sure are touchy now" He teased, "Whats gotten into you?"

You shrugged coyly as you bent at the waist to grab a book from a lower shelf, consequently nudging your ass against Josh's crotch, your sun dress coming up high enough that his fingertips touched your thighs as he tried to smooth it down,

"Babe" He laughed lowly, glancing around to make sure no one had seen your white cotton panties as he pulled you back to standing. "What are-" He stopped mid sentence as if a lightbulb had gone off in his brain. His gaze traveled your face, taking in your innocent doe eyes as you fluttered your lashes at him,

Taking your hand he suddenly took off walking, rather briskly at that

"Josh, where-"

"I uh, need something over here" He said casually, but you noticed him gripping your hand tighter. Finally he abruptly turned down an isle. Looking at the dusty shelves as he drug you along you noticed what section you were in and started to laugh,

"Used college text bo-" He cut you off, pining you against the shelf with his body as his mouth crashed into yours. He wasted no time, pressing his tongue past your lips. He groaned as you welcomed it by sucking on it lightly, your own tongue moving against it. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you parted your legs just a little to get him even closer. One of his hands was at the nape of your neck, the other had drifted under your dress and was resting on your hip bone,

"Is this what you wanted?" He pulled away to whisper in your ear, nipping at the skin on your neck as his hand traveled closer to your heat, the back of his knuckles skimming down your lower stomach sending a chill over your body, "Almost forgot about this little fantasy of yours"

You searched your own memories, trying to remember when you had even told him about this deep seeded desire to get off in a library or bookstore. You decided it didn't matter when you told him, only that he remembered and it was actually happening, and that thought alone had wetness pooling between your legs.

"Answer me y/n, is this what you wanted?" His hand had moved around to the front of your neck, barely squeezing as he looked at you with dark lust filled eyes,

"Yes," You replied, barely loud enough for him to hear,

"I bet this pink little cunt is just aching isn't it?" his fingers began to rub your clit through the fabric thats already clinging to you. Your mouth falls open and your hips buck forward, silently begging him for more. His cheek is next to yours again, his breath hot and heavy in your ear as he slides your panties to the side and runs his fingers through your slick, "Y/n..." He groans quietly, lips ghosting up your jaw "Sweet girl, you're soaked"

You can hear the effect it's having on him, the strain in his voice as he begins to circle your clit with the pad of his thumb. You are trying your hardest to breathe quietly as he sucks and bites at your neck. You want desperately to look around and make sure no one is coming but with his hand around your throat and his fingers next to your jaw thats not going to happen.

"Gonna slip my fingers in this needy pussy and play with you till you cum" You gasped as he dipped one finger into you, "Finger fuck you right here in the middle of the store until you're dripping down your thighs,"

"Josh" You whimpered softly as he moved his finger in and out, his words swirling in your head and heating your skin

"Shhh" He hushed you by pulling you into another searing kiss,

A sudden loud noise had you jumping out of your skin, gasping as you broke the kiss and held Josh tighter, freezing as if that would hide you if someone was there,

"Jumpy" He huffed a laugh against your shoulder, "It's just thunder baby"

"Fuck" You laughed breathily, looking around to make sure there was no one in sight, your heart was racing at this point

When your eyes landed back on Josh he was smirking at you with half lidded eyes, You felt him remove his finger only to add a second one with it, your head falling back against the shelf

There was another loud crack of thunder and then everything went dark. Josh's movements stalled as you looked at each other, both registering that the power had just gone out. The store had become eerily quiet except for the rain hitting the windows. Then a distant voice spoke from somewhere on the first level,

"The power should come back on shortly, just stay where you are until it does" The store owner spoke,

"Gladly" Josh said more to himself than you, and began pumping his fingers into you faster,

You bit your bottom lip, trying your hardest to stay quiet as your fingers tightened in Josh's soft hair. An expert curl of his fingers had you breaking your reserve, a pathetic moan passing your lips,

Josh's eyes got wide and his hand flew from your neck to cover your mouth,

"You trying to get us caught?" he tilted his head as he zeroed in on your bodies reaction to the question, the way you clenched around his working fingers. He read you like a book, "Oh, you want everyone in here to hear what a little slut you are? Turn that corner and find us with my fingers buried inside you?"

Your breathing was ragged as your legs threatened to give out, the adrenaline and pleasure fogging your brain, you should be ashamed but you're not

"Mmm dirty girl, what a little minx you are" He teased, keeping his eyes on you as he felt you getting closer to your edge. You reached forward, blindly searching for the erection hidden in his pants. Finding it you started to palm him, your eyes rolling back when you realized just how hard he already was, "I know," He rasped into your ear, brows furrowed "I'm so fucking hard y/n, cum so we can get outta here and I can feel you on my cock,"

"Mhm" You mumbled behind his hand, nodding frantically as your orgasm crashed into you. You held on to Josh, barely keeping yourself upright as he worked you through it, his own lips parted as he watched you come undone.

Taking his hand from your mouth he kissed you again, swallowing down the noise of protest you made when his fingers slipped from you, pulling your panties back to their place. You looked at him with a cheeky smile as you smoothed your dress down,

"That was," You started but quickly realized you didn't have the words. Standing in front of you was a man who always made sure you got what you wanted, even if it was something like this.

