#simonghost

Part 1 here

PART 3 IS UP GUYS!!!

A/N : Thanks for the love and motivation for this part guys. I hope y'all like this one too. Likes and reblogs are more than appreciated. Lots of love 🩷

༺♡༻

You loved being a woman - most days. Except for the days when it felt like being a Viking on the battlefield, shedding blood whether you wanted to or not.

It was your week off work. Not because Simon told you to - God, no. He’d never pull that card. He had more than enough money to feed generations, courtesy of his "special salary from the forces" as he called it with a shrug. Still, ambition clung to you like a second skin. Rest never came easy.

The day itself was perfect. Sunshine filtered through thinning clouds. You crouched on the porch with a packet of tulip bulbs, dirt smudging your fingers as you pressed them into the soil.

That was when you felt it.

A slow, unmistakable warmth slipping down your thigh. You stand up and oh my...you must've been bleeding for an hour looking at the state of your pyjamas now.

"…shit."

You’d forgotten the date. Completely. Not your fault they were never on time.

You scrambled upright, heart thudding, and bolted inside. You rushed past Tom covering yourself with the garden apron. He was sprawled in the living room, eyes glued to his game.

"Whoa-" he started, but you were already gone, feet pounding up the stairs.

"M fine baby, just forgot somethin" you yell reaching for the bedroom door.

You stripped out of the ruined pyjamas, irritation and pain curling together in your gut. After a nice warm bath, you stuffed the blood-soaked fabric into the laundry basket with more force than necessary and collapsed onto the bed, curling in on yourself as the cramps started getting intense.

An hour later, the mattress dipped. You felt Simon settle beside you as he pulls you closer by your waist...jesus this man was clingy. But yeah he would always bath before joining you on bed. And no outside clothes on bed, nuh-uh.

'Ah, petal" he muttered, voice thick with that rough Mancunian lilt, "you won’t believe what Soap did today. Absolute muppet - thought breaching protocol was optional, didn’t he…"

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Credits:

@yumethefrostypanda

Roxana Silva- Pinterest

Wicked pt-1

"From her highschool bully to her Wicked Bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost."

SimonGhostRileyxF!'Rose"reader

"He liked being the monster more than being the boy who begged for kindness and never got it."

Cold Manchester morning. The scent of wet wool, cheap body spray, and burnt toast clings to the air. The corridors of Manchester Academy hum with tired energy. Fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. The bell hasn't rung yet, but tension already curls like smoke in the air.

The hallway pulsed with the low roar of early morning chaos-dragged feet, lockers slamming, someone shouting across the stairwell like they had something to prove. Clusters of students moved in slow waves, all polyester uniforms and caffeine-fueled grumbling.

Near the stairwell, a pack of boys lounged against the lockers like wolves waiting for something to pounce on.

Simon Riley was at the center of them.

Seventeen, broad-shouldered, tall enough to look down on almost everyone. His school shirt was half-tucked, his sleeves rolled, and his tie hung loose around his neck like it didn't matter. Because it didn't. Not to him. Not here.

He cracked his knuckles, eyes narrowing.

"She's here," he muttered.

Next to him, his younger brother Tommy perked up, half-listening as he fiddled with the zipper on his backpack.

Through the double doors at the far end of the hallway, she stepped inside.

Rose.

Small. Quiet. Painfully shy.

She was the kind of girl you noticed even when she tried not to be seen. Porcelain skin that almost glowed beneath the cold lighting, big doe eyes that flicked nervously across the hall, and soft lips pressed into a line that always looked a little unsure. Her navy blazer was immaculate, her ribbon-tied curls brushed to perfection, and her shiny loafers clicked softly like she was afraid even her footsteps were too loud.

Simon's mouth curved into something unreadable.

"Little princess," he muttered under his breath, pushing off the locker with ease.

Rose saw him-and she froze. Just for a second. Eyes wide, like a rabbit spotting a fox. Then she dropped her gaze immediately, clutching her books to her chest like armor.

He stepped into her path, cutting her off with casual cruelty.

"Well, if it isn't Her Highness," he said smoothly, voice low and lazy with that distinctive Mancunian bite.

Rose's breath caught in her throat.

"G-Good morning," she whispered, barely meeting his eyes.

Tommy stood a few steps behind, watching silently.

Simon tilted his head. "Didn't think you'd show up today. Thought maybe you melted in the rain."

She shook her head quickly. "I... I don't miss school," she said, voice fragile as tissue paper.

"Of course not," Simon grinned. "Daddy wouldn't like that, would he?"

Rose's eyes dropped to the floor.

Her hands were trembling.

Simon leaned down, his shadow falling over her. "You're awful quiet, y'know. Like a little mouse. Makes a guy wonder what you're hiding behind all that silence."

She swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out.

He watched her-closely. How she blinked fast, how her knees bent just slightly like she was debating whether to flee.

Then he said, "Nice bag. What is that-real leather? Bet it cost more than my mum's car."

"I-I have to go," she stammered, stepping around him like walking through fog.

She didn't look back.

Simon watched her retreat-tiny footsteps, shoulders hunched like she could make herself disappear.

Tommy tugged on his sleeve. "She looked scared, Si..."

Simon didn't answer right away.

Just leaned back against the locker again, arms crossed, watching the hallway where she vanished.

"She should be," he said finally, but the smirk didn't quite reach his eyes.

Because even if he didn't understand it yet, even if he'd never admit it out loud-

Something about Rose made his chest feel strange.

And he hated it.

The courtyard behind the cafeteria. The sky is a flat sheet of grey, Manchester's signature. A cold breeze cuts through the air. Most students are huddled in groups, chewing through lukewarm chips and gossip. But tension simmers in one corner like a lit fuse waiting for flame.

Simon Riley was bored and boredom made him dangerous.

