How You Met : College Bf!simon .

how you met : college bf!simon .

tooth-rotting fluff

he was in a few of your classes, you’d recognize a man that looks like that anywhere. he was kinda mysterious, always lurking in the back row with his jet black hoodies and dark eyes.

he made eye contact with you every time you walked into the lecture hall. it was intimidating at first, you’d always look away after a second but you could still feel his eyes on you as you took your seat.

in true girl fashion, you went into fbi mode trying to find his socials— only a private instagram with no profile picture and basically nothing in the bio. but you did have his name, simon riley.

the first time he showed up to class a little late, he rushed to the nearest spot open which happened to be in the row right behind yours. he had a hard time fitting his legs into the seat and accidentally kneed the back of your seat, he just cursed and apologized.

you turned your head a little to say it was ok but it was really to get a closer look at him. you were a little startled by how much bigger he was now that he was up close. you caught a glimpse of his dirty blonde hair and you wanted to turn all the way around and see everything.

the second time he was late, he rushed in right as the professor was starting up and huffed as he dropped in his seat. you heard him ruffling around in his backpack and then a quiet curse before he sighed and the chair creaked as he leaned forward

he tapped your shoulder “hey, sorry, do you have an extra pen i can borrow?”

“uh, yeah,” you gave him the one in your hand, finally turning fully to look right at him.

your fingers definitely brushed against each other and the whole world started moving in slow motion. you blinked up at him and there was a hint of curiosity in his brown eyes as he looked down at you. you took in his features, the pink lips that were parted just a little and the slight crook in his nose that made your knees feel weak. but the romantic moment was cut off by the professor starting the lecture

when he returned the pen, he asked you if you wanted to go to the coffee shop and study for the upcoming exam. of course you said yes! finally he made the first move, you’d only been sending him subliminal messages for 2 months !! real

you started to spend more than just class time together, soon you were eating most meals together and walking to class together and studying together. you found yourself wanting to be around him all the time and it seemed like he wanted the same thing.

the first time he kissed you was in his dorm after finishing up a little study session. you were chatting about something while he cleared up some books and you sat on his bed. you made some stupid joke about how big he was when you saw his hand cover the entire front cover of one of the books.

he turned around with a crooked smile that made you gulp. then walked over with his eyes glued to yours until he was standing over you.

“gimme your hand,” he didn’t break eye contact but gestured with his head.

you held you hand up and he pressed his warm palm against yours. you were mesmerized, sure there’d been some light flirting between you two especially since you were spending so much time together, but this was new air.

“maybe you’re just small,” he kept his eyes on yours as he cocked his head. his fingers intertwined with yours and he dipped down to capture your lips.

you let out a little gasp but immediately melted into the kiss. you felt his free hand come around to the small of your back as he leaned over you.

after making out in his bed for a while and letting his hands roam wherever they wanted, he asked you on a proper date.

***

whatcha think ?

pls comment and reblog! and send requests/asks about this au or another so i know what you want more of<3

Y/n and vinnie visiting seattle.y/n and maria bonding. seeing y/n as a daughter and telling vinnie they love y/n

combined with these requests: y/n and vinnie having family game night with the hackers

poncho loves following y/n around when vinnie breaks her back to seattle

you were laughing so hard you had tears coming out of your eyes. vinnie and his dad had failed miserably at their turn of charades, not able to get a single one correct. you patted vinnie on the back sympathetically as he sat back down next to you, but he crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.

“okay, y/n, our turn,” maria said, standing up to act things out. you were guessing this round, so you sat up straighter to pay attention to her. poncho had his head resting on your lap and he sat up for a moment until he realized you weren’t going anywhere, and then laid back down. reggie started the timer and maria picked up the first paper. by the time your turn was over, you had managed to guess four things that maria acted out: swimming, eating corn on the cob, marching, and talking on the phone.

“this isn’t fair! those were easy!” vinnie complained and you laughed.

“vin, you had to act out bicycling.”

“and how am i supposed to do that?”

“sit down and move your legs like a bicycle?” vinnie rolled his eyes and you laughed, settling back against the couch. reggie stood up then, ready to act out his words for his friend to guess. you watched as they went, laughing at some of the guesses thrown out. reggie sighed when the timer went off, throwing his hands in the air.

“playing baseball, dude! how was that not clear?” reggie slumped back down in the floor in front of the couch and you turned to vinnie.

“i’m gonna go get something to drink. want anything?” he shook his head and you stood. poncho followed you to the kitchen, panting happily up at you until you made your way back to the living room. you sat down next to vinnie, who suddenly had a big smile on his face. he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple. “what’s up?” you asked him, knowing he normally wasn’t one for too much pda in front of his family.

“they were just telling me how much they love you.” you felt your cheeks heat up at his words and you hid your face in his shoulder causing him to chuckle. “my mom said specifically you’re the daughter she never had.” you giggled at that, knowing maria would patronize her sons that way.

“okay okay, it’s your turn to guess now.” he smiled, turning to watch his dad act.

Lazarus (Ghost x Medic!Reader Pt. 2)

"According to tradition, Lazarus never smiled during the thirty years after his resurrection, worried by the sight of unredeemed souls he had seen during his stay in Hell..."

Word count: 5.7 k Tags and warnings: Angst, fluff, soft smut 🔞. Slightly possessive!Ghost. Graphic depictions of past suicidal thoughts. Dating, kissing, cuddlefucks, emotions (the most daunting cw there is). Unfettered prose about a grown man's complex trauma. Reader is female and works as a medic at the base. Ghost POV. Summary: You've just started dating Ghost. (This is a standalone sequel to Refugee)

She tastes round and sweet after the tang of blood and smoke and metal of the field. She feels like warm cascading water after the bleak, dead weight of a gun that leaves his hands throbbing with recoil. Her skin returns the memory of Paradise until it overrides everything else.

She's a soft blooming to the senses.

And his have been blown wide, torn apart, shot full of noise. There's an amputated, burnt stump where there should be a limb and some soft skin. But still, a blast that burns flesh from bones is not that different from her soft whisper that has the power to level him like a nuclear wind.

. . .

They're some kind of a secret, although he doesn't know why exactly.

Perhaps because she knows enough by now. She knows he's a dead man.

A ghost.