"Oh, I'm not done with you yet, lets go" He said as he took your hand and started down the stairs. Using his phone light he navigated out of the bookstore and to the front door.

"Josh, it's still pouring rain?" You said with a laugh, "We didn't bring the umbrella"

"The car is just a block away, lets just run for it" he waited for your response with a wild gleam in his eye. He was in a hurry, glancing down you covered your mouth with your hand and tried to stifle your smile when you saw him trying and failing to hide the tent in his pants,

"Alright, one second" You leaned down and took off your sandals, knowing if you tried to run in them you'd fall on your ass. "Ok, I'm ready"

"Yeah?" He asked with a beaming grin, that boyish playfulness making an appearance. You nodded and he opened the door. Hand in hand you both ran down the street. You were both immediately soaked, a shrill noise left you as you made a sharp turn and bolted to the car. You had parked in a lot behind a building, and your car was one of a few other cars there.

"Backseat!" Josh tugged you back to him when you tried to head for the passenger seat,

"What?!" You asked, rain dripping down your face

"Get in the back seat!" He repeated with a laugh as he quickly opened the door. You both climbed in and he shut the door. Locking eyes for a split second you took in each other's drenched appearance, then at the exact same moment you both bubbled with laughter,

"Come here" Josh said as the giggling subsided. He reached for your hand, helping you to straddle his waist as he relaxed back against the seat. He blinked slowly as he looked up to you, "I love your laugh, you know that?"

"Well I'd hope so" you said as you leaned forward, kissing him between words, "You are always making me laugh" He grinned against your lips at that, hands on your hips rocking you against him.

"And I love how adventurous you are" He leaned his head back to the headrest as you reach between the two of you and unbutton his jeans,

"Me? Adventurous?" You teased as you wrapped your hand around his length and freed him from his boxers, tugging his clothes down to his thighs,

"I'd say so" He took in a sharp breath as you let a stream of spit fall from your mouth and land on him, "I just got you off in a bookstore and you're about to fuck me in my car"

"Bold of you to assume I'm going to fuck you" you raised a brow at him blithely as you began to stroke him, thumb brushing over his tip for good measure,

"Oh shut up" He said through a roguish grin, landing a swift smack to your ass before grabbing it and bringing your body closer to his again, "Quit being a tease y/n, sit on my cock and let me hear all those pretty noises you held back inside"

"So bossy Joshua" you scolded lightly as you sunk onto him, lowering yourself to the hilt as a relieved sigh passed his lips. He didn't respond and you realized then that he wasn't even listening, he was too far gone. He released your ass and reached up, taking the neckline of your dress and yanking it down to reveal your bare chest,

"Josh-" You gasped out, shocked by the brashness of the action. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you to him. With one hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck and the other desperately digging into your back he connected his mouth to the plush skin of your breast, sucking harshly and groaning as you started to roll your hips,

"Move, please move baby" He whined against your skin, moving his mouth to the other side and nipping at the pebbled flesh there. You obliged, using your hands on his shoulders to stabilize yourself you began bouncing up and down. You'd raise almost all the way off before sinking back down. Your legs were already burning as you fucked him but his breathy moans and the way his stomach quivered just egged you on. "Ju-just like that, fuck" His hand traveled up your back and hooked over your shoulder, he started pulling you down onto him harder, bucking his hips up and meeting your thrusts half way.

"Oh god," You cried out, fingertips digging into Josh's shoulders at this point,

"I know, it's so fucking good" He rasped, chest heaving as his hips started to falter, "So goddamn good baby,"

Your hand abandoned his shoulder and moved to between your thighs, frantically rubbing circles over your clit,

"Shit," He grunted, screwing his eyes shut as if seeing you touch yourself would make him finish before he was ready. The corner of your mouth turned up slightly as you continued. You felt yourself getting close and so did Josh, "Keep going, keep going" He rushed out.

"I-I'm gonna-" You tried to get the words out but failed as your second orgasm took over, you slid your hand down further, scissoring your middle and ring finger on either side of Josh’s cock, feeling him fucking you as you came around him,

His eyes flew open and he moaned as he realized what you were doing. You brought your hand up, spreading your fingers in the air and showing him what you’d gathered as it shimmered between your fingers. He opened his mouth and offered his tongue to you, begging you with his eyes to give him what he wanted. His adam’s apple bobbed as you pressed your fingers into his mouth, his eyes rolling back as he closed his lips around your digits and sucked,

“Come on, cum for me babe” your free hand moved to his throat and a moan that sound more like a whine vibrated against your fingers,

“Mhm, Mhm” he nodded quickly, pulling you down onto him hard, burying himself as deep as he possibly could and grunting as he spilled into you. After he came down you removed your fingers from his mouth, smiling at him lazily as you brushed a soaked curl from his face. A languid smile formed on his lips as well before he spoke,

“You are...everything” he said, rubbing his hands up and down your thighs as you pulled your dress back over your boobs,

“What does that even mean?” You giggled,

“I-I don’t even know how else to say it” he laughed as his forehead fell forward and landed on your shoulder, “You’re just, everything”

You scratched at his scalp and felt your heart swell when his eyes looked up to you,

“You keep doing that and I’m going to fall asleep right here” he warned,

“Wanna go home and stay in bed the rest of the day?” You offered, wiggling your brows

“Sounds good to me,” he sighed contentedly, leaning forward and giving you one last kiss before the both of you settled in your seats and headed home.