He lounged on one of the low concrete benches, legs spread, sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning the yard like a lion watching sheep. His little brother Tommy sat nearby, eating quietly, pretending not to see what was about to unfold.

A smaller Year Eleven boy walked past, spiky hair, oversized backpack, and a stupid grin on his face. He bumped into Simon's knee by accident.

"Oi," Simon said flatly.

The boy paused. "Sorry, mate."

Simon stood.

Towered.

"You bumped into me."

"I said sorry, didn't I?" the boy said, half-laughing, trying to shrug it off.

Wrong move.

Simon's fist connected with the guy's shoulder, shoving him backward hard enough to make him stumble. The sound of trays clattering and conversations dropping filled the air. Everyone turned.

"What was that?" Simon asked, calm as ever, voice like ice. "Didn't quite hear the apology with enough meaning behind it."

The boy straightened, angry now. "What's your problem, Riley? You think you own this place?"

Simon's eyes darkened. "I do."

And then it was all movement.

A sharp right hook. The thud of knuckles against jaw. The boy tried to swing back-missed. Another blow. A shove against the bench. The sound of sneakers scuffing concrete. Someone shouted for a teacher, but no one actually moved. Not yet. Not with him in the middle of it.

At the edge of the yard, near the old stone wall, Rose stood still as a statue.

She had been walking with her lunch tray, quiet as always, eyes downcast-and then she saw him. Heard him. The fight unfolding like a thunderclap just meters away.

Her heart pounded.

Her grip tightened around the tray, knuckles white.

Simon didn't see her watching. He had the boy on the ground now, knees in the gravel, one hand fisting his collar.

"Next time," Simon hissed, "watch where you're bloody going."

"Simon!" Tommy called out quietly, "That's enough-he's done-"

Simon paused. Chest heaving. Jaw tight.

Then he stood up and adjusted his collar like nothing had happened.

The boy scrambled away, wiping blood from his lip. No one helped him. No one dared.

Simon turned, rubbing his bruised knuckles with a calmness that didn't match the violence that just poured out of him.

And that's when he saw her.

Rose.

Frozen. Wide-eyed. Pale.

Their eyes locked across the courtyard.

She didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Just stood there like he might lunge at her next.

Simon's lips parted. For once, words didn't come. He looked at her-not like a predator this time, but like he'd just realized she'd seen a part of him he hadn't meant to show.

He looked away first.

Late afternoon. The halls were mostly empty now, echoes bouncing off lockers as the last stragglers filtered out. The clouds outside had thickened to ash-grey. Rain threatened the windows, casting long, cold shadows across the floor.

The classroom was half-dark.

Chairs stacked on desks. The faint hum of lights overhead. A single window cracked open, letting in the chill and the sound of distant drizzle.

She was there.

Rose.

Alone in the back row. Drowning in silence. Her hair fell like velvet curtains around her face, shoulders hunched as she stared at her notebook without seeing a word.

She was trying to disappear. Again.

Until the door creaked.

Then footsteps, heavy, slow, deliberate.

She didn't even have to look.

She knew.

The door shut with a soft click, like a lock snapping closed.

Simon Riley stepped into the room like he owned it.

Which, in his head, he probably did.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," his voice cut through the air like it was nothing.

He walked between the rows of desks with the lazy confidence of someone who never got told no. Boots scuffing linoleum. Tie loose. Sleeves rolled to the elbows like he was always halfway into a fight.

Rose didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

Her fingers curled around her pencil like it could save her.

"You always hide out after school," Simon said, stopping next to her desk. "Or is this special?"

She looked up. Just for a second.

His eyes met hers, blue, sharp, tired.

Like a winter sky that never softened.

Her chair scraped as she stood suddenly. Too fast. Too loud. Her bag almost slipped from her shoulder.

"I, I was leaving," she said, barely louder than a whisper. Her voice broke halfway through it.

Simon didn't move.

Didn't raise his voice.

Didn't even touch her.

But he was standing in front of the door.

And that was enough.

He tilted his head, watching her like a puzzle he never wanted to solve.

"Why're you scared of me, Rose?"

She froze.

His tone wasn't cruel.

It was worse.

It was curious.

Vulnerable in a way she wasn't prepared for.

Her lip trembled. Her voice cracked again.

"Because... you terrify me."

And that shattered something.

In the space between them. In the silence that followed.

She didn't wait for him to answer.

Didn't wait for him to laugh. Or smirk. Or say anything cruel.

She just ran.

Out the door.

Down the hallway.

Like her lungs were on fire and the walls were closing in.

Tears blurred her vision as she fled, her breath catching in her throat, her heart loud enough to drown the world.

And Simon?

He stood there.

Alone.

In a room that suddenly felt very quiet.

His jaw clenched. Hands flexed at his sides.

Like he wanted to hit something.

But didn't know what.

It didn't get better. It got worse.

Days blurred into weeks like ink bleeding across wet paper.

The school had stopped pretending they could contain him.

Simon Riley was untouchable.

He didn't care about grades.

Didn't care about detentions.

Didn't care that the principal had called home for the fifth time in a month, his voice almost begging now, like he was afraid of what would happen if they didn't try something.

But nothing worked.

Because nothing could.

Not when Simon looked at every adult like they were a threat.

Not when the bruises on his jaw matched the rage in his knuckles.

Not when Tommy came to school with a split lip and said it was from "football."

Everyone knew it wasn't.

Mr. and Mrs. Riley showed up once, twice maybe.

Stiff suits. Stiff smiles.

Mrs. Riley with too much perfume and too-tight gloves.

Mr. Riley with that look in his eyes like everything was a disappointment, including his sons.

They didn't stay long.

Didn't listen.

Didn't see.

Because if they had, maybe they would've noticed how Tommy stood between them and Simon every time.

Like a shield that kept cracking.