And women like her don't date apparitions. They deserve more than just bones and a haunting: they deserve flesh and blood and solid ground. She deserves far more than promises he has no power or right to give.

He has no mandate for life. His is a half-life, and stolen; he's living on borrowed time.

She doesn't only protect his phantom, she shields herself from talk and rumors. It's only understandable. He takes everything she gives him, which is more than he deserves.

He fucks her to ruin on the conference table people share in the meetings. He makes her leak all over his desk during quiet afternoon hours of his office; he makes her come on his tongue in the fucking hangar after a long day, just to get the taste of dry desert sand off his mouth.

She stops complaining about propriety after that. After all, she's the one who came there on his call and allowed him to rip her pants down when there was only settling dust to accompany them in the quiet hall.

It doesn't take long to see that the woman's not actually complaining at all. She fucking loves it when he barges in and simply takes her.

And he buries himself inside her like she's the base. His home after a mission, his destined location after deployment. She lets him fuck her practically anywhere except on the floor.

That's his place. And he has no problem with lying down there in the filth, especially if it means he gets to watch how she sits on his cock until that pretty little face distorts with pleasure that looks like pain.

His field pants and navy blues have cum stains after his visits while she cleans herself up in no time, fixes her hair and looks as innocent as ever. His mask smells of cunt when he's trying to concentrate on missions, and the scent of her juice makes him hard while he's supposed to be instilling brass into bodies. He smokes cigarettes just to drive the maddening taste of her from his tongue.

He's gonna get killed one of these days. The irony doesn't escape him: it's not a bullet or a grenade that will take him, but that sweet, hazy memory of her cunt.

She's an obsession. He injects himself full of her like the most pathetic addict.

Until one day, she says it can't continue like this. That it won't do to rut like animals until the smell of mad sex coats the room she's supposed to stitch and staple people in.

It causes a small panic till she asks him to visit her.

In her home.

It sounds serious: it sounds like she wants more than just his cock. And he's fucking terrified.

Women think about whether to wear this dress or that on a date: he thinks about whether to put on the mask or not – he meditates on it for two whole hours. Everything else is clean and in order; he looks like a human and not a soldier. But he can't rid himself of the skeleton.

There's a storm coming when he reaches her place. It electrifies the air until his spine is full of thunder.

She seems surprised – happily so – when she finds him at the door, decent as can be. He gets one of those innocent smiles which are pure sin beneath.

"You came."

"Sure."

She doesn't ask why he's always wearing a mask. She takes what he has to give, which is his all, which he fears will never be enough.

"There's food–"

She lets out a delightful little noise when he picks her up and carries her to what looks like the biggest and softest bed he has ever laid a woman on, ever laid himself on.

So, she likes luxury. Or at least, comfort.

Softness. Hugs… Support.

And kisses, apparently, because his mask is lifted without permission. Not that she needs one.

"Simon, I made you some dinner," she laughs in his mouth, and he's smiling – she's the only one who makes him fucking smile.

"Later," he rasps with a sore throat – he has become soft, too, and it's her fault. He has barked orders all day, but with her, his voice always comes out quiet and calm.

Where her domain at work consists of harsh lights and sterile frigidity, her home is dark and warm like a womb. His senses are filled with lemon and thyme – she has made something he's never tried before, something… Mediterranean, perhaps. A culinary ambrosia for someone who has lived on dog food and tried to thrive on it.

It's a pity that he's a barbarian, and here for dessert. As much as he likes the dainty little thing she has put on just for him, it's not cunning enough to stop him from ripping it to shreds.

She protests at first with a posh little gasp, but then she spreads her legs like it's open season and he's the VIP customer. The laced, pathetic little thing lays in wreckage around all that softness creaming just for him, and his mouth shoots full of water.

The feel of her is better than sinking a knife between two ribs. She's velvet on his scar and coarse stubble and for the first time in his life, he curses the mask. She moans all around him, tries to grab him by the hair still under the black fabric.

And it makes him want to rip it off and let her yank and tug to her heart's content, grab his hair and push his face as deep inside her cunt as it goes.

He tries to fit inside her apartment, a serene space filled with scented candles and clean carpets and frilly little curtains that shift in the restless night wind.

He tries to fit inside her.

The attempt always makes her moan and tremble and sigh. It's hard to focus on the task at hand when he wants to freeze the moment to where her lashes flutter and she stops breathing for a second – when she takes him in with grace and hunger.

"Oh fuck…"

She swears this time, watches with helplessness and an open mouth as his cock slowly disappears inside her. Then she looks up at him like…

Like she's missed him.

"You're a brute," she whispers, eyes shining.

"Thought you liked brutes."

"I made you dinner and you…Ah…"

He arrives home, heavy and loaded with yearning.

First things first.

It has been a week, and there's been no time to relieve the pain, nowhere to go and wank off the sickness that festers inside him every second they're apart. And she's the only one who can cure his disease. But he does feel like a brute for not letting her feed him. When was the last time anyone made him anything?

The sea is booming now, roaring behind the window she has left open. This time, they're not fucking at the base, in some corner of a room with a lock hurriedly latched on. He's fucking her amidst doused lights and a seaside breeze that enters their skin through an open window. He's at the beach, even when there's no sun. The sands are even more stunning with a gathering storm.

He fucks her like a dog, and she looks at him with weak love in her eyes. She's looking up at him with those big, wet eyes like he's the best leader there is - like she's counting on him. Like the people under his command, those who ask for his advice, ask for the next move.

It drives him fucking insane.

It's even better than a good round of sex: that unbound look of adoration. His mask is a poor shield against all that. She slips past it like she's the expert in clandestine warfare here. And suddenly he doesn't want any more secrets. There's a ton of them already; he carries the weight of them in his soul.

He's an underdog, always has been, but he's also a hound for claiming her as his that night.

After he's done fucking her to oblivion, he descends. She comes alive like a jolt of lighting in his arms as he kisses her, then sucks the tender skin of her neck. Everyone's going to see it, he makes sure of that by using the tiniest amount of teeth to finally mark her. She moans an equal amount as she does when she's clenching around his cock.

"Did you just give me a hickey?" She asks, breathless when he's done.

"High time, don't you think," he mutters. The woman will look glorious on the beach and highly improper at work.