Welcome to KINKTOBER 2023

Hello guys! I decided to make a kinktober masterlist, so here you go. I’ll give you the kinks for the upcoming 31 days. Send me a character and choose the day from below. Enjoy!

KINKTOBER day 1: bondage kink

- Master in bondage (Leonora Lesso)

KINKTOBER day 2: blindfold kink

- Feel it (Larissa Weems)

KINKTOBER day 3: food play

- Appetizer (Narcissa Black)

KINKTOBER day 4: humiliation kink (in progress)

- Not so talkative now, are we? (Bellatrix Black)

KINKTOBER day 5: breath play

KINKTOBER day 6: praise kink

KINKTOBER day 7: fisting (taken)

KINKTOBER day 8: wax play

KINKTOBER day 9: voyeurism

KINKTOBER day 10: blood play

KINKTOBER day 11: knife play

KINKTOBER day 12: lactation kink (taken)

KINKTOBER day 13: spanking kink

KINKTOBER day 14: threesome

KINKTOBER day 15: ice play

KINKTOBER day 16: anal play

KINKTOBER day 17: sensory deprivation

KINKTOBER day 18: pet play (taken)

KINKTOBER day 19: mirror sex

KINKTOBER day 20: overstimulation

KINKTOBER day 21: dumbification

KINKTOBER day 22: sex tape

KINKTOBER day 23: pregnancy sex (taken)

KINKTOBER day 24: penetration (taken)

KINKTOBER day 25: masturbation

KINKTOBER day 26: foursome

KINKTOBER day 27: toy play

KINKTOBER day 28: biting kink

KINKTOBER day 29: somnophilia

KINKTOBER day 30: choking kink

KINKTOBER day 31: elevator sex

Enjoy kinky ones!

---

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Simon absolutely worshiping your body

Lights low, soft, breathy sounds filling the air that is already already thick with the unspoken words of a man consumed, you lay sprawled out naked across the sheets.

This is like his little slice of heaven.

Adoration is what Simon is after tonight, needing to caress every single solitary inch of you until you are left in a puddle of pure bliss in the middle of his bed.

"Let me turn your brain off for ya, let me take care of ya," he breathes against your mouth as he kisses you, lightly nipping at your bottom lip lazily.

You are the best goddamn thing to grace his life and he desperate need to show it constantly by having all his undivided attention focused solely on you is something he struggles with dailyq.

Moments ago Simon had traced over all the subtle imperfections of your body with his calloused fingers as if every flaw were actually incredibly precious to him, lips following not far behind as he whispers delicious praises into your flesh.

Those gentle things that are only for your ears alone to hear. Can't have people think he's going soft...even though he very much is.

He nuzzles into you as he catches your scent: that natural musk mixed with the clean smell of your body wash. It makes his head fuzzy and his body tingle in a way he cannot accurately describe.

"Christ, you look so fuckin' beautiful, luv," he purrs against your warm skin as his lips caress down over the swell of your breasts with their nipples already stiff and along the length of your stomach towards your thighs. "I can't get enough of ya. Fuck, your perfect."

It is as if he is performing a sacred act by giving every bit of you the full breadth of his desire, from your lips all the way down to your legs. Extra time he spends on your thighs as he embraces those voluptuous curves with his mouth until you are whining and writhing beneath him before he has even gotten to your throbbing clit.

Simon spreads you open to lean into that mossy bank and delicately peppers kisses to your petals with such care, until you are breathlessly begging him for more, "please baby, please", before he carefully divides them easily with his tongue as he slips it inside. You are already wet, stimulated from his doting on your body alone and shit you are sweet. Like eating a peach accept this own doesn't run out before he's had his fill.

That masterful tongue draws short, cncise circles along your clit, lips locking around it intermittently as he sucks, using the two techniques in tandem until you are bucking against his face. He takes his time, caressing your thighs up and down with his hands, dragging his nails lightly to make you shiver.

By the time he is inside of you, you are a glorious mess or cum and mewls and sweat.

Slow, even thrusts he pounds into you from behind, making the curve of your ass jiggle against his hips with each plunge of his cock between your silky petals and into your tight cunt.

Your elbows and knees prod into the mattress leaving indents on the surface as he has you ass up and face down now. One of those wide hands with the long, thick fingers runs up the length of your back to your head where he laces all five digits through your hair before his grip holds it firmly in his grasp while the other glides across your spine.

His clasp on your hair is firm, but not painful; there is nothing but pleasure for you tonight.

Looking down, he watches with hungry amber eyes as your juicy cunt sucks him in right down to the base of his shaft before he pulls his cock back out nearly to the tip to thrist it back in all over again.

"That's it, sweetheart," he groans as his hips snap against your backside. "Ya feel so goddamn good tonight, just wanna stay buried in ya."

Goddamn what a beautiful sight to watch your body strain to take all of his girth in at once, his size almost too much to handle, but he has prepped you well as he always does starting with his fingers and then his tongue; making sure you are nice and wet and relaxed enough to take him.

Fuck, in this position he's so deep in you, you swear you can feel him in your stomach. To be so full of him, where you can't tell where he ends and you begin, sends tingling shivers coursing through your veins.

You are completely claimed by him body and soul.