Maybe they would've heard the way Simon's voice changed when his father spoke, quieter. Tighter.

Like a fuse waiting for a match.

Maybe they would've asked why their youngest flinched when a door slammed.

But they didn't.

And Simon?

Simon stopped pretending to be good.

He swaggered down the halls like a hurricane wrapped in a school uniform.

Picked fights in the cafeteria.

Snatched phones, ripped books, tripped boys in the stairwell just because he could.

And no one stopped him.

Because they knew he'd hit back harder.

He always did.

Even Tommy, sweet, tired Tommy, tried. Again and again.

"Si, that's enough."

"Don't do this."

"You're not like him, "

But Simon would just laugh. Or worse, say nothing.

And sometimes he'd snap.

He'd shove Tommy into walls.

He'd curse loud enough to shake the air.

Once, he bloodied his brother's lip so bad, even he looked startled.

And when it was over, when the silence settled like dust after a storm, Simon would look at the mess he made.

And walk away.

Because it was easier to be feared than to be nothing at all.

Because when you grow up in a house built on violence,

Love starts to look like a lie.

And maybe...

He liked being the monster more than being the boy who begged for kindness and never got it.

All parts

Ghost: Forget about touching, I'll be inside you tonight.

SimonGhostRileyxfemalereader

Warning: 18+, mdni, size kink, p in v, sexual themed, mentions of sex

He came in late, hours after the lights had dimmed, after the ocean had quieted, after you had given up hope that he'd join you.

You were curled up on your side, facing the window, moonlight washing your skin in silver. The silk sheets clung to your legs, your breath steady, soft, pretending to sleep because it hurt less than being awake and waiting.

The bedroom door creaked gently open.

You didn't move.

Footsteps padded in, slow, uncertain.

You heard the low rustle of clothes being removed, the faint jingle of his belt, then the hush of him slipping beneath the covers behind you.

Your heart beat like thunder in your chest.

He didn't say a word.

Didn't touch you.

But the bed dipped under his weight, and the heat of his body ghosted against your back.

You held your breath.

And then, his hand moved.

A light brush.

Fingertips barely grazing your wrist.

Testing.

Waiting.

You turned, slowly, facing him in the dark.

Even without light, you could feel his eyes on you.

Your hand found his.

His fingers threaded with yours.

No words.

No promises.

Just two breaths syncing under the same sheets. Two souls, scarred and searching, lying quietly in the night.

It wasn't love.

Not yet.

But it was something.

And tonight, that was enough.

The first light of dawn filtered through the sheer curtains, brushing over the two bodies tangled beneath soft linen.

Simon stirred first.

His brows furrowed faintly as consciousness crept in, warmth, softness, the steady rise and fall of your breath beneath him.

His arm was wrapped tight around your waist.

His face was buried in your chest, the silken fabric of your camisole warm against his skin.

Your leg was hooked over his, and your lips, barely, just barely, were touching his forehead.

His entire body was caged around yours like it was instinct. Like it was home.

And for a moment... he didn't move.

He listened to your heartbeat.

He felt the softness of your fingers curled lightly into his shirt.

You sighed in your sleep.

Something in his chest shifted.

Unfamiliar. Foreign. Dangerous.

He gently, carefully, untangled himself.

Your body stirred, just slightly, like it didn't want to let go.

He hesitated... then forced himself out of bed.

The floor was cool under his feet as he padded toward the bathroom.

The door clicked softly shut.

The sound of running water filled the silence of the villa.

And on the bed, you turned toward the warmth he left behind, nuzzling into the sheets that still smelled like him, dreaming of the man who never said a word, yet whose touch said everything.

Warm water cascaded down his body, steam curling in the dim light. His hands were braced on the wall of the shower, head bowed, muscles tense under the spray. You stood at the threshold, biting your lip as your eyes traced every line of him, powerful, vulnerable, utterly still.

Slowly, you let your silk nightgown slip from your shoulders. It whispered down your skin, pooling around your ankles in a hush of fabric. You reached for the glass door, cool under your fingertips, and opened it with quiet purpose.

He didn't turn.

But he felt you.

You stepped in, the heat wrapping around you like a second skin. Your arms slid around his waist, hands planting gently on his chest. Your body pressed against his back , soft curves to hard muscle, heart to heart.

He froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

But he didn't push you away.

Didn't let go.

And that silence between you? It wasn't rejection this time.

It was surrender.

He slowly turned toward you, water streaming down his face, his eyes darker than you'd ever seen them. Wordless. Intense.

His hand lifted, slow, deliberate, and his fingers found your chin. Tilted it up.

His thumb brushed your lower lip, lingering, tender but possessive.

"You always wanted this," he said, voice low, rough with restraint. "Always wanted me."

You nodded. No words , they would've cracked apart in your throat. You only looked at him, wide-eyed and open, the truth written across every line of you.

And finally, finally, he kissed you.

His mouth claimed yours with a slowness that bordered on reverence, but the hunger beneath it ignited fast. It deepened, spiraled, pulled you under. Passion poured out of him like he'd been holding back for years.

He took your small hands in his, fingers interlacing as if anchoring himself to you, as if letting go now would ruin him.

Then, with a quiet exhale against your mouth, he turned you.

Gently.

But with purpose.

Your back met the cold marble wall, a sharp contrast to the burning heat of him.

His lips didn't leave yours. They moved with growing urgency, hungry, vehement, desperate. Yours matched him, lips parted, bodies pressed tight, nothing held back now.

Tongues tangled, teeth clashed, gasps filled the narrow space between breath and desire.

Saliva mixed in messy kisses, ungraceful, real, raw.

There was nothing restrained anymore.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the storm you'd both finally stopped fighting.

He slowly pulled away, breath heavy, water dripping from his lashes. You gasped softly, finally able to breathe again, but your chest still heaved with everything left unsaid.