Lay down with dogs, get up with fleas…

"You're unbelievable." She only laughs at his obsession. The woman’s not afraid at all, even when she’s face to face with a monster. The sunshine of her smile pairs well with the crackle of thunder outside.

"You want a beer?"

He's too drugged to answer with nothing else than a surprised, drowsy blink. She laughs again and takes it as a yes, which it is. He stares in awe as the woman walks to the fridge, all naked and lax from his treatment, takes out a bottle, opens it, and brings it to him. She takes none for herself; she only serves him like he's some kind of a king. When he takes a sip, she smiles again: lighting flashes somewhere in the distance and gives her an aureole of light, a halo of an angel for a second.

"I'm gonna go take a shower." The wink she gives him makes it perfectly clear that she wouldn't mind him joining her. But as she goes by the mirror, the vision of his claim stops her.

"Simon…"

He gets a scolding, and it only makes the corner of his mouth tug.

"No concealer is going to cover this."

"That's the point," he takes another sip while lying on her too-soft bed. She shakes her head before walking to the shower. The eye of the storm is above him, and everything's silent, like he's lounging on a dream.

The bottle in his hand sweats cold condense in his hand, and like always with her, he finds himself in the present moment. He drinks the beer in less than ten seconds, then takes the mask off and leaves it somewhere among the sweat and cum stained sheets.

It's the first time she has seen him without the shield, the first time she sees his body in full light. Every protrusion of white scar, every part of uneven skin, every marring of two and three stage burns is visible as if he is on a well-lit stage.

"Well. Pleased to meet you."

The smile that greets him, the veil of surprise that draws aside to reveal pure delight and marvel is more than worth the risk. She's frozen in time with a bottle of shower gel in her hands, too preoccupied with the trust he has decided to arm her with. She now has power over him, but he proceeds to do what he came here to do. Which is to make her sing a second time.

"For what do I owe this pleasure–"

The bottle falls on the tiles with a soft plunk as he steps between her legs and lifts her against the wall.

On that, she doesn't only kiss him; she takes the scar of his lip between hers and sucks. The warm water is nothing compared to her hands which sweep up and down his back and release years and years of tension. She whines when he only gives her shallow thrusts, then tries to claw his back to get more of his cock. It makes him chuckle.

"Needy," he comments on such delightful hunger, and she lets out the most annoyed, frustrated noise he has ever heard on her.

"Stop teasing, Riley…"

She tends to use his last name when she's fed up with him. It's supposed to create distance, but it only makes him latch himself onto her more fiercely.

He could torture her, delve deep, dig out even more frustrated sounds from her, but that's a quest for another time. He grants her wish along with his own and slides fully in. She kisses him through the whole fucking, and he feels like he's in boiling water, cooking until the raw meat grows tender and prepared.

And he realizes he's not actually fucking her: he's making love to her. He didn't even know he could do that.

When they've had their fill, the water takes away his gift. It feels wrong that something meant to be inside her leaks down some filthy drain. It's like a testimony, an illustration of his whole life: that his essence, his worth, belong in the sewers.

"You're a beautiful man," she whispers on his skin while caressing his back filled with past torture. His stomach churns, he feels like throwing up and falling asleep at the same time. An odd sensation.

She holds his mutilated corpse under the descending water and breathes life into him. The vomit never comes. He exhales history on her skin, inhales some peace in its stead.

In the morning the sound of thunder has been replaced by myriad birdsong.

. . .

He never meant to bring her here, but the wind on the beach is too harsh today and she's cold. It would be ungentlemanly not to get her a jacket from his apartment when it's only a few hundred meters away.

"To say that this place needs a woman's touch would be an understatement, Riley."

There's little else here but a tv and a fridge. He doesn't need either of them, but they're there to remind him what a home should look like. She takes the deafening silence and barren wasteland well, far better than he ever imagined she would.

"Y'can touch anything you want."

She turns and raises an eyebrow – he already knows that look. He's in for it now.

"Smooth... Very smooth." She walks to him and pushes him to the armchair. Not with force, because she doesn't need it. He falls to the sagged old thing like it's suddenly cloud nine rather than his old deathbed.

He waits for her to climb onto his lap and ride him until the chair breaks under the weight of their love. He could use a new chair anyway.

But she doesn't do that.

She gives her what this place has been missing.

A woman's touch.

Her mouth is hot as hell, wet like the gulfs that used to drown men in the sea centuries ago. She's a siren with her songs, but this time, she's quiet.

The room is not: the deathlike silence is suddenly filled with wet urgency and sloppy sounds of adoration. All his hauntings recede to the shadows like the blowjob is a whole exorcism.

His head falls back, and the first charred moan coats the air like it's been entombed for decades. And it has.

She is encouraged by the sound, and the tongue that sweeps the underside of his cock sends him jolting from his shallow grave.

Jesus fuckin'–

"Fuck…" He tries to blink back tears or death while looking at the crumbling paint on the ceiling. He feels equally worn out on her tongue: old and a lot of work, but a woman's touch is like magic.

"Mm–h." She dares to moan on his cock as if it's the best thing she's had in her mouth in decades, too. She even brushes her fingertips over his balls like they're some newfound treasure. They pull taut under her touch, stupefied by the sudden attention.

He can feel the upcoming blaze. It gathers at the base of his spine, his cock is brick-heavy in her mouth, and she won't stop – fuck, she goes even deeper…

"Fuckin' hell, pet…"

His thighs bunch and spread, a scorching groan erupts like he's a volcano and not a man. That's when she gives his cock a long, torturing suck, and he's gone, there’s no time and space other than her hot velvet mouth that surrounds him like the hot core of a star.

She adds a hand at the base of him, and he explodes so hard that he barely has brain cells left to worry about whether she will choke on it. But she doesn't even gag, even if the first spurts must be more than generous.

Fuck, this woman…

He melts in the chair while she finishes the rest of him, takes all he has to give, like she always does. They're an odd pair: an angel and a demon, and he feels like he's finally saved, resurrected – this room, this chair has never seen anything like this.

It's different with her, the emptiness that comes after. It's not filled with grief but deliverance.