Simon was never a religious man, most of the time as far from it as possible, but the closest he would ever come was the moment he got that first taste of the absolute glory of what lay between your legs as you wrapoed yourselves in one another and then it was as if your body became his church...and fuck was he ready to give his life to worshiping at your alter with his fingers, his tongue, his cock; all his instruments at your disposal to show his unwavering devotion.

That man had been starved for far longer than he'd like to admit, but the first time he buried himself in you that was all it took to fill him. It was you he craved: your softness and warmth and sweetness, everything he did not have in his life before.

And so every chance Simon gets to have you naked and at his mercy, he takes greedily and without remorse. No matter how many times, how many different ways, he always wants more... Needs more...

How can he not overindulge after being deprived for so long?

...when all this beauty just willingly let him have all she has.

---

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2:25 AM

Simon 'Ghost' Riley / Reader

Summary:  Simon returns home a little earlier than expected, and all he wants is a good night's sleep and the warm body of a person he loves.

Content:  coming-home-from-deployment, curvy! civilian girlfriend, domestic fluff, shared shower, jetlag, unprotected sex, lazy middle-of-the-night sex, fingering, hickeys, missionary, cum eating, oral

Word Count:  2.3k

Notes: Did I type this in one go (frenzied, horny and slightly tipsy), but still need to get up at 5:20 AM for work tomorrow? Yes. Was this stuck in my brain and demanded to be let out? Double yes. NOT FOR MINORS.

The key scraping against the door had her turning around in alarm, spatula clutched in her right hand as the other fumbled for something sharper, pointier.

Simon wasn't supposed to be home for another two weeks, and all she had on her was a fluffy towel and sheet mask - not exactly the proper attire to face a burglar. But Ghost, the Lieutenant not her boyfriend, had taught her how to defend herself. How to make an opponent bleed enough for them to back off or die as the consequence of assaulting her. 

Call me, if you ever have to kill someone, he'd said and stroked her cheek. I'll take care of the mess.

She'd laughed then, and teased him about being too far away to fix anything but now that the adrenaline was pumping through her veins, she started receiting his work number by heart over and over again.

Then the logical part of her brain kicked in, and wondered why on Earth a burglar or serial killer would bother with picking a lock in the first place. Wouldn't they just come smashing through the window-

The door swung open silently, a large gloved hand groped for the light switch in the entrance way and then suddenly he was there, bathed in the soft light of the lamp they'd bought together when they first moved into their shared flat.

Simon still wore a dark mask that covered his mouth and nose, and she stared, flabbergasted, as he methodically removed his gloves and black beanie, dumping his heavy backpack next to the umbrella stand.

"Si?" She whispered, and he flinched, chocolate brown eyes swivelling up to hers as he made an aborted motion, like he was reaching for a holster that wasn't there.

"Focken hell, luv," he slurred, words distorted from lack of sleep. The dark purple rings under his eyes spoke of the long journey he'd taken, and she'd lost track of where in the world he was fighting against evil at this point. "Ye look like a damn axe murderer with that."

He gestured vaguely towards her face, and with a laugh that turned into a sob halfway, she dropped everything she'd been holding, ripped off the overpriced skincare and flung herself into his arms. Simon swayed a bit, and he still smelled of desert dust and faraway places but she didn't care. Nothing else mattered in that moment but him, the feel of his strong arms around her as he lifted her up like she weighed nothing, and pressed his warm cheek against hers.

She quickly pulled his face mask down, and Simon sighed as she kissed him, smiling as she peppered kisses all over his face.

"You didn't tell me you'd be back so early!" She complained, pulling him back into a bone-crushing hug. "I haven't been shopping for all your favourite treats yet!"

"'S fine," he mumbled, then buried his face into her shoulder, sagging a little as he put her back down. "Jus' wanted to be home with you."

Tears threatened to constrict her throat, and she swallowed against it, massaging the back of his head and short curly hair the way he liked.

"Let's get you cleaned up and ready for bed, hm?" Her voice was only a whisper, but Simon nodded and let her guide him down the short corridor and into the darkness of the bathroom. They left the door open, allowing the light to pour in that way and she helped him strip out of the black joggers and long sleeve he'd been wearing, crouching down to untie his shoelaces. 

Under normal circumstances, the heated look he was giving her from above would have been enough for her to stay on her knees for him, but she knew that Simon was running on fumes. As flattering as the bulge in his tight briefs was, it was more of a reaction to be reunited after so long, than actual desire.

She pulled the soft cotton down his muscular thighs, grinning at the relieved hiss he let out when he was completely bare. Pushing him into the shower was easy, and when she stripped off her towel, it was only so she could join him and wash his skin thoroughly. 

Simon's hands wandered over her hips and breasts, and he pulled her in for a deep kiss but let her do whatever she pleased after that. She massaged his shoulders and back with soapy hands, ran her hands down his solid but thick abdomen, and even gripped his half-hard cock for a moment. 

He groaned and leaned his head against her shoulder, but then she moved her hands up and over into his hair and neck and Simon practically purred.

Blissed out and half asleep, he barely registered her removing the shower head from its mount and running it all over him, washing the suds down the drain and warming his chilled skin.

"Gonna put on your bathrobe for me, babe?" She asked softly, and Simon grunted as she turned off the water. They fumbled out of the shower and struggled a bit until he was wrapped up in black fluffy cotton. Storm trooper, she'd called him many times before whenever he wore this particular monstrosity. 