His forehead rested against yours, the heat of him grounding you, the moment thick with something deeper than just want.

"You sure you want this?" he asked, voice hoarse , like it cost him something to ask.

You didn't hesitate.

"I want you, Simon," you whispered, your voice barely above the steam curling around you.

And then he was on you again.

His mouth moved down your jaw, open-mouthed kisses hot and wild, trailing fire across your skin. Teeth grazed your neck, just enough to make you shiver, before he bit down gently, nipping at that tender spot beneath your ear.

You gasped again, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he lingered at your throat, sucking the skin slowly, thoroughly. Then he soothed the sting with a slow, wet lick, and the whimper that escaped you was beyond your control.

He dropped lower, breath warm against the top of your chest.

His teeth skimmed the soft swell of your breast , reverent, teasing.

One hand cupped you, holding you in place as his mouth moved to the other. His tongue circled your nipple in lazy, deliberate strokes, soft and slow, until you arched into him, seeking more.

And when he finally sucked, gently, possessively, it wasn't just your body that gave in.

It was everything.

He nipped at your nipple, the sharpness sending a jolt through you, then soothed it instantly with a deep, slow suck that made your knees tremble. His other hand moved to your other breast, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple between them, coaxing soft, helpless whimpers from your lips.

You clung to him, lost in the rhythm of his mouth and hands, your body already unraveling.

Then he began to trail kisses lower , down your ribs, your stomach, slow, deliberate, worshipful. Each press of his lips burned through the haze of steam and want.

He dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted one of your thighs and settled it over his shoulder, steadying you with a strong hand at your waist.

His breath warmed the most sensitive part of you, and then his tongue traced a line through your folds, so slow, so precise, it stole the sound from your throat.

You whined, fingers threading through his wet hair, anchoring yourself to him.

Then he lifted your other thigh, locking both over his shoulders, hands grabbing your hips, pinning you against the marble wall.

And then he devoured you.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Tongue moving with practiced, desperate hunger, exploring, tasting, worshipping.

Your hips rolled against his mouth, helpless, your moans echoing in the tiled space, raw and real. Every flick of his tongue, every suck, every slow glide sent you spiraling.

You were his.

Utterly.

And he was going to make sure you felt that with every stroke of his tongue.

"Aaww, babe!" you gasped, helpless and breathless, the words breaking apart on your tongue.

His tongue delved deeper, slipping inside your sweet, sensitive heat while his lips sealed around you, devouring you like he'd been starved for this, for you. Every stroke, every suck, every flick of his tongue sent another ripple through your trembling body.

You were practically sitting on his face now, thighs tight around his head, hips rocking helplessly against his mouth. He held you firm, guiding every desperate movement, his grip unrelenting, like he couldn't stand the idea of letting you go.

Your back arched, spine pressing hard into the cold marble as your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut.

Heat coiled low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter.

Your toes curled.

Your breath stuttered.

And your whole body began to shudder, little shakes starting in your core and spreading outward like waves. Shivers rolled down your spine as he kept going, relentless and tender all at once, like he wanted you to fall apart in his hands , in his mouth.

And God... you were so, so close.

Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair, gripping like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away. Every swirl of his tongue, every wet, open-mouthed kiss against your core pushed you closer, impossibly closer.

"Simon!" you choked out, voice cracking, high and desperate. "I, I'm gonna..."

But he didn't stop.

If anything, he deepened his grip, thumbs digging into your hips, holding you in place as his tongue moved faster, more precise, like he knew every part of you, every reaction, every sweet spot.

You were grinding against him now, helpless and wild, body no longer yours to command. Your thighs trembled around his head, your spine arched off the wall, and the heat inside you finally snapped.

You shattered.

A cry ripped from your throat, raw, broken, beautiful.

Your body convulsed against him, every muscle tightening, toes curling, hips jerking uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure tore through you. Your vision blurred, and the only thing anchoring you to this world was the solid weight of his hands and the relentless devotion of his mouth.

Even as you came undone, he kept going , slower now, gentler, kissing you through the aftershocks, soft licks that made you twitch and gasp with overstimulation.

Finally, your body went limp against the wall, breath ragged, heart pounding like it wanted to escape your chest.

And only then did he pull back, lifting his head slowly.

His lips were wet. His eyes, dark, tender, full of something deeper than lust , locked with yours as he rose to his feet.

He leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours, your breaths mingling in the steam.

"You taste like heaven," he whispered, voice thick with awe. "And you're mine."

You were still catching your breath, body limp against the marble, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum when he kissed you again.

Slow this time.

Not rushed or hungry, but deep, claiming, full of everything he'd just shown you with his mouth. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it only made the kiss filthier... more intoxicating.

His hands trailed down your sides, grounding you, caressing the soft curve of your waist, then your thighs. He lifted you with ease, pressing your back more firmly against the slick wall. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, legs instinctively locking around his waist, clinging to him like you belonged there, like you always had.

He reached between you, and you felt him, hard, hot, heavy, brushing against your entrance.

"Simon..." you whispered, the name barely audible, breath catching in your throat.

His eyes locked with yours, wild and soft all at once. "I've got you," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were something fragile, precious. "Always."

Then he eased into you.

Slowly.

Thick and deep.

You gasped, head falling against his shoulder, nails digging into his back as your walls stretched to accommodate him. He didn't rush, he filled you inch by inch, watching every reaction, every twitch of your body, every change in your breath.

The moment he was fully inside, both of you stilled, foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync.

You felt everything.

Not just the pleasure. Not just the heat.

But the connection.

The unspoken need. The years of restraint finally breaking loose.

He pulled back, then thrust in again , slow, deliberate, with purpose. Every movement was controlled, deep, worshipful. He wasn't just fucking you.

He was making love to you.