He wants her to know what she’s just done, but he knows the things he's good at, and he knows the things he's not. Words are one of those things. She moans and begs and shatters and swells in his arms, she takes on a volcano and resurrects corpses long since dead, and he still doesn't know how to tell her. That he's hers, that he wants to make her feel as good as he bloody fucking can. He could be tortured for days and he still wouldn't know the right words. He tries to tell it to her in other ways and sees how she settles.

He would rather kill the whole human population on this earth than see her settle for anything.

So he forces the strange words out, fleshes them on his tongue and pushes them through teeth to haunt the stale air of his apartment that has never seen such love before.

"I missed you."

Of course it sounds so odd that she laughs. Bitter, too.

"You missed my tongue."

"No. I missed you."

She finally raises her eyes to his, doesn't try to blink back the watercolors. Those eyes are shining; they're beckoning.

"I missed you too," she says, then lays her head on his thigh like she's only a humble servant begging for mercy.

It's a farce. He's a skeleton, a ghoul of useless rubble while she's celestial; she's summer, a fucking empress.

It rips his chest to see her on her knees on the dirty floor, that she's comforting him in a chair that should've been his disposal site. The leather was supposed to be painted with shards of bone and puddles of pink-white brain; this room was supposed to echo with a single blast of a gunshot, not with roars of fragile love. He would've been found relatively soon, the neighbors wouldn't have had to complain about the smell: after all, the military takes care of their own. A lieutenant's absence wouldn't have gone unnoticed, even if everything else in him would never have been missed by anyone.

He brushes her hair, and she sighs, oblivious to his past hell. All nine circles of it, an inferno that would put poets to shame. And she doesn't know she has pulled him from the depths just by smiling.

. . .

"Promise to come back."

"Yeah I promise."

He can't promise that. Fuck, that he wants to.

Every bullet acquires sound, like that birdsong from her little window. They gain weight, they start to carry death. It used to be his power: to bring destruction. He was put on this earth to reap.

Now he's alive.

He's suddenly a man who can be killed.

Sharpened instincts have never been his friend. It used to be a simple dance: knife out, knife in. Drop 'em. Line the sights and deal extinction. Walk like a ghost until the battering ram announces there's death coming.

Now everything's bright like he's a newborn trying to get used to a world full of pain. Light and sound and time and space; mortality.

It takes him a while to understand where the sorcery lies.

It's in the senses. She's sensuous.

"Simon–"

He hears her in the shaded crevice of rocks, catches phantom notes of vanilla from the dry desert air that tries to push through the filthy fabric of his mask. She’s with him just before the hatch opens, and for the first time in his life, he hesitates before the jump.

She tastes round and sweet after the tang of blood and smoke and metal of the field. She feels like warm, cascading water after the bleak, dead weight of a gun that leaves his hands throbbing with recoil. Her skin returns the memory of Paradise until it overrides everything else.

She's a soft blooming to the senses. And his have been blown wide, torn apart, shot full of noise. There's an amputated, burnt stump where there should be a limb and some soft skin. But still, a blast that burns flesh from bones is not that different from her soft whisper that has the power to level him like a nuclear wind.

He has to learn how to come back to his senses. It's a joke that makes him wish he could shed tears. Luckily, she's the best teacher he could ever have.

"Fuck, Simon…"

He tries to quit smoking just to be able to taste her better. A scorched tongue is a curse when a man can't get enough of cream and silk.

"I need you. Need you so much. You don't even know..."

He knows. He knows that the depth of his need surpasses hers; it always has and always will.

The last time he saw her wasn't at the base; it was when he woke up to the sight of her foraging for orange juice from the fridge with his sweatshirt on. She combined sultry lace and bare, smooth skin with an old, black hoodie.

And it swallowed her. All his darkness. She only looked sleepy and content while being smothered by all that dark cotton.

"I'm gonna make some breakfast," she announces upon seeing he's awake. "You like bacon and eggs?"

What the fuck did I do to deserve you.

She knows full well she could offer him a chest filled with gold, and it wouldn't be half as tempting as her little American breakfast.

"That'll do."

He was supposed to go to the shower but instead, his feet take him right back to her. She gives him a pleasant hum when his hands fall on her shoulders and start to rub some stress away. He knows it will make her moan, as it does now. She leans a little into him, surrenders to his treatment.

"Simon… Do you come here just for sex?"

The hiss of cooking bacon almost drowns the question. Just one syllable less, and the question would be as she originally meant it to be.

Does he come to her just for sex.

"No."

She turns to look at him with a shy little smile. It makes him want to crush her against that counter until those lips part with a helpless sound.

"I like your cooking."

"You…ass," she laughs, shoves him lightly.

He treats every day like it’s his last with her, waits patiently for her to realize he is not the man she thinks he is. Under the bones he wears there’s only more bones, nothing more. She can feed him all she wants, but it will only make him more hungry; and a day will come when she sees he’s not actually a man at all but a yawning, six feet grave.

The black cotton hugs her and makes it falsely look like this woman belongs to him. It’s another round of torture to see how she takes his shirt, takes his cock, plays with the only things he can give her for a while or two.

She has the sweater on as she gives him the softest farewell smile. She adds a few words, some more detail to her request. In truth, it's his new protocol.

"Promise to come back to me."

He doesn't ask for the sweatshirt back.

She's left with it and his promise.

. . .

"Poor lass's always sulking when you're on those solo missions."

He knows that Price might know about them by now. But if Soap knows, everyone knows.

He doesn't care: after all, the woman doesn't even try to conceal the seductive looks and dreamy smiles she gives him whether there are other people present or not. They're not a secret anymore. Perhaps that's the way she wants it to be.

But the information Soap gives him is new.

"She is?"

He goes straight to her after the plane lands. Doesn't give a single fuck about that smug look the boy gives him.

She looks slightly surprised as he simply walks in: she can see he's filthy. He has grime on his hands, on the fingerless gloves that make it easier to operate a gun when there's no threat of sweating. He smells of smoke and ruin, gasoline and tobacco – a lousy compensation for her, a ridiculous substitute to calming his nerves when he knows the mission is going to be tricky. It already pisses him off that her cream will be mixed with smoke and disease again. He knows his weaknesses, which aren't many. But with her, he has learned it's not about the quantity.

The sorrow is briefly disguised from him. It's admirable: the way she tries to hide even the plainest of things. He knows her by now, knows that the sun casts shadows too. She should know he's the one she can cast them safely with.

