#ghost x f!reader

your profile had been remarkably simple, a straightforward list of what you could do, cleaning, laundry, shopping, and meal preparation. you had listed no demanding requirements, and for some inexplicable reason, your requested salary was incredibly low. it was an absolute dream, though he had been fully prepared to pay an inflated price just to have his squalor managed.

following a characteristically brief, dry exchange of messages on his part, he scheduled an evening meeting with you. not making the slightest effort to clean up before your arrival. when he threw the door open, his hair was a shaggy mess, a week's worth of patchy stubble shadowed his square jawline, and a pair of stained gray sweatpants hung low on his wide hips beneath a crumpled shirt that was entirely too tight for his massive form.

yet, you didn't even blink at the sight of the jagged scars marring his face, nor did you falter at his unkempt clothes. instead, you fixed your gaze strictly on the surrounding mess, doing so without a single grimace or frown, an unbothered composure that pulled a rare grin from his lips behind your back.

“what', no scream?” simon grunted, clearly amused now. he took a slow step closer, tracking the way your eyes flitted about, systematically scanning the wreckage of his living room and kitchen with the callous efficiency of a trained robot, only looking back at him when you let out a fickle, noncommittal hum.

“seen worse” you answered shortly, offering a small, indifferent shrug, craning your neck at an angle to look directly into his face, holding a steady, unblinking gaze with his honey speckled irises. the blackout curtains were parted just enough to let in the fading light, the amber sunbeams catching the edges of simon’s messy hair and bleeding into his eyes.

“yau look a bit' too yaung to hav' sein much” he remarked, and it was the truth, you looked far younger than him, and certainly younger than the hardened faces he was used to surrounding himself with. your expression didn't even flicker, holding his stare, maintaining a heavy, awkward silence that nearly made his skin crawl.

“i’m a witch” you finally grumbled, tone blunt and clipped in a lazy drawl as you quirked a single eyebrow upward. simon went dead silent, mirroring your stillness for a heartbeat, before he suddenly barked a loud, booming laugh, baring his crooked teeth in genuine entertainment, and the tension dissolved there.

you moved on to discuss the payment, admitting that he was right about your age, a student simply looking to earn what she could when your schedule permitted. when he offered a significantly higher rate than you had asked for, you declined politely, fixing him with a scowling glare that openly labeled him a creep. leaving your number in his phone, you agreed to return tomorrow, once again in the evening.

what simon had expected would take no less than a month to clean had been thoroughly tidied up in less than a week, every single corner scrubbed bare and dust cleared from places he hadn't even known existed. for the first few days, he had slept through most your shifts, knowing you were there and setting his alarm strictly for the hour you were about to leave.

every night he’d wake to a new miracle, finding you’d somehow hauled the heavy sofa across the floorboards to clean the dust bunnies beneath it, and had dusted behind the television without breaking a wrist or even a sweat. amused, he changed your contact name in his cracked phone to witch.

when you accidentally caught a glimpse of the screen one evening, you flashed him a smile so unexpectedly sweet that it nearly gave him a stroke, accustomed as he was to seeing you either plain faced or frowning in deep concentration over chores.

your cooking was something he would actively brag about to johnny and kyle, never in his life had he wanted to lick a plate clean, yet whatever you prepared whether roasted, baked, meat, fish, or soup he devoured it like a starved stray dog, licking his lips and declaring aloud “shit', nevuh tasted anything bettuh than this”

crucially, you never commented on the cum stains on the boxers he frequently dropped into the laundry basket when sorting out the clothes. nor did you find it strange when he abruptly altered his sleep schedule just to stay awake while you were cleaning.

watching you patiently from the couch, his long legs spread wide and his head cocked, while the television hummed with the very show you had earlier dismissed as utter shit out in the background.

“stay for dinnuh next' tim', my treat', i’ll do the cooking” simon offered one evening. it had been nearly a month since you started working for him, and because you stubbornly refused all his attempts to raise your salary, this was the only compromise his mind could conjure, at least a dinner, a chance to treat you to something fancy.

“since when do you cook?” you had asked, your voice far more amused than curious, openly teasing him considering you’d been the one fixing every bite he ate, down to the chalky protein shakes he needed for his workouts, possessing far too much culinary expertise for your age.

“i can handl' a stov'” he let out a gravelly huff, rolling his shoulders as he watched you tie your shoelaces, bent over with your pert ass curved beautifully in his direct line of sight. your clothes weren't revealing, just simple jeans pulled taut against the swell and stretchy shirt, yet his cock stirred in response, chubbing behind the sweats and boxers.

simon knew damn well you caught the outline the moment you spun around to accept the dinner invitation. actually lingering behind the following evening for a flawlessly seared steak draped in a rich bourbon garlic cream sauce, paired with crispy roasted potatoes.

you finished the plate, warmed up and satisfied with your belly full, and ended up straddling his fuzzy thighs right there on the sagging couch. hips rolled down onto his brawny lap, and his swelled girth thrust in brutal and deep, plunging itself within your tight, sappy cunt. walls convulsing around his bottoming base as he pistoned in, your jiggly ass smacking against his heavy balls.