The way his hand cupped your jaw, the way his mouth brushed yours between gasps, the way your names fell from each other's lips like promises, it was all too much. And still, not enough.

You rolled your hips to meet his, moaning softly into his neck as he picked up the pace, each thrust now heavier, deeper, more desperate. The sound of wet skin, the soft slap of bodies, the echoes of your shared pleasure filled the steamy space.

You could feel it building again, a deeper, more powerful wave rising inside you.

And you knew he felt it too.

Your second climax was hovering, just out of reach, when he slowed his pace, pulling back until only the tip of him remained inside.

You whimpered, clenching around nothing.

"Shhh," he murmured against your lips, voice low and ragged. "Not done with you yet."

Gently, he slid out of you. Your body trembled from the loss, but he was already guiding you, turning you slowly to face the glass wall of the shower, water still cascading down both your bodies. Your palms pressed to the slick surface, chest heaving, cheek against the cool glass.

Then you felt him behind you, warm, solid, overwhelming.

He slid one hand over yours, pressing it more firmly to the glass. His other followed, intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning them both there. His chest was flush with your back, and his length nudged against your entrance once more.

And then, slowly, deeply, he pushed back inside.

You gasped, your forehead dropping forward, eyes fluttering closed as the stretch pulled a deep, aching moan from your throat. He filled you so completely it was almost too much, but it wasn't. It was perfect.

Your eyes darted back to catch a glimpse of him, wet hair falling over his forehead, jaw clenched, his gaze locked on the way your bodies met.

"Fuck... look at you," he growled, his voice dark silk in your ear. "Taking me so well... like you were made for this. Made for me."

You whimpered, grinding back instinctively, and he rewarded you with a sharp, deep thrust that made your knees buckle.

He caught you easily, strong arms bracing your body, hips rolling into you again and again, deeper, harder, but still controlled. Still his rhythm.

"You love this, don't you?" he whispered, filthy and reverent at the same time. "Being stretched open on my cock, crying for it..."

His teeth scraped your shoulder.

"You're mine, baby. Say it."

"Yours," you moaned, so soft and wrecked, "I'm yours."

"Damn right."

He slammed into you again, and again, never letting your hands go, never pulling too far away. Every thrust sent sparks through your belly, heat coiling tight in your core once more. You were close, so close, and the sound of his voice, the filth he spoke in your ear, the feeling of him inside you...

You were going to break again.

And he wanted you to.

And he did.

He broke you, completely, beautifully.

Your body tensed, every muscle tightening as the orgasm tore through you like lightning. You screamed his name, forehead pressed to the glass, legs shaking violently as your world fractured into blinding white heat.

And behind you, he grunted, low, guttural, hips driving deep one last time as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding your core, pulsing with every throb of him.

You both trembled, locked together in the steam and the silence and the staggering aftershock.

His cum trickled down your thighs, thick and hot, mixing with water as it streamed down your legs. Your body sagged forward, weak and overwhelmed, the edges of your vision fading to black, not from fear, but from complete surrender.

But he caught you.

Before you could fall, before the darkness took you, his arms wrapped around you from behind, strong and steady. He held you up, hands gentle now, cradling you like something sacred.

"Got you," he whispered, his lips against your damp temple. "I've got you, sweetheart. I'm right here."

You were limp in his arms, spent and shivering, but safe.

He turned the water down, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. One hand stayed on your belly, grounding you, the other moved to brush the wet hair from your face.

"You okay?" he murmured, voice raw but soft, full of something so deep it made your chest ache.

You nodded faintly, resting your head back against his shoulder, tears mixing with the water.

Warm.

Safe.

His.

All parts in this.

Ghost by @modernwarfare.vp Instagram

Virtual In game Photography

https://www.instagram.com/modernwarfare.vp?igsh=MXJqbDdjZGl6eXloeg==

SimonGhostRileyxfemalereader

When want becomes an obbsession, obbsession turns into madness

Lieutenant Ghost was mid-drill, his boots crunching rhythmically on the gravel as shouts rang out across the SAS base. The sun was high, casting harsh shadows over the concrete, when the sudden arrival of a fleet of black ambassador cars sliced through the monotony like a blade.

Engines purred, tires hissed to a stop in front of the main office building. Soldiers turned sharply on command, lining up with military precision. Even Ghost, from his post farther back, halted mid-motion, curious. His eyes, masked and unreadable, locked on the cars.

The first door opened.

A soldier saluted crisply as Field Marshal Shepherd stepped out, his presence sucking the air out of the base like a vacuum. Whispers started. The Field Marshal. Here. That only meant one thing: power was in the room.

Then the second car’s door opened, slow, deliberate. First came two delicate feet, stepping out onto the gravel like they didn’t belong there, like they were made for Paris runways and red carpets, not military bases. Black Christian Louboutin pumps caught the light, flashing their signature red soles. Diamond anklets shimmered against creamy, porcelain skin.

And then you stepped out.

Like sin wrapped in silk. Like drama incarnate.

Your golden-blonde waves spilled down your back, catching the light like spun honey. You flicked your hair with a sass that screamed, I know I look like a million dollars, and frankly, you’re welcome. A tiny black Hermès Mini Kelly dangled from your wrist, delicate fingers curled around the top handle like it was a crown. You were dressed to murder, a black jersey off-shoulder bodycon dress that hugged your hourglass curves like it was painted on, with a twisted strap falling seductively off one shoulder. A diamond choker wrapped your neck like a kiss of royalty.

You looked like you had stepped out of a Vogue editorial and accidentally wandered into a war zone.

Ghost stared. He didn’t mean to. He never did. But something about you, your posture, the power you carried in that 5-foot frame, your sharp jawline, your big hazel eyes framed by designer sunglasses that you lowered slowly to actually look at him, froze him in place.