The throat between the shoulders burdened by work and worries looks fragile in his hands. A bird's neck he could wrench without breaking a sweat.

"Mmh. I love your hands."

"Just my hands?"

He shouldn't be touching her with his filth, but he can't help it anymore. If she loves it, who is he to argue back?

Love your hands too.

Fuck, I love your smile. Your tits, your lips. That little pout you got when you don't get what you want right away.

I love–

She sighs. Then she cranes that beautiful neck, clings to him with one, tiny hand. "Why are you here, Simon?"

"Heard you were sulking," he mutters in her hair.

"What…?" She laughs. She laughs, but she's not happy. "What on earth are you talking about?"

She's shy. Reserved. Hiding behind a wall of humor and sunshine and smiles. His darkness penetrates it all.

"Heard you're devastated when I'm gone," he tries even more softly.

She could take it as arrogance. One of his lousy jokes. But she knows better than that.

"I am," she finally says, angel-soft. When she turns, there's finally sorrow in her eyes. She looks up at him, up, up, again with that stare that says I am yours to command. On the brink of tears; tears he wants to battle to the abyss. But his muscles are no use here.

Her lip trembles, just a little, when he brushes his knuckles over her cheek.

"We can't have that."

"We can't?"

"No."

"Well what are you going to do about it?"

Her voice is soft, pleading. It's not a demanding question: the woman's simply out of it. She wants assistance, assurance.

What are your orders, sir?

She worries too much. Up until this point, he thought it’s just because she's dutiful, responsible, one of the best employees there is. But she's not tense from work.

It's not just the missed you's she whispers when his skin is at its most thin.

She fears losing him.

Stone-cold realism is required in his field of work; no sleight of hand magic can help him when he's facing the unavoidable. If the mission is impossible, he doesn’t take it. Because he can't change the unchangeable; he can't fight the inevitable. They both know he can't promise anything.

They both know he will do his best to come back. There was a time he would’ve considered it a blessing if he didn’t. Death used to be his only ticket to some peace.

She gives him an impossible mission, and he can't say no. Leadership is about taking care of people. His people. And she's more than just a subordinate.

He grabs her by the waist and raises her to the counter, relishes the way she gasps. She weighs nothing in his hands after cold, hefty cannons. It’s almost like she gains wings and flits to the tabletop designed for him to take her. It’s the perfect height for him to simply open his pants and alleviate her pain.

"Gonna fuck you until you cry."

She sighs. "You can't solve every problem with a gun or a cock, Riley."

The woman knows how to penetrate him, too. The stabbing doesn’t stop even when her thighs part slowly - she knows, just as much as he, that this is the best way to remind her just how alive he is. This is the only thing he can give her, and he is damn right going to deliver. His hand covers half of her thigh as he brushes a thumb over the sensitive inner side.

"You sure about that?"

That look of desperation makes him hard already. Her hands go about his neck in a perfect paradox with what she whispers next.

"Honey… Not here."

She calls him honey. As if this tar-black madness is only golden nectar to her.

"No?"

It’s not only sorcery, but necromancy: how she’s brought him back from the grave. No wonder such arts are considered dangerous. This is forbidden, and still, he cannot stop.

"Ya want me to stop?"

"...No."

He leaves most of her uniform on because he is in too much of a hurry to get between her legs. The woman molds herself against him the second his tip meets her folds.

"God, you feel good," she sighs as he slides in. It's like a prayer: both her words and his return back to the base. Alive.

"So fucking good…"

Fuckin' tell me about it.

She whimpers and clutches him like a little leech. Almost cries already.

"That's it. You just hold onto me."

If someone heard the way he's cooing in her ear, they would deem him soft in the head. He doesn't give a fuck.

Her moans chime inside his head like the softest, most beautiful opera. He has never been a man of high culture. The whole civilization could go to hell for all he cared. But she sings to him so beautifully that even a man like him can finally see the appeal. Legs wrap around him even tighter than those small hands until he doesn't know who's holding who here.

"That feel good..?"

"Yes… Don't stop, just don't stop."

She's almost limp in his arms. Good. He's managed to relieve that tension already.

He goes deeper, deeper, and a tiny hand that saves people instead of slaughtering them grabs him by the shirt, probably in an instinct to try and catch some skin. He can't see her face but the body against him trembles and shakes as he spreads her wide and pours love in her.

"No need to sulk, sweetheart. I got you."

She's crying, or laughing, or both. Of course she likes pet names paired with support. He adds it to the list of things the woman loves, the things he can give her. He hopes, half expects that she will shed some tears after shattering around his cock. She needs a good cry as much as she needs him. And nothing feels as good as this: being needed by her.

When she comes with an arched back and a scream he fears and hopes will reach every other officer here, he knows he can let go too. He's done his duty: now it's time to collect the reward. It's not transactional, she's not work, but she's still his responsibility. The woman's paycheck is fatter than anything he could ever get from his employer. He's inside her, but that doesn't mean she isn't inside him too. She's embedded in him in ways that threaten to swallow him and leave him on the shore like bleach-white bones on a beach. He stays inside her long after the waves have passed. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he doesn't dare to move.

"I still have your sweatshirt," she sighs while holding him.

"Good. Looks better on you."

"I sleep with it sometimes," she whispers and wraps herself around him so tight that he wishes he could be there every night to send her to sleep. Now she only has his memory as a company, some darkness far too big for her. "Sleep in it, actually."

His mind is like a wheel that turns around nothingness. There's nothing to hold on to; he's falling through starless space.

The eerie sound of gunshot echoes in his head, he thinks about the splatter of brain matter on the armchair; how there's at least one person in this world who would cry from hearing the news.

And not just any person, but her; a whole summer in one woman. A midsummer sun, missing some forgotten, weatherbeaten bones on a beach when there's plenty of flora and fauna to shine on.

"If you ever break your promise…"

She sniffs in his neck, and his embrace tightens instantly.

"Would rather die than break it."

His promise doesn't make any sense. Or perhaps it makes every sense. She finally cries like she's supposed to.

"Shh. I'm here now."

I'm not dead.