“christ', even yauh cunt' the best'” his humid breath hit your face in a thoroughly ragged rasp, hooded eyes wandering, darting from your eyes, which had gone completely glassy, veiled in a thick fog of pleasure, to the way slick rolls in tacky rivulets in response to how he rams in. scarred hips angled to hit deeper, battering the lumpy spot that makes your thighs cramp and shake.

you were uninhibited and deliciously loud, answering his heavy rhythm with nothing but breathless, sharp moans and high pitched whines as you rode him completely dry, tight walls contracting in a vice like grip around his veined girth, spilling an abundant, glossy slick that churned into froth.

this wasn't his first lay in weeks, but you were driving him entirely out of his mind, leaving him so dazed and overwhelmed that his vision blurred and his umber eyes nearly crossed. broad paw clamped flat against your hip, dimpling the supple skin as he kept your weight down, his fingers toying idly with the waistband of the panties you hadn't even bothered to take off.

he didn't tighten his grip to hurt, but his blunt fingernails still bit hard into your curves, branding your flesh with stinging raw indents. he slams in, and you leak out, strings of arousal stretching in glimmery strings, matting coarse pubes that rub across your pulsing clit, making your body seize taut, squealing “a—ahn, s—simon!”

heavy lidded eyes grew long since glassy with desire, even further as he nuzzled in to press his mouth hungrily against your sternum. peppering a path of biting kisses outward until his mouth was filled with the lush, bouncing swell of your breast, tongue swirling in demanding, drooling circles around your pebbled nipple.

simon cums quick, you don't know about that, but he acknowledges that his peak comes much more earlier than he's used to, heat pooling within his bulging veins and spreading mercilessly, rapture hot pressure gathering at the rise of his spine and traveling, your own tummy threatening to snap with feverish coil.

heat clenching sporadically around him, encouraging on, and he follows, jerking when your cunt wraps tight and spasms, creaming his length while his balls twitch. thick cum plugging you deep, the excess a creamy, frothing mess that coats your thighs in pearlescent dews alongside lacquering slick.

he let's out guttive groan, words ripping raw from his chest “that''s it — feiling so good, lovi', fucking best'” large hands had long since moved from the slope of your hips, roughened fingers now buried deep, kneading the round, plump curve of your ass, gripping to hold you flush to his pelvis while he floods your satiating hole, nicked lips pressed softly against your sweaty temple.

you shuddered on his lap, slumped heavily against sturdy chest, sore yet adorably content, huddling closer as hushed, exhausted whimpers slipped past your teeth. hiding your sweltering face beneath the rough scruff of his jawline, breath ghosting uneven against his blotchy skin, and he wished with all his horny heart that this could happen every damn day.

nothing changed outwardly when you left, just a polite goodbye and a brief, muttered “until sunday, yeah?” tossed between you in the hallway, a flat, unimpressed frown marring your face when you noticed your soiled panties stuffed casually into his pocket, despite his earlier claim that they had simply been ripped during the frenzy.

simon spent his weekends as usually, sleeping, eating the meals you had so lovingly prepared and packed for him, working out, and then fisting his leaky cock while single mindedly sniffing your stolen underwear, over and over again, until you finally returned on sunday.

both acting as usual, showing no avoidance and no lingering tension, but somehow you ended up with his weathered face buried right against your gooey cunt, bent over the kitchen counter while your fingers still gripped a microfiber cloth, now knuckling it. he knelt down behind you, calloused hands spreading your asscheeks to hold you open to his eager tongue.

by the time he let you up, you left his flat on wobbly legs, far later than you ever should have, the skin of your inner thighs raw and chafed from the relentless scrape of his rough stubble, making your muscles clench with ache. behind your back, simon had already pulled out his phone, display lit up and mirroring his toothy grin, thick thumb swiping to change your contact name once more, my witch.

The second strike comes and you make a sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, delighted and involuntary.

"Sunshine.”

"Yeah in a minute ooooo, there's another one, Si, did you see that one?"

He has not seen that one. He is lying on his back with one arm over his face in the dark of the bedroom while his wife stands at the window in her pyjamas conducting a private love affair with a thunderstorm.

"Come back to bed."

"In a minute."

He opens one eye.

You are standing at the large window with both hands on the glass, your face turned up to the sky, lit intermittently by the lightning in a way that makes you look angelic.

He opens the other eye.

"Si," you breathe, "look at that one."

He looks. Through the window the sky splits white and enormous, the whole landscape thrown into a second of stark relief — the garden, the lavender, the fields beyond the fence — and then the dark comes back and two seconds later the thunder arrives, a low rolling thing that moves through the glass and into the floor and into his chest.

You turn to look at him with a smile, eyes bright and glassy.

"Come look," you say.

He should say no. He should say “it's two in the morning, sunshine, come back to bed.” He should say a great number of sensible things and none of them are going to make any difference whatsoever.

He gets up.