You tilted your head. Glasses sliding down your nose. Lips curling into a smirk.

“Oh,” you murmured under your breath, your voice like sugar dipped in venom, “what do we have here?”

You weren’t supposed to be impressed. But the moment your gaze landed on him, the skull-masked, impossibly tall, broad-shouldered man in the corner, radiating quiet command, you blinked.

And blinked again.

“Daddy,” you called sweetly, not breaking eye contact with Ghost, “why didn’t you tell me the SAS kept pet Reapers on base?”

Shepherd sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Behave, darling.”

You smiled. Innocent, deadly. “I am behaving.”

Ghost’s head tilted slightly, but he said nothing. Watching. Calculating. But you saw the flicker, just for a second, in his body language. Like he was deciding if you were a threat or a mirage.

You took another step forward, heels clinking like warning bells. You didn’t break your gaze. “Nice mask,” you purred. “Bet the face under it’s a letdown.”

He didn’t flinch.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

You strutted into the Colonel's office beside your father, your heels clicking confidently across the polished floor like a ticking clock counting down to chaos. The air inside was crisp and smelled faintly of coffee, leather, and testosterone. You wrinkled your nose. Military bases weren’t really your scene, zero aesthetic, fluorescent lighting, and entirely too much camouflage, but today, you made an exception.

Because today, you were the exception.

Your father, Field Marshal Shepherd, moved ahead with that grim, commanding presence he was infamous for. You followed, hips swaying with the quiet arrogance of someone who knew they could bring nations to their knees with a pout.

"Remember, we're here for a meeting with Colonel Price and his team. Try not to start a war, sweetheart," your father muttered dryly.

"I don't start wars," you said with a sugary lilt, tossing your hair over one shoulder. "They just sort of… happen around me."

Out on the training grounds, however, it was a different storm brewing.

Ghost stood stiff, arms crossed, silently watching the men spiral into chaos the moment you vanished inside the building. Soldiers were nudging each other, whistling low under their breath, murmuring things like..

“Did you see her ankles?”

“Is she real?”

“I swear she made eye contact with me.”

Ghost’s skull mask tilted slightly. His gaze burned like a laser.

“You lot,” he barked suddenly, voice sharp and deadly, slicing through the giddy haze like a bullet. “Get your ass ready for drill. Now.”

The laughter died instantly. Boots scrambled. No one dared argue when the Lieutenant used that voice.

He turned back toward the office building, silent again. But under the mask, his jaw clenched.

He didn't know who you were yet.

But Ghost knew one thing for certain, You were going to be trouble.

And he was going to make damn sure he kept his distance.

Or at least, he was going to try.

Ghost was in the middle of barking commands, the drill in full swing. His deep voice cracked across the field like a whip.

“Form up! You’re not here for a holiday, move like you’ve got a bloody purpose!”

“Sir, yes sir!” the soldiers echoed in unison, boots thudding into position.

From behind him, just a few feet back, a new voice chimed in.

Soft. Sweet. Teasing.

“Sir yes sir,” you murmured under your breath, mock-serious, like you were playing soldier for fun. A wicked smirk danced on your lips.

Ghost froze for a split second.

He turned his head slowly.

You stood there, exactly where you shouldn't be, heels sunk slightly into the gravel, one hand on your hip, the other clutching your tiny Hermès bag like it was a weapon. Your sunglasses were perched on the bridge of your nose, but he could feel your eyes on him. Studying. Daring.

He said nothing at first. Just stared. The skull mask gave nothing away, but his silence was heavier than a warning shot.

You gave him your most innocent smile.

“I was getting bored,” you said with a sigh, glancing dramatically at your watch. “The meeting’s dragging, and Daddy said I could look around.” Your gaze slid up and down his very large, very muscular frame. “I figured I’d ask the scariest-looking man on the premises to be my tour guide.”

Ghost didn’t move.

You leaned forward just a little. “So. Are you gonna show me around the SAS base, Lieutenant, or do I have to wander off and, god forbid, get lost in the weapons locker?”

The men were staring. Whispering. You knew it. You didn’t care.

Ghost exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Not a damn amusement park,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and dark, turning fully toward you.

But you just tilted your head, lips curled. “Then I guess I’ll just have to find the fun myself, hmm?”

There was a long pause.

Then Ghost growled, more to himself than anyone else, “Price is gonna regret letting her in.”

And without another word, he turned on his heel and started walking.

You grinned, delighted. “Yay! Field trip with the Reaper!”

You clicked after him in your heels, diamond anklets glinting, completely unbothered.

You were definitely going to be his worst nightmare.

And he was definitely going to make sure you didn’t see it show.

You followed him like a shadow, heels clicking confidently as Ghost stalked ahead, his massive frame cutting through the air like a blade. He didn't look back. Not once. You almost admired his restraint.

Most men at least glanced back.

Ghost? Nothing. Cold. Impenetrable. Deliciously infuriating.

He led you past the motor pool, the mess, and the barracks, saying nothing, as if he thought silence would make you give up and slink away.

Cute.

You quickened your pace, falling in beside him, well, slightly behind. You were tiny, and his strides were at least twice yours. “You know,” you said conversationally, “when I asked for a tour, I didn’t mean a silent death march.”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Ghost muttered, not slowing down.

“Hmm. And yet you’re doing it.” You grinned. “Interesting.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. Just once. “Because if you get lost or cause trouble, I’ll be the one mopping it up.”

You gasped, dramatic, hand fluttering to your chest. “Me? Cause trouble?”

“You already have,” he said dryly, turning a corner. “Half the lads lost brain cells when you stepped out of the car.”

You blinked. Then smirked. “So you noticed me, then.”

His steps faltered for half a second. Just enough to satisfy your ego.

“I notice anything that disrupts protocol,” he said flatly.