I'm not dead.

the effect you have

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader

(helen!reader/ medic!reader)

wc: 2.5k warnings: helen and simon post proposal as things shift for helen. bit of angst, bit of fluff, bit of reader struggling, mainly softer!ghost. summary: ghost enjoys how you always look up at him like he’s something special—like he matters.  it’s evolved and transformed in time. a softer look in your eyes now when you stare at him, your hand gripping his cheek

simon ghost riley masterlist

You remembered when he had ignored you like he hated you. 

Doing so intentionally as if proving to himself that it meant nothing outside of the moments he pulled you into dark corners.

Even if it was he who lifted the mask—brushed his chapped lips over your neck, blew his breath over your skin until it prickled and raised.

It meant something now.

Seeing the evidence of it as you remove your gloves—eyes catching the ring he placed on your left hand. It had meant something for longer than it had been there, pulsing around the two of you. 

When he’s not on base, your memories are what keep you warm until he returns. Remembering how his bare fingers had felt fanned over your hip, the sound of how his slow breaths had filled the air, darkness blanketing the room as you wished the night never ended. 

You’re growing tired of spending more hours away from him than together. Not just because you miss him, but because you’re tired, drained…

There’s a calmness Ghost feels when you’re close.

As though, by seeing you, he doesn’t need to look for you or wonder if you’re safe, if you’re unharmed and your heart is beating. 

He doesn’t believe it when people tell him—he has to see it. He needs to. Otherwise, the little voice grows louder until it’s shouting, shrieking and using his skull as a hammer. 

It’s different when he’s alone with you. Then, he likes how you look when you’re under him. 

Ghost enjoys how you always look up at him like he’s something special—like he matters. 

It’s evolved and transformed in time. A softer look in your eyes now when you stare at him, your hand gripping his cheek—or on his shoulder—when he curls his fingers inside you. 

He relishes in watching you come apart. He likes knowing it’s him that’s doing it—that he gets to for as long as there’s air in his lungs, and you’ll have him. 

Simon likes that he barely has to lift his mask over his nose before your lips find his—hungrily, desperately like you crave him. As though you want to consume and be consumed. 

Almost like you don’t understand that you’d consumed him so long ago. You’d left a hole in him that added to the many others. 

It was just that yours could be filled—and filled it was, when Ghost managed to hold you again. When years ran their course, and you were there, showering the air with your laugh, smile and wit. 

He thinks he’ll deserve you. Ponders over it when you're lying in front of him, thinking how you’re a literal piece of art when you’re spread in front of him. When your limbs are bare, there’s the lightest sheen on your skin. 

He knows every curve, every scar. He knows the feel of every part of your body. He knows how your smile feels under his thumb and the tears under his knuckles. 

Every part of you, every emotion—he’s seen. He’s held you close and pulled you even closer. He’s watched you fall apart and placed shards of you back into place. 

Not out of obligation, but need—want. 

The same as you do to him, for him. Both of you have become excellent puzzlers over the years. Each time he’s been granted the pleasure of fucking you, he’d committed it. Written over what he managed to mentally absorb, ensuring he has the perfect render of you living in his dreams. 

Ghost still did it now, even though now you’re his. You chant it like a prayer when he pulls you close.

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

His beacon—the light that leads him. You’re his moon, his sun—the thing he never wanted to orbit but does all the same. He won’t admit it. Not a whisper of it. Not any of that or that you’re his escape, a welcomed retreat. Something dangerous in the day and sweeter at night. 

He’s always loved that about you. That when the day is done, your walls come down. The fire inside of you slowly smothered so people could get close. He’d walk through your flames if they ever rose around him, storm through until he stared at the soul in the middle. 

He wouldn’t lose you again. 

Wouldn’t squander the chance of being loved by you.

It’s why his eyes linger on the ring on your finger. The one that had been a welcomed weight in his vest, but suits being on your hand even more. 

The hand which is splayed across his stomach, the sun slowly rising, shimmering its orange hue across his base room. 

“I can hear you thinking, Simon.” 

His lips twitch as he closes his eyes. Wanting another minute, another hour, another day. 

“Go back to sleep.”

You look for him in your nightmares. 

The ones which happen nightly, more frequently than they’ve ever done. 

Your hands are dripping with cherry red, the sound of a flatline being the soundtrack until he arrives. You expect him, need him—practically call for him even if your dream-lips don’t part, and your dream-chords don’t scream. You wish for him, secretly plucking a chord for him to arrive. 

And he does. 

Whether it’s his projection appearing to pull you from the darkness, no mask on his face as the shadows and smoke swirl around his boots. Whether it’s his hand spraying across your body, pulling you back to the physical world. 

He saves you, over and over.  

Your map home, your light, your reason. 

Sometimes he feels he can keep you safe.

He pulls you from your dreams, when you’re sweating, shaking and whimpering. He holds you when your eyes mist over, your light flickering as he guides you to the shower, watching crimson wash down the drain. 

Other times, he wonders if he’s imprisoned you—shackled you to a life he can’t protect you from. 

Irrespective of him, you’re in the centre of danger—a member of 141, all the same. Your hands keep the team together, doing your bit to keep the wheels turning and the operations ticking. 

He has no part to play in you still being here. That’s a choice you make, and one he has nothing but respect for. But it’s outside of that. 

When he watches you trace his scars in a shoddy bed or when you say nothing but tighten your fingers when the two of you walk down a street, off duty. It’s those moments he wonders if he’s trapped you—made you carry his fears, carry the weight of his grief. 

Doubt rears its head then, smothering over nicer moments as he wonders if the past will take away his future. Whether he’s condemned you to a half-life because there’s only half of him left. 

He feels it when there’s a noise in the darkness. The flat the two of you live in groaning and creaking—whether it's the pipes or the floorboards. It grips his heart, and makes him kick his legs from the sheets. A need to keep you safe, to protect. 

There are times you find him, sleep in your eyes, weariness in your bones as you take his forearm and pull him back to bed. Others, he returns to find you curled in on yourself, a need to pull you close, feeling your warmth smother over him as he tries to close his eyes. 

That same feeling roars when he’s running through the dirt, kicking up dust, yanking his comms from his ears. He hears you call for someone through the comms, your whimper, your pleading. 

Ghost knows why you don’t call for him. He’s the reason you don’t—his silent request you abide without ever being asked. 