He let her lead him into their shared bedroom, thankfully tidy and clean, and belly-flopped onto the soft mattress. Simon was out within moments, breathing in the scent of fresh linen and her, mind at ease for the first time in forever.

With a smile, she quickly fetched a glass of water for them both, brushed her teeth and then marvelled at the sight of her boyfriend sprawled out on the bed.

Simon was early by almost two weeks, and her heart made a double-flip as she thought of the fact that it was the weekend now and she'd have two uninterrupted days with him before she had to go back to work. 

Her eyes wandered over the exposed calves and feet, the long fingers that clutched into her comforter, the translucent brows and lashes.

She changed into her pyjama bottoms and top, snuggling up next to the mountain of black robes and pale skin. Simon's deep breathing never changed as she wrapped one arm and leg around him, burying her face into his damp neck as she fell asleep, completely forgetting about her plan to stay awake all night to prepare for her night shifts.

The next time she awoke, it was still dark outside. Disoriented, she tried to place the warmth on top of her, the mouth that sucked into her skin with enough pressure to leave light pink bruises and made her pussy wet from the suction alone. Broad hands and long fingers were gripping her waist, and Simon's thigh was gently pressed between her legs, rubbing up and down.

She moaned and groped for him in the darkness as he sucked at her skin harder, moving on to her collarbones and breasts, then nipples as he went. He was still wearing the bathrobe, but it was sliding off his shoulders, revealing scarred skin and rippling muscles to her greedy fingers as she roamed over him.

"Si?" She panted and he hummed, fingers pulling her top down until both of her boobs were framed by the fabric, exposed to his hungry mouth. 

"I could eat you alive," he mumbled against her skin, then his calloused fingertips ran lower, exposing her stomach as he kneaded the soft skin there and slipped beyond, into her loose shorts.

The breath was knocked out of her as sure fingers rubbed over her embarrassingly slick folds, pushed deeper, and then withdrew only to circle her clit lazily. 

"You- you should rest," she stammered but pushed her chest against his mouth and clenched around nothing when he dipped two of his fingers into her and pulled out in the same motion.

"Can't sleep right now," he growled, then plunged his fingers back in, stretching her needy core a bit more. "D'you want me to stop, sweetheart?"

She'd rather die.

"N-no."

"Good," he growled, then captured her mouth in a sloppy kiss that involved a lot of tongues and hitched breaths as his fingers worked away at her. A third soon joined the others, and she whimpered, throwing her head back as he diligently prepared her for his cock. Her hips jerked whenever the ball of his hand brushed against her clit, and her fingers drew painful welts against Simon's shoulders and back, finally disrobing him fully and pulling him on top of her.

"Please Si," she whined, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him closer until her wet core was pressed against the hardness between his thighs. "Waited so long for you to come home."

He groaned and steadied himself with one arm next to her head, gripping his heavy cock with one hand and brushing the weeping head over her clit and opening several times. The darkness made it hard to see him, but the feel and taste of his skin were enough that night. 

She knew that Simon's eyes were a dark pool of molten chocolate right now, that his forehead would be creased in concentration. 

At the first breach, she clutched the soft sheets underneath her, pushing her hips into him, impatient. They both hissed, her from the slight discomfort of his girth and him from her tightness, but then she hooked her ankles behind his lower back and pulled him in.

Simon came to rest inside of her with a groan, sleep-warm skin pressed against her cheek as he started to move slowly, savouring it.

There was no rush, only the underlying currents of sleep and weariness that were soaked deep into both their bones as they moved against each other. Skin against skin, the slight sheen of sweat on his back, the trembling of her core and thighs whenever he hit a little too deeply from this angle.

Simon caged her face with his arms, hands in her hair as they kissed.

"I love you," he murmured, over and over again as her eyes rolled back into her head, mouth open as he buried himself inside her. "Missed you so much."

"Missed you, too," she panted, clutching onto him, chest constricting as his hips rutted harshly and strong hands lifted her hips and ass onto him.

Neither of them reached between their bodies to stimulate her clit any more, because they both knew that it would be the end of it. As soon as Simon felt her contract around him, he usually followed and they both weren't ready, needed more from this. Craved that prolonged connection.

His orgasm wasn't a grand spectacle of growls and lovebites like it sometimes was. Instead, Simon huffed into her neck as his movements stuttered, and she felt his lashes flutter against her sweaty skin.

There was a sticky warmth that filled her, overflowed as he kept moving a little while longer.

She'd been happy like that, content not to come in all honesty, because the fact that her lover was back in her arms was more climactic than anything her body could produce.

But Simon had always been a greedy man, eager to please and obsessed with making her soul sing out to him through pleasure. 

He withdrew, and they both hissed. Then a warm, wet mouth left a trail down her body, latching onto her thighs. Teeth and tongue worked into her soft skin, sucking harshly and then massaging the sore spot with thick fingers before moving higher and lapping at her slit that was slowly oozing his own release.

"Oh my fucking god," she moaned, clutching at his soft hair as her hips jerked into his face and suddenly he was on her, gripping her hips roughly and eating her pussy out like it was his last meal.

His tongue lapped at her clit, then her sensitive, still stretched-out entrance. Simon slid one finger into her, curled it just right and pumped it in and out rapidly, tongue fluttering.