“Aw, Reaper, you wound me.” You pressed a hand to your heart. “And here I thought you were quietly obsessed with me.”

He stopped.

Turned.

You nearly walked into his back.

He looked down at you, cold, unreadable, quiet menace wrapped in black tactical gear and a skull.

“You don’t belong here,” he said quietly. “This place is steel, grit, and discipline. You walk around like it’s your runway.”

“I am the runway,” you shot back sweetly. “And you? You’ve got more attitude than a Dior model. We’re not so different.”

His head tilted just slightly, like he was trying to figure out if you were genuinely that delusional or just dangerously clever.

You took a step closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides… if you really didn’t want to be near me, you would’ve handed me off to some poor private already. But here you are, Ghost. Playing tour guide.”

Another beat of silence.

Then he turned back around. “Five-minute walk. Then I’m dumping you back in the Colonel’s office.”

You grinned. Victory.

“Oh, I love a man with boundaries I can ignore.”

And once again, your heels clicked merrily beside his boots, two worlds colliding with every step.

The tour, which was less tour and more Ghost angrily walking in straight lines while you prattled beside him, was nearly over when the air shifted.

You noticed it first. A flicker in his posture.

You were mid-eye roll, dramatically whining about the lack of iced lattes on base, when his hand suddenly shot out across your waist. Not touching, hovering. Like a barrier. A warning.

“Stay behind me,” he said sharply. No teasing. No play.

You blinked. “What?”

Then you heard it too.

A loud crack, followed by a hiss of static through his comms. Ghost pressed two fingers to the earpiece tucked beneath his mask.

“North perimeter,” a voice buzzed. “We’ve got an unauthorized drone, fast, low, armed. Possible test run.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait. Armed?!”

Ghost turned to you, eyes unreadable through the dark fabric of his mask. “Back to the office. Now.”

But before you could move, the screech of metal ripped through the air, something small, fast, and terrifying zipped overhead, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel. You shrieked, instinctively flinching, but you never hit the ground.

Ghost caught you.

One arm braced firmly around your waist, dragging you behind a truck, the other lifting toward his earpiece again as he barked commands in clipped military code. His movements were sharp, controlled, lethal.

Your breath hitched, not from fear. From the jolt of feeling his body shielding yours, firm and tense, radiating heat and protection.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes flicking down to you as he crouched beside the vehicle, still keeping himself between you and the open yard.

“I, yeah,” you breathed, chest rising fast. “Just a little… rattled.”

He studied you for a second longer than necessary. “Good. Keep your head down and stay close.”

“I was staying close,” you managed, your voice shaky but snarky, because defense mechanisms die hard. “You just didn’t seem to like it five minutes ago.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was something different in them now. Not annoyance.

Something softer.

Something protective.

“…Stay close anyway.”

He didn’t have to say I’ve got you. He didn’t have to say You’re safe. Ghost didn’t do softness.

But his body did. The way he moved in front of you. The way he checked your arm for injuries without asking. The way he cursed under his breath when you winced.

Maybe this wasn’t a place for you.

But maybe he was.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were just playing dress-up in a war zone.

You were in it, and he was right there beside you.

It happened in the span of a heartbeat.

You were pressed against cold metal, dust in your lashes, your expensive heels scuffed beyond salvation, but all you could see was him.

Ghost.

The soldier with the storm behind his mask. The man who moved like a shadow and fought like fire. The one who didn’t flinch when chaos erupted, who stepped in front of danger like it was second nature, because for him, it was.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Not for protocol.

Not for your last name.

Not even for the fact that you were the walking embodiment of a headache in heels.

He just protected you. Instinctively. Completely.

And in that split second, when he pulled you close, when his arm caged you with more safety than any armored convoy, when you looked up at him and saw everything he tried to hide, you fell.

Hard.

So hard it knocked the wind out of you.

Your world shifted. Tilted. Crashed.

Because it wasn’t just the way he saved you. It was the way he didn’t treat you like you were fragile porcelain, despite your diamond anklets and couture. The way he didn’t ask if you were okay, he knew you were. Because he made sure of it. The way he didn’t say anything unnecessary, didn’t pretend to flirt or flatter or joke. Just stood there, rock-solid, ready to fight the world with you in the fold of his arms.

You stared up at his mask, your heart punching against your ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.

And you knew.

Oh no.

This wasn’t a crush.

This wasn’t a fling.

This wasn’t your usual game of cat and mouse with weak men who couldn’t handle your shine.

This was it.

You had fallen, beautifully, recklessly, impossibly, for a man who didn’t even want to be looked at. For a ghost with blood on his hands and steel in his spine.

And there was no getting back up from this one.

Not now.

Not ever.

From that moment on, you were done for.

Done pretending you didn’t care.

Done pretending it was just boredom.

Done pretending the Lieutenant wasn’t living rent-free in your ribcage.

You started finding reasons to bump into him on base.

Entirely coincidental, of course.

“Oh wow, this is the firing range? I was just looking for the tea bar.”

“You train at this time every morning? Me too. I mean, not like combat-training, obviously. I do yoga. In Chanel.”

“Is that a skull on your mask or are you just thrilled to see me?”

Every time, he gave you that stare, that terrifying, unreadable, deliciously cruel stare. The kind that could melt steel and set you ablaze at the same time.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he grumbled one afternoon, finding you waiting outside the weapons locker, again.

You shrugged, swinging your tiny Hermès like it weighed nothing. “I do. Right here. Watching my favorite soldier grumble like an old man.”

“I’m not your favorite anything.”

You leaned in, just a touch too close. “Not yet.”

Every time you pushed, he pushed back.

But not too hard.

Not enough to make you stop.

Because the truth, the delicious, dangerous truth, was that he never actually walked away.

He always stayed. Always let you linger. Always let you run your mouth while he cleaned his gun or sharpened his knife or reviewed mission logs like you weren’t the biggest threat in the room.

