Lula

you’re twisting and turning in bed while simon patiently waits for you to find a resting position. by the end of it, you end up laying across him with your head resting on his thigh, arms wrapping around the thick muscle.

“settled?” he’ll ask, eyes half-lidded as he fights sleep long enough for you to answer. you hum, nuzzling your face against his outer thigh and squeezing tighter.

maybe his hand is planted firmly on your own thigh that is currently sprawled across his waist, rubbing soothing circles into your flesh.

the next morning, he wakes to you laying on your back with an arm and a leg hanging overboard. through bleary eyes, he’ll pull you back and trap you against his chest for a few hours since he didn’t get to last night.

Fish Meat

Old artwork of Ghoap AU from Mermay month.

It's hurt to yearn for you

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Who am I? – Poppy. she/they. Adult. bisexual trash gremlin w/ a caffeine addiction. @gloomwitchtales is my personal blog.

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Welcome to my blog. I am a writer who sometimes makes time to read as well.

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I am in the Call of Duty fandom and am currently working on writing projects for that fandom. I have in the past written some Marvel stuff as well. Those works were either never finished or never posted. I will not guarantee that they are things I will ever go back to but that doesn't necessarily mean I'll never come back to writing Marvel in general.

I mostly gravitate towards xReader or xOC style fics and have no plans currently to change that. Poly also isn't my cup of tea so I likely won't write anything like that. I'm not saying never but I'm saying it's extremely unlikely.

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Love Y'all. Happy Reading. See you on the next one.

XOXO

Simon had read that somewhere, or maybe been told. Mental engagement in the absence of physical exercise. Keep the brain busy or the body would find something worse to do with itself.

He gave Soap your pussy portal when the dog hybrid was being too annoying for Ghost to handle.

That had been hours ago.

Soap was sprawled across his bunk, your pussy portal clutched in both hands, pressed hungrily to his face. His tail had been going since the first lick, steady rhythmic thumping that had slowed down now, gone heavy and languid, the way it did when he stopped caring about anything outside the immediate ten inches in front of his face.

He dragged his tongue slow and flat from bottom to top, gathered everything he found there, swallowed, did it again. Your cunt had been swollen for the better part of three hours, folds puffy and slick. He whined when you tightened, hummed when you softened, ears perking up when he made you gush against his tongue and tail thumped when he made you go still and shivery instead.

He sucked your clit between his lips and his tail thumped harder.

"Fuckin' hell, lass." The words came out muffled, half pressed against your folds. His voice had gone rough an hour ago, scraped raw from all the sounds he was making. Drool and slick had tracked down his chin and he hadn't once moved to wipe it. "Taste so good. Taste so- aye, tha's it- "

He drank down what you gave him with a sound that had no self consciousness in it at all.

His cock had been hard since the first ten minutes, sweatpants doing nothing, a damp spot worked through the fabric at the tip. He got a hand on it eventually, rough, impatient, barely enough, and when that stopped being enough he freed it entirely and lined the head up with your cunt and pushed in, hips rolling forward until the wet clutch of your cunt swallowed him to the root.

His jaw dropped open.

He bit his own forearm. Muffled something long and reverent into his own skin.

"There ye are," he breathed, when he finally could. "There- wee thing, look at ye, takin' me so- "

His hips moved before he finished the sentence. Short, hard thrusts, the kind that didn't have patience behind them. His tail had gone from lazy thumping to something frantic, whipping side to side, ears perked forward, pupils blown wide and dark as he watched your pussy swallow him down to his curls.

He bottomed out and held there, grinding, tongue lolling, a thin string of drool from his lower lip, completely unselfconscious about every single thing his body was doing.

Hours blurred. He’d pull out to lap at the cum he already pumped into your, tongue fucking it deeper, then mount the portal again. Rutting like a dog in heat, hips pistoning, balls slapping wetly against your cunt, cock aching more with every desperate thrust before slamming in deep and holding there, flooding your sopping pussy with thick ropes of cum until it leaked out messily around his shaft.

Then he’d pull free with a wet pop, only to start licking you clean again, over and over, never letting your poor cunt rest.

Miles away your thighs were clamped together, both hands digging in the couch cushions, a bruise already forming on your lower lip from three hours of biting it. Cum had tracked down to the back of your knee. Your cunt was swollen past the point of being able to track individual sensations, everything had blurred into one long trembling register of too much that somehow kept tipping over into more.

You had stopped being embarrassed about the sounds you were making an hour ago.

“tell ‘em no carnations at my funeral. fuckin’ hate those.”

you sigh, for what felt like the millionth time in past three days. “simon—”

“and promise me you’ll at least wait a couple of decades before finding someone else.”

“simon, for the love of god, you’re not dying. just drink the damn soup.”

he scrunched his face as if he had been deeply wronged by you, but he drank the soup from the spoon you had held near his mouth anyway, moaning and groaning after the slightest movements. “you did not answer me, lovie. how long would you wait before finding another man after i am gone?”

simon had caught common cold and it happened three days ago. he had come home after running some errands and later, the same evening, the nasal congestion happened, and then the sneezing. oh god, the sneezing. he drank hot tea and had slept on the couch that night so you wouldn’t catch cold too. he said it’d go away soon, that it was nothing.

only, it didn’t go away. next day, he came down with proper cold. tiredness, headache, sore throat, light fever, cough—all that stuff.

and if simon wasn’t the most dramatic version of himself while he was sick. it was a new experience entirely, watching the big, serious guy act like spongebob once he got sick. simon hadn’t fallen sick before. not that you had witnessed anytime he did. but now that he did, you were seeing a totally different side of him.

he’d been acting as if he had a terminal disease instead of common cold. it was adorable in a way, really.