He rumbled something between her thighs, but if it had been praise or a command, she didn't know and didn't care. Back arching, she clutched her sensitive breasts and pinched her nipples as he sucked and sucked. Stars exploded behind her closed eyelids, and if their neighbours didn't know that Simon had returned by now, they probably knew now.

Unable to hold in the high-pitched whine, she shuddered against his slick face over and over again, trying to get away from the immediate overstimulation as her orgasm crashed through her and eager for more.

Simon continued to suckle and lap at her clit for a while, the sounds obscene and so damn satisfying that she was glad for the darkness that obscured her crimson blush.

"Missed the sounds you make," he growled softly, voice faraway and sleepy as he slotted his entire weight and body against hers, crushing her into the mattress. "Missed your sweet taste."

"Simon!" She complained, embarrassed as she hid into his neck and he dragged his soft cock between their messy bodies for a few seconds, obviously just enjoying the moment.

"Sleep now, love," he sighed, flopping onto his side and pulling her head onto the thick pillow of his bicep, naked body intertwined with hers. "I'll keep watch over you."

I have no words. Just wanted soft, jetlagged and horny Ghost. That's all.

You can find my other COD works here! 🤍

Please

Josh Kiszka X fem reader

18+ only, minors DNI

Warnings: Dirty talk, choking, mommy kink, light degradation, dacryphilia if you squint, oral if you squint, unprotected sex

You flashed your backstage pass to security as you walked past and to the bathroom. You wanted to take one last look at yourself before you made your way to side stage. You could hear the sound of them playing stardust chords as you found a bathroom and ducked inside. You had your hair down with your natural waves giving it the slightest bit of volume. Josh loved when you wore it like this so you tried to as much as possible. You turned, looking at the way your leather skirt hugged your curves, and the way your snug v-neck crop top highlighted them even more. You swiped on some chapstick, fixed a few stray hairs and sauntered out of the door. Josh had no idea you were going to be at tonights show. It had been weeks since you'd seem each other as well. You had just been on facetime with him earlier that morning, thinking your flight wouldn't get in in time. But here you were, making your way to side stage ready to surprise him.

You stood there all of five minutes before Josh's eyes skimmed past you, and then quickly snapped back as he did a double take. That big cheesy smile spread on his face as he gave a small wave. You smiled and waved back, blowing him a kiss. He just shook his head with a small laugh and looked back to the crowd as the next song started. They played the rest of the songs, ending with highway tune, and then Josh was making a beeline for you. Jake passed you first,

"Thank god you're here, he's been moping around all day" He said under his breath as he passed. You snorted a laugh, knowing he probably wasn't being dramatic, and that Josh had in fact been pouting all day. When you looked back you were being wrapped in Josh's arms.

"You made it," He said softly as he squeezed you tight, his mouth against your neck.

"I did" You replied as you held him just as tight. He pulled away but his hand slid down, taking yours. His eyes raked over you, lifting your hand and prompting you to give a little spin,

"And look at you," He paused, "How did I get so lucky?" You rolled your eyes as you pulled him back into you, kissing him deeply. He hummed in content as his fingers moved into your hair at the nape of your neck. The velvet of his jumpsuit was soft under your fingers as you held his hips against yours. This was one you'd been waiting to see him in in person, he looked absolutely delicious in it. It was white velvet with gold feathers embroidered on it. It was tailored perfectly to his figure, bringing out some of your favorite things about him, like his hip bones and the dip in the front revealing his chest. Fuck you missed him, and you never realized how much until you saw him again.

"Get a room!" You heard Sam yell through a laugh. You pulled away, smiling as Josh shot him a glare.

"Fuck off Sam." Josh snapped at him,

"I mean that might not be a bad idea?" You smirked as Josh turned back to you, watching as you toyed with the zipper on his white jumpsuit.

"Yeah?" with his head still tilted down he looked at you through his lashes, his eyes lingering on your lips. "I think you're right" He took your hand and led you down a series of halls, finally making it to a dressing room. If there was one thing you liked about being away from Josh, it was how desperate he was for you when you were with him again. Usually you'd give in immediately, not being able to stop yourself. But today you had some other antics in mind.

As soon as you had both stepped in and closed the door he had you pressed against it. His hands were on your thighs, giving them a squeeze before sliding his hands up under your skirt. With the fabric now gathered at your waist he reached around, grabbing your ass and pulling your hips into his. He groaned as he grinded against you, his cock now hard beneath the soft fabric. You felt the heat growing between your legs, the taste and smell of him, along with is wondering hands quickly dragging you under.

You let him think he was running the show for a moment longer but then you were backing him over to the couch you'd spotted across the room. Your mouths never leaving one another's, tongues pressing into each others mouths sloppily as you stumbled to your location. When the back of his legs hit the couch he pulled your shirt over your head and then went to take off his jumpsuit. You pushed him back, he fell onto the couch and looked up at you in question.

"That stays on" You said as you pressed against his chest, prompting him to lay across the couch on his back.