And that fills him with fury, the fear exploding into a panicked rage that would give him the strength to tear whoever came in his way. He’d rip through it, them—whatever attempted to stop him, person, moment, world—in two. 

Something in him taking over, the killer in him, the Ghost. That part of him dispatching one after the other as they fall, allowing Simon to hunt for his Helen. 

You’ve been hurt before. Too many times for his liking. He’s stroked his fingers over the scars, and traced them with the tip of his tongue. His ears have captured whimpers that turned into moans. He should be used to it, but he never is.

The twist in his chest at the sight of you on the floor, knocked back from an explosion you should never have been near. Still, your eyes land on his. Finding him—seeking him. Lips parted, hand to the back of your head—

Even concussed, you look for him. 

A sight and thought which renders him breathless. Something which stirs in him, making him find you, even in the middle of an operation. He’d do what he needed to do, take the lives that were necessary, and collect or extract what was required of him before.  

It’s what you’d want. And he’s also nothing but dedicated to the cause. But after, when the main objective is complete, he will begin his second. You curl into him, finding the spot you usually have when the two of you are alone—pulling you close, not caring about the odd looks, as he lifts you easily. 

“Keep your blood in you, Helen.” “Roger that, Ghost.”

Your eyes flick over him as though unsure if you’re dreaming or in reality. Keeping them on him, your training appearing—the usual thing you tell those who you’re taking care of:

Eyes on me. Do not close them.

He doesn’t need to tell it to you, doesn’t need to remind you of your famous words—you’re doing it already. Continuing to do so until you’re in a bed in your own workplace—a machine beeping, white bandages covering you where necessary. 

Sometimes he feels he can save you. Sometimes he feels he’s always too late. 

It’s gnawing. 

Worsening, as you call another time of death again. 

Like you have done constantly since the 141 had managed to hijack space on another base. Your expertise is needed in the medical area, watching more light fade from eyes than your heart can handle. The death is more constant than you’re used to. 

Your hands are good, but not great; your brain is quick, but not quick enough. 

Confidence wavering, determination squandered. 

In truth, it’s the damage, the injuries too severe. But your mind is a liar, a cage of deceit that reminds you you’re not good at what you do. That you lose, over and over again…

The reason he’s so good—why he can and used to work alone—is that he notices things.

Ghost spots things, the tiny flicker of reflection, the tyre marks, the kicked-up sand and oddly placed buildings when they scan satellite images. 

It’s why he knows you’re running on nothing. Something has changed inside of you. Something had been broken—ripped in two and left dangling, withering in your chest where hope once was. 

Often, a break helped. You mended and sowed yourself back together with the same magical hands you save lives with. But the last two-week break at home didn’t do that. Your body was small, curled up in bed for reasons he didn’t like. The smile he loves to bottle stares at him, all forced and different at the edges. 

He should have asked, but feelings aren’t his strength. He fixes, builds and repairs…

Ghost isn’t sure how to fix this. How to heal you. So he doesn’t, even if he should. 

A part of him praying you’ll blink one day on base, and he’ll see the embers in your eyes. His prayers are unanswered, watching more of your fire being taken, more of your body slumping, a tiredness sleep couldn’t fix. 

“Think we should buy a house.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, holding your hand in your office. Tired of watching you dwindle, shrink and wane. Forcing his way into your office, just like he always does. He waits for the usual smirk, pauses for it. Watching as he finds a soft smile there instead, replacing what he usually knows.

He’ll take it. 

Fuck, he’d take anything you gave him. Forever lucky to have a speck of you, never mind all of you.

Rolling your hand between his gloves, he doesn’t miss how you sigh contently. “Somewhere quiet. A fixer-upper.”

“You gonna be fixing it up?” 

Smiling, he looks at you. 

Does so until the seconds bleed into a minute, watching the walls come down—the sheet of pretence—watching that tiredness return. The one you try to hide, but he sees all the same. 

“Think y’could do with a project.”

“You do, huh?”

He grips your hand a little tighter, more purposeful. “It’s alright that sometimes enough, is enough. Y’know?” 

He watches as you bite the inside of your lip, blinking—a shimmer growing in your eyes as you try to hold it all back. He studies you and keeps his eyes fixed until you sweep your tongue across your bottom lip. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Casper.” 

He nods, loosening his grip begrudgingly on your hand before he pulls it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your skin. Savouring the softness, feeling your ring under his thumb, before he lets it go, watching you, watch him. 

“You remember when you used to hate me?”

“Never hated you.”

Smirking, you fold your arms. Keeping your left hand—the one which sparkles—on the top. On display.

“Jus’ wanted to keep you safe.” 

Your smirk drops, blending into a smile, as your head tilts and you let out a heavy breath. “I prefer how you keep me safe now than you did then.” 

He knows. Feels it too. Has kept you safe differently since he had you back then he did before. Then it was about keeping you out, now it's about keeping everyone else away.

Swallowing, he nods, picking up his balaclava from your desk, turning it in his hands as he stares at you. “Me too.” 

You drop your eyes, shoulders sinking as he stands from the chair. It creaks, the noise disrupting the quiet of the small room the two of you are hiding in as he begins to put his balaclava on. 

“Simon…”

He halts, the fabric coming down to his nose as you lean forward, pressing your lips to his before wiping a finger to remove any chapstick from his lips. 

“You should ask Soap to be your best man.” 

Snorting, he shakes his head. “Not a fuckin’ chance, Helen.” 

The fabric coming down over his face, the Ghost smothering over Simon as your fingers help slide the bottom into his top. 

“I need to cut your hair when you’re back.”

"Thought y'said you're not doing that anymore."

Shrugging, your hand cups his fabric-covered cheek, his head turning, pressing his lips against it as he watches something light in your eyes. 

“Be safe, need you back with me if we’re doing house viewings, Casper.” 

He smirks, hoping you can see it, lifting his hand up, showing one finger, then four, then three. 

YOUNG LOVE.

evan peters x model!yn

warnings: mentions of the show “dahmer”??, age gap

-

evanupdates via instagram post

liked by ynfan1, username, evanfan and more

evanupdates “ The funny thing is, when I was offered the part to play Dahmer, I seriously considered turning it down. You know, I didn't think I could measure up. Yes, I had done something similar in American Horror Story, but trying to tell an event as horrific as Dahmer's life and what he did to his victims in such an explicit and realistic way? I really thought I wasn't up to the task. I told my girlfriend that I had been offered a big role and that I was thinking about whether or not to turn it down. She asked me what it was about and well, I told her what the series was about a bit. Then she looked me straight in the eye and simply said, "You have to accept this role."