He crosses the room and he stands behind you, settling back against his chest, his arms coming around you, your hands covering his on the windowsill now.

Outside, the lightning is coming in intervals now, the thunder close enough that you feel it as much as hear it. The rain arrives properly, sheeting against the window, and you make that sound again, the delighted involuntary one.

"There," you say softly, as another strike splits the sky. “It’s so pretty Si.” You sigh, a happy lilt in your voice.

"Yeah,” he says. Into your hair.

It started with a knock on your door. Too soft to be the delivery guy, too irregular to be a needy neighbor. You didn’t think too hard about it, dismissing the knock as possibly kids just being kids. That is, until you overheard sounds of rustling in the bushes beneath the front window in your living room. The sounds were quick and sharp, definitely not like an animal moving through the area.

Your hand trembles as you reach for your phone, your heartbeat thudding in your chest and the pounding of your own blood within your ears is deafening as you felt the anxiety and panic rising within you. You didn’t think twice before dialing his number. You bite at your bottom lip nervously as you wait for him to pick up, your eyes staying on the window, as if whatever–or, whoever–was outside would pop up any moment.

You hear the line pickup. “Simon?” you whisper, voice cracking in the quiet of your apartment, your ears straining to listen for the intruding sounds of someone on your property. A beat of silence. Then his voice, low and taut. “What happened?”

You explain your fears in clipped, trembling phrases–the knock, the sounds outside, how you swear it’s a person and not just a wild animal. His end of the line goes quiet again, except for the sounds of movement, keys jingling. A door slamming. The ignition of a truck.

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By the time you dared to peek through the curtains and blinds of your living room windows, headlights flashed across your yard. A truck pulling into your driveway. His truck. Relief floods through your chest–then curdles in a mix of excitement and awe when he steps out of the truck. Not Simon. Ghost.

The skull mask catches the light, hollow eyes locked on the front of your house. He moves with lethal certainty, shoulders squared, every inch of him a predator set loose. He stares at you when you open the door, his frame filling the threshold like a shadow made flesh. He didn’t say a word, a heavy hand on your hip as he pushes you back into safety as he enters your home. He’s already scanning the entire living space. “Stay inside,” he orders, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. The voice he uses on missions. The one that doesn’t tolerate hesitation. The lieutenant. 

You open your mouth, the wrong name on your tongue–Simon–but your words wither under his stare. His eyes weren’t soft like usual, weren’t the ones that crinkled when you tease him. Now his eyes were sharp, cold, and focused. The Simon you know replaced with the tactical man most others knew him as. The man that drew fear and dread from his enemies, and respect from those who work alongside him.

He tore through the rooms of your home with frightening efficiency. Yanking open doors, checking windows, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. Moving about like a deadly fog throughout the space. You followed without thinking, at least until he spun and the bared teeth of his mask filled your vision.

He stalked towards you, forcing you backwards until you were back in the living room and falling onto your couch. “Sit down, stay put, and don’t follow me.” His voice was a command that rooted you to the spot. You obeyed, pulse racing, your eyes tracking him as he vanished down the hall. Every sound–the creak of doors, the slam of window latches–set your nerves on edge. The distant give of your patio door closing as he checks the perimeter.

When he returns, relief sags through your body, but before you could speak, his hand cups your face. His slightly calloused thumb brushing your skin a little too hard, more rough, possessive than gentle and soothing. “Whoever it was is gone,” he says finally.

You look at him with those sweet, trusting eyes he loves so much. “You call me again,” he orders, voice low enough to vibrate against your bones. “Every time. Don't wait, don’t hesitate.” Your lips part. “Simon…”

His jaw flexes beneath the mask, but he doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t soften either. The man in front of you wasn’t Simon–not really. He was Ghost. The one who didn’t cook breakfast with you in the mornings, didn’t laugh until you both were snorting, didn’t rub your head while you cuddled up to him during movie nights. The one who killed, who hunted, who protected you like it was instinct carved into his bones. The other side of the coin that is your sweet Simon.

His voice was quieter, but no softer. “You don’t open the door at night. Ever. Doesn’t matter who you think it is. You don’t answer, you don’t look. You call me. Always.” You swallow, nodding along to his demands. “Okay.” “Say it.” A command wrapped in something almost like care. Your breath hitches. “...I’ll call you.” You felt a flip in your stomach, something inside you aching. You weren’t sure if you missed your usual Simon, or if part of you liked how dangerous Ghost felt when he was this close, when he was overly protective. Overly intense. All for you.

Satisfied, he settles onto the couch, positioning you so you’re sat between his legs as he spreads out longways along the couch. A cage disguised as comfort. One you allowed yourself to settle into, making yourself at home within the confines of his arms around you, holding onto your waist to keep you centered.

For a long minute you let yourself lean into the shape of him there, the scent of leather and cologne clinging to the air. It should’ve felt suffocating. Instead, a strange, guilty comfort slid through you. As you drifted to sleep on him, you realized that calling him in situations like these would always bring Ghost before Simon. And as wrong as that felt sometimes, you found you couldn’t quite bring yourself to regret it.

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