And you started to notice the cracks.

The way his eyes flicked to your shoes when you wore those same scuffed Louboutins, the ones you ruined the day he saved you.

The way he always stood a little too close when other soldiers were around, like some part of him didn’t trust anyone else near you.

The way his voice went soft for a second, just once, when he said, “Don’t follow me into the hangars again. It’s not safe. For you.”

And maybe he didn’t say why.

But you didn’t need him to.

Because you could feel it, somewhere beneath the gravel and the gunpowder, Ghost was cracking.

And you were going to crawl inside those fractures,

diamond anklets and all,

until he couldn't get you out

if he tried.

It happened one evening, too quiet, too still.

The base had settled into low murmurs and cooling engines. The moon hung pale over the hangars, casting silver over steel.

And there you were. Again.

Leaning against the side of the truck where Ghost was unloading gear, arms folded, long legs crossed at the ankle like you owned the damn concrete.

He didn’t look up. Not right away.

“I told you to stop following me,” he said.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes this time. “And I told you I don’t listen to men who grunt more than they speak.”

Ghost slammed the tailgate shut. The clatter echoed.

But you didn’t flinch.

You stepped forward, heels clicking like a countdown. “Why do you think I’m here, Lieutenant?”

He finally looked at you.

Long. Hard.

And then, low and slow, “I’ve been trying not to think about that.”

You took a breath. Your heart was clawing at your ribs, but your voice didn’t shake.

“I want to marry you.”

The words fell like velvet knives.

Ghost didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“I’m serious,” you added, stepping closer. “I’ve never said that to anyone. Ever. I could have anyone, Ghost. And I want you.”

Still, he was stone.

And then..

“No.”

Just that.

Flat. Brutal.

“No,” he repeated, more clipped this time. “You’re a spoiled little princess who thinks this is a fantasy. It’s not. I’m not someone you play house with. You’d hate me in a week.”

You recoiled like you’d been slapped.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

You’d been rejected before, but not like this. Not by him.

You opened your mouth, nothing came out.

And Ghost… Ghost just walked away.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t apologize.

That night, in your VIP quarters, you shattered.

Diamond earrings hit the floor. Anklets stripped off and flung. You ripped your dress at the zipper and sobbed into silk sheets that cost more than most of his gear.

You cried so hard your chest ached. Your voice cracked.

You had loved him the moment he pulled you into safety.

And he didn’t even see you.

The next morning, you left.

No makeup. No bags.

Just a cold goodbye to your father and a blank stare to the soldiers who gawked as the cars pulled away.

But in your silence, in the hollow behind your ribs, something sparked.

A promise.

You never accepted no.

Not from men.

Not from war.

Not from the world.

And certainly not from him.

Poked

You had barely been in the SAS for a week, and already, you were causing a stir. At first, people underestimated you. You were smaller than most, a little too pretty for the rough world of special forces. But you had grit. And, more importantly, you had a wicked sense of humour.

You’d always had a sharp tongue and a reckless streak, but messing with Ghost, well, that was a whole different game. The moment you stepped into the SAS, it was clear you weren’t like the others. Sure, you were skilled, maybe even more so than a few of your male counterparts, but it wasn’t your combat abilities that made you stand out.

It was your mouth. More specifically, how you used it to get under Ghost’s skin.

Lieutenant Ghost, the infamous, towering man whose reputation made even the toughest soldiers stay in line. He was cold, distant, and never let anyone get too close. But you couldn’t resist poking the bear. You weren’t afraid of him, in fact, you found his brooding nature kind of amusing.

So, naturally, you started catcalling him.

At first, it was subtle. You weren’t dumb, you knew Ghost wasn’t someone to mess with lightly. But something about the way he carried himself, all silent and brooding, just begged you to poke at him. You were like a kid pulling the tail of a lion, waiting to see if it would roar.

"Looking sharp today, Lieutenant!" you'd call out across the training yard, watching as Ghost’s shoulders tensed under his tactical gear. He’d never acknowledge it, at least not at first, but you always knew he heard.

It began as a harmless joke. You spotted him across the base one day, walking with that signature, menacing swagger, and you couldn’t help yourself.

"Looking good, Lieutenant!" you called out, smirking when he stiffened, stopping mid-stride to look over his shoulder at you. "Who knew you could fill out that uniform so well?"

The other soldiers who heard you quickly turned away, not wanting to get involved, but you just grinned wider. Ghost gave you a look, one that said *don’t even think about it, but you could see the flicker of confusion in his eyes. No one had ever talked to him like that.

That only encouraged you more.

Over the next few days, you found every opportunity to throw playful comments his way. Whenever Ghost passed by, you’d lean against the wall, give him an exaggerated once-over, and whistle. "Hey, Ghost! If you ever get tired of being a killing machine, modeling could be your next gig!"

His reaction was always the same, a deep, rumbling growl under his breath and a piercing glare. But the more you did it, the more you noticed the subtle changes in him. His shoulders would tense before you even said anything, as if he was bracing himself for whatever you’d throw his way.

And while you loved riling him up, there was something else beneath the teasing. You weren’t just messing with him for fun, you were intrigued by him. The way he moved, the quiet power he exuded, the way his presence seemed to fill a room without him even trying. There was something about him that made your heart race in a way you didn’t quite understand.

Then, you got bolder. During drills, you’d deliberately station yourself near him, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you "complimented" him.

"Hey, Ghost, ever think of doing a calendar shoot? You know, something for the ladies, maybe a topless spread for June?”

You swore you saw his hand tighten around his gun, but he never said anything. Not yet.

The others found it funny, at least for a while. Some of the younger recruits would stifle their laughs when you catcalled him, while the veterans gave you the side-eye, clearly wondering if you’d lost your mind. Soap warned