[…]

Yes, I really think I couldn't have done it without the support I got from the whole team and especially from my girlfriend. You know, she would sit with me every afternoon and we'd spend hours and hours watching documentaries and Dahmer movies, reading police reports, newspapers from the time, whatever. The support I had from her was truly something I will always be grateful for. ”

- Evan talking about the process of accepting his character in the new netflix publicity interview.

view comments

username y/n is the most supportive girlfriend

evanfan2 i love that he’s getting the recognition he deserves, i hope he wins an emmy for his excellent performance

username imagine calling y/n l/n your girlfriend

ynfan evan please come back to ig 😭

username girl literally evan's instagram seemed like a y/n fan account 😭😭😭

evanfan he looks so dilf 😭 @ yourinstagram make our dreams come true

username i love him so so much please 🥲

username i can't express in words how attracted i am to this man.

ahsfan what did i miss? 😭 last time i checked evan was dating emma

ynfan6 girl they broke up in 2015 😭😭😭 you missed a lot

username @ ynfan6 but y/n and evan weren't already dating in 2010? i'm a new fan i’m a lot confused

evanfan9 those were just rumours! y/n and evan were nothing more than close friends until 2016, where they started dating, but they always kept the relationship very private because they were heavily criticized for the age difference

-

yourinstagram via instagram post

liked by ynfan1, username, harrystyles, kendalljenner and more

yourinstagram posing for the camera as if i just weren’t traumatized.

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username god i wish i looked this pretty being traumatized

ynfan she’s unreal

evanfan3 evan’s a lucky man tbh

honeymoon Pretty girl 💖

username did u liked the show?

yourinstagram i honestly had a really bad time watching it, especially knowing that it’s based on real events. however, i loved the effort and dedication that everyone involved in it put into it.

harryfan1 i'm sick of Harry liking all of this girl's posts 😭

yourinstagram me too

harrystyles Rude.

username @ harryfan1 girl they have been friends since 2015 ? besides, she already has a boyfriend

username she’s an icon she’s a legend and she is the moment

evanfan7 please please please convince evan to get an ig account again 😭

yourinstagram bestie i’ve been trying for 2 years

kendalljenner You look so hot ugh

arianagrande 🤍🤍

ahsfan we all know who took this photo

username i really think evan's gallery is full of silly photos of y/n😅😅 but who knows maybe he hides his photography skills

ynfan5 the most beautiful woman in the world for a reason

evanscult00 i'm literally in love with herrr evan be careful because you and i aren’t friends

-

ynupdates via instagram post

liked by username, ynfan1, ynfan9, evanfan and more

ynupdates CUTIES 🥹! Y/N and her boyfriend, Evan Peters, in a pub tonight in Paris.

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evanfan no bc this is like the first pic we have of evan IN MONTHS i'm not complaining anyway i love this couple so much

username they both look so happy and comfortable

ynfan1 i want what they have

evanfan2 please they’re such dilf and milf material

username stylish girlfriend 🤝 “i don't care what to wear” boyfriend

evanfan7 will she know all the people who want to be her right now?

evandyn evan said that he was very insecure with girls and that he needed them to be patient with him 😭😭😭 seeing how happy he is with y/n makes me sensitive

ahsfan5 they were written by taylor swift i don’t make the rules

username THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER??? i'm playing lover in my head

ahsfan5 YES YES they also give many cigarettes after sex vibes

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ynthrowbacks via instagram post

liked by username, evanfan, ahsfan and more

ynthrowbacks Evan Peters, Y/N’s boyfriend, 10 years ago today.

username she looks so fetus

evanfan1 I love them so much and I really hope to have a relationship as pure as theirs one day

ynfan7 ok but can we talk about the fact that they are 9 years apart?

username !! it always seemed very strange to me, especially because evan doesn't even look like he's 35, but they started dating when y/n was already of legal age, so i guess that’s fine

ynfan9 y/n was 14 years old in that photo and evan 23...

evanfan5 not the new fans being shocked by this 💀💀💀💀 evan has always been heavily criticized for this for all these years even though they were just friends until 2016. they both went through hell with your public opinion until a couple of years ago and now you guys want to bring it back 😅

ynfan4 @ evanfan5 THIS further treating y/n as a little girl when she is now 26 and a fully capable adult

username love this y/n era

evanfan9 THE PIZZA me trying to cook aesthetically

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yourinstagram via instagram post

liked by harrystyles, taylorswift13, username, ynupdates, evanfan, kendalljenner and more

yourinstagram you kiss my face and we're both drunk. everyone thinks that they know us, but they know nothing about us

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taylorswift13 💜💜💜

taylorfan1 SPEAK NOW TV????

username she just said that she doesn't give a shit about what you guys talk about her relationship.

ynfan1 swiftie era

yourinstagram wdym im a swiftie since i was born

username why is he kissing her belly?? 👀

evanfan7 here we go again

ynfan2 THE LAST PIC BROOQJDHAKD

username favorite midnights song go

yourinstagram maroon

ynfan9 the publication did not come out more than 10 minutes ago and i have already seen a couple of articles saying that y/n is pregnant like 💀💀💀💀

ahsfan5 I SAID IT I SAID THEY WERE WRITTEN BY TAYLOR

ahsfan7 they’re so cute like 😿😿🥹🥹

username I firmly believe that they are the love of each other's lives

ahsfan IT COUPLEEE

evanfan9O i wonder if y/n will show evan all the goofy edits she sees of him on tiktok

username omg im so embarrassed

-

⇝ MÉNAGE .

Simon makes the mistake of spending the night before one of the longest missions of his career in the arms of a woman he met at a pub, unaware of the consequences it would have on his life moving forward.

CW: Unplanned pregnancy, angst, smut, fluff, dad!Simon.

Also on Ao3!

— CHAPTERS:

‍‍‍‍‍‍‍

I ; Midnight ; [ 10.1k words ]

II ; Shadow ; [ 10k words ]