"Why?" He asked,

"Because I said so, thats why" You said as you settled on your knees between his legs. You could see the outline of his cock lying against his leg. You reached up, unzipping his suit to right below his belly button. You wanted more access to his perfectly toned chest, wanted to leave marks just out of sight to the rest of the world. He raised a brow at your bold response, but didn't argue as you hovered over him. You pushed the fabric that had been covering his chest out of the way, your lips finding his neck. You only placed light kisses here, and then you were moving down. Running your tongue over his nipple, taking it between your teeth as he bucked his hips up into yours. With one hand he was gripping the couch and with the other he was moving your hair, keeping his view of you clear.

"Please love," He said, pushing your head down slightly, "Your mouth feels so good" You sucked a purple mark onto his chest, biting at it, once again causing Josh to buck his hips up off the couch. He loved little bits of pain here and there, and you knew that.

"Yeah? You want my mouth on that pretty cock of yours?" you crooned as you looked up at him, your kisses traveling lower and lower. His cheeks turned rosy over the praise you'd bestowed upon him, and he nodded. You leaned down hands on his thighs, lips lightly brushing over the outline of his cock through the fabric. You felt his thighs tense and he huffed out a breath. Oh, this was going to be fun if he was already this desperate, fighting the urge to rut his hips up against you. You smirked up at him right before kissing his head. He was licking over his bottom lip as he watched you, kissing up his length, then mouthing him through the fabric. You could feel his cock twitching every time your mouth touched it, straining against the fabric. He abruptly reached down, searching for the zipper. You grabbed his hand, "Uh uh baby, what did I tell you," You said sweetly, kissing the palm of his hand. He groaned as you took two of his fingers into your mouth, sucking them.

"You're a sadist" He whined, you smiled around his fingers before removing them with a pop.

"And you like it don't you?" You asked, "You like it when I make you beg and cry to cum." He looked away, his cheeks flaring pink again. You grabbed his face, turning it back to you, "You love it when I make your cock ache for hours, edging you until you can't take it anymore, until you're an absolute wreck, falling apart when you cum for me." His doe eyes looked up at you, a whimper slipped past his lips as he nodded, "Say it" you commanded gently, hand still gripping his jaw. "Tell me what a needy little slut you are for me Joshua" Your other hand still held his, his fingers wet from being in your mouth. You sucked them into your mouth once again as you waited,

"I'm a needy little slut for you" He said. You removed his fingers from your mouth,

"Such a good baby," you paused, placing his hand palm up on the thigh opposite of the one his dick was resting against. "Can you keep this hand right here for me? Mommy wants to ride your fingers" His adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he nodded. You stood, quickly taking off your panties and then moved back to Josh, straddling his thigh and the hand you had placed on it. You lowered yourself onto two of his fingers, his eyes fixed on your dripping core as you began rocking back and forth slightly.

"god, you're so wet" He said, doing as you asked and keeping his hand in place as you rode it, his thumb nudging your clit if you moved in just the right way. You moaned, throwing your head back, savoring it for just a moment before going back to your task. You balanced yourself with one hand on his chest and the other moved to his cock, starting to slowly palm him through the velvet. He bucked his hips up and cursed, pressing his fingers even deeper into you in the process, you leaned forward a little grinding even harder against his hand. His chest was rising and falling fast, breathy grunts and moans leaving his mouth as it hung open.

"Please mommy, it hurts," His eyebrows were tipping up in the middle as he spoke, "I need to cum, please unzip my suit and touch me, please!" He pleaded, tears starting to brim in his eyes,

"The only way you're coming is in your pretty little suit" You said, hand moving up around his neck. His eyes rolled back, a tear sliding down his cheek at the contact as he rutted his hips against your hand, chasing that friction he needed. You began palming him harder and faster,

"Fuck, fuck, fuck" he choked out in a near sob, "Please, please make me cum" He was writhing beneath you now, his beautiful begging along with your movements against his fingers had you crashing into the wall of your orgasm, clenching around his fingers and soaking his hand, Josh's moans mixing with yours. "Can I taste it? Please, I want it" You raised off his hand, and he immediately brought it to his mouth, and you could feel him tensing under you as you continued to work at him,

"What are you baby? Tell me again,

"I'm your needy cum slut" He sobbed out around his fingers he was still licking clean,

"That's right, now cum for mommy," Your grip still on his throat, you kissed at his jaw, praising him and urging him to cum. His breathing became even more erratic as he cried out with his release. You released his throat, kissing the tears from his cheeks, "Such a good baby," his half-lidded eyes followed you as you moved. You took the zipper between your teeth, slowly pulling it down. He looked glorious like this, his sweaty curls sticking to his forehead, his face flushed, lips slightly parted. You peeled his suit down his hips, finally freeing him from its constraint. You took him into your hand, gently stroking him. He hissed for a moment at the overstimulation, but he didn't ask you to stop. You looked up to him as you licked the remnants of his release off his thigh, a small smile on his face. He was still hard, and you swept your tongue up the underside of his dick. He let out a much softer noise than the ones he had been making. You crawled up his body, cock still in hand as you straddled him. He had your face cupped in his hands, pulling you to his lips. He kissed you soft and slow, taking moments to breathe in between where his lips would just brush against yours. You lined him up with you, and slowly sunk down on his length.