“hmm, let’s see… perhaps a year, i think?” you say, trying to hold back a smile. if he was going to be dramatic, you were definitely going to play along. “appropriate mourning period.”

“a year?”

“i mean, i am quite young, no? can’t give up on love this young,” you explain, holding another spoonful of the warm soup near his mouth, which he slurped gently. “a woman has needs, after all.”

simon looked at you for a few seconds as if you had betrayed him, and then he pulled up the covers a bit, trying to get inside those fully and lay back down on the bed. “i’ll come back as a ghost to haunt that man.”

now that almost makes you huff out a soft laughter, but you control it. “two years is the max i can do, love,” you say, trying your best to sound earnest, though you were miserably failing trying to hold back a smile.

“i don’t like the thought of dying anymore,” he replies finally, sounding as though he had uttered those words after a lot of thinking, and laid back down on the bed. there even was a soft, pout on his face, as if he was deep in thought. it was all so comical.

“that’s what i’ve been telling you for the past three days—and no you can’t go back to sleep just yet,” you reprimand him mildly, splacing the cup of soup back on the nightstand before pulling him back up using all your strength. “finish the soup first, it’s warm, good for the throat. then you have take the meds.”

“but lovie―”

“simon.” you just had to act strict to get him to listen. after he had finished the soup and taken the medicine, you fluffed up his pillow and let him lay back down on the bed.

“sleep tight, love.” you press a kiss on his forehead, tucking the hair strands back so they don’t fall on his eyes.

you were just about to leave the room before he spoke up, voice hoarse and raspy due to cold. “lovie ’m fucked, nose‘s so blocked… can you spoon me? need yer hugs and kisses...”

you smile warmly at his request. there was a high chance you would catch cold too, but fuck it. it was just a cold. you could recover from it in a week, max. after all, it’s not everyday you get to cuddle with a dramatic simon. “sure thing. but no more talks of dying, okay?”

“mhm.” simon nods obediently, shifting aside on the bed to make space for you. and when you settle down beside him, he rests his head on your chest, finally content.

suddenly, he raises his head up to look at you. “to be clear, you were jokin’, right?”

“yes,” you chuckle.

sparring... playing? 🤼‍♂️💥💥

pups & tanks :3

Just a heads up: This is a Boxing AU where Ghost is a boxer. Hope you enjoy!

when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.

you thought that was that.

for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.

you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.

until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.

you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.

without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.

what the hell?

the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.

he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.

when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?

you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.

he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.

it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.

so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.

the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.

with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).

just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.

you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.

"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"

the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.

after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.

when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.

you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.

he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.

"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.

he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."

your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.

"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"

"simon."

"really? you look like a greg."

he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.

inspired wholly by this hard of hearing!simon by @ynstark — i’ve been plagued by the thought ever since

cw: suggestive

he hears the kettle just fine when it whistles, and he hears the front door when it slams with the wind. what he doesn’t hear, almost ever, is you.

“john,” you call.

you get nothing in return. he’s got his feet up on the coffee table, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, some dense paperback open in his hands.

“john,” you try again, huffing.

still nothing. the corner of the room he’s not facing may as well be another county.

you cross to the sofa and stop right in front of him until the shape of you finally registers and he looks up over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows lifting like you’ve appeared out of nowhere.

“what?”

“i called for you twice.”

“did you?” he asks, lips pursing slightly.

you’ve been dealing with this for a long while. over dinner, leaning across the table, repeating yourself, watching him nod at the wrong moments and answer questions you never asked. in the kitchen, talking to his back, getting nothing in return. in bed, breathing his name against his neck, not getting the same response from him you would’ve got a few years ago.

decades of gunfire and breaching charges and the thumping punch of helo rotors, year over year. by the time anyone thought to check, preserving it was out of the question because the damage was already there. the audiologist had been matter-of-fact about it. showed him the chart, the slope of it dropping off. he nodded along like it was someone else’s ear.

Ghost has spent multiple instances fucking you dumb, using all your energy and then some because he's simply that obsessed with you. Yet, you still haven't seen any traditional aftercare from ghost.

His favorite method seems to be food, helping you recover physically from the exertion.

Of course there's the granola bars and electrolyte drinks, but you'll never forget the day he he dissappeared for a bit and came back with a perfectly cooked steak, still butt-naked when he handed you the plate. It even had an adorable little garnish.

Though the time he pulled you into a closet because he had to have you in his mouth, only to pop off and hand you a little fish Keychain he found at the gas station, will always be a fond memory.

Or the time where, after a shower and cuddles, you still seemed down and ghost just wouldn't let it stand. So he decided to build a blanket fort around you in bed as if it were the logical next step.

Does he still need to be reminded to help you wash up or to come for cuddles? Yes, but honestly you love whatever his mind comes up with more. You like how personalized it feels.

....you'll never stop teasing him for the time he prepped sourdough in the oven and timed it specifically for when you'd want a break and when you'd be done.