"Made for me" He mumbled between kisses, "Love it so much, love you so much,"

"Love you too," You rocked your hips, moving up and down at a languid lazy pace, knowing it wouldn't take much to have him finish again. His hands abandoned your face to take up residence on your ass, but the kisses didn't stop. He pressed against your ass, grinding you down onto him harder as he moaned into your mouth. "Come on baby, cum again for me, then I'll walk out of here with you dripping down my thighs"

"Yeah?" He asked as you sucked his bottom lip between your teeth,

"Mhmm" You let go of his lip and went to whisper in his ear, "And then I'll let you fuck it back into me when we get home" He groaned, pulling you down onto him as he came again, burying his face against your shoulder. Once he was coming down from his high his head fell back and his arms went limp. You peppered his cheeks with kisses as he half smiled. Then you were standing up, sliding your skirt back down and tossing your panties to Josh.

"You were serious huh?" He asked as he slowly sat up,

"As a heart attack baby." you winked.

cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton. 

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom. 

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause. 

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago. 

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing. 

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings. 

You wish he’d hang around more. 

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows. 

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke. 

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained. 

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in. 

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence. 

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.” 

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities. 

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows. 

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt? 

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative. 

A dead end. 

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends. 

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried. 

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas. 

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight. 

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still. 

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore. 

He’s jus’ taking the piss. 

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do. 

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command? 

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.” 

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it. 

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli. 

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh. 

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day. 

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling. 

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken. 

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?” 

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze. 

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room. 

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.” 

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor. 

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?” 

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.” 

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts. 

Then –

“You don' drink?” 

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested. 

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees. 

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.” 

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church. 

I’d murder for a whiskey. 

You mean scotch? 

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees. 

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout? 

Negative, sir. 

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did. 

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water. 

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid. 

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?” 

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line. 

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one. 

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it. 

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less. 

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side. 

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from,  too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you. 

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.) 

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise. 

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it. 

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.  

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile. 

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.” 

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?” 

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning. 

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon. 

You spit the first thing that comes to mind. 

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.” 

And still with the revelation of what you just said. 

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance. 

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards. 

“Afraid she’s not my type.” 

And that’s all he gives you. 

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin? 

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead. 

Fuck. 

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb. 

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy. 

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.” 

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves.  You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo. 

read at 3:25 am 

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood. 

“Didn’ know what you liked.” 

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart. 

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient. 

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin. 

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes. 

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush. 

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red. 

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant. 

Anxiolytic. 

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache. 

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him. 

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now? 

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud. 

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks. 

Atta’ girl. 

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars. 

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes. 

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door. 

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp. 

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder. 

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long. 

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.” 

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart. 

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once. 

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.” 

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him. 

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin. 

“Alright?” 

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be. 

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal. 

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.” 

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums. 

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.” 

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask. 

“We’ll be ready for them.” 

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team. 

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls. 

It’ll be hard not to miss it. 

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun. 

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you. 

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes. 

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command. 

What did he mean by that? Bad timing? 

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths. 

He can’t know. Can he? 

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun. 

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag. 

I’m good. 

You’re not. Drink. 

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak. 

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors. 

He doesn’t miss a thing. 

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless. 

He draws a deep inhale. 

He knows. 

“Didn’t finish, pet?” 

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid. 

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness. 

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into. 

“Turn around. Face the window.” 

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says.  Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour. 

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms. 

“Keep an eye out. Got it?” 

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine. 

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant. 

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves. 

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts. 

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone. 

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut. 

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?” 

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire. 

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–” 

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss. 

“We can be quick,” 

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.” 

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more. 

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world. 

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,” 

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”   

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper. 

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs. 

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust. 

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street. 

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.” 

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone. 

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.” 

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl. 

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat. 

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried? 

It was only a shadow. 

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it. 

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour. 

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss. 

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures. 

But your name is not for nothing. 

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green. 

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid. 

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you. 

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest. 

Sniper. 

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before. 

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you. 

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price. 

Never at you. 

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb. 

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed. 

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat. 

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back. 

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash. 

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns. 

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base. 

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else. 

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety. 

No, that’s not quite right. 

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate? 

You need a cigarette.  

Not embraced. 

Your eyes fly open. 

Simon. 

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers. 

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead. 

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.  

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine. 

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left. 

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf. 

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.” 

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will. 

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand. 

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.” 

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages. 

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards. 

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus. 

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here. 

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe. 

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like. 

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind. 

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out. 

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location] 

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill. 

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway. 

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach. 

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him. 

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema. 

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough. 

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down. 

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?” 

He takes a step forward. “Your head–” 

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound. 

“And Johnny?” 

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?” 

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated. 

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle. 

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel. 

“Sent on some other mission, then?” 

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde. 

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches. 

You think you know why. 

“It’s not your fault, Lt.” 

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you. 

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.” 

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness. 

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you. 

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that. 

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks. 

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon. 

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity. 

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.” 

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head. 

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.” 

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…” 

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless. 

“I still–” 

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls. 

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.” 

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.” 

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles. 

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-” 

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low. 

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava. 

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask. 

“You’re quivering.” 

“Huh?” 

His thumb swipes over your hole. 

“Oh–” 

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth. 

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit. 

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper. 

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper. 

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers. 

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall. 

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise. 

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him. 

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs. 

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia. 

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks. 

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex. 

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him. 

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.” 

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you. 

“Chocolate?” 

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon. 

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.” 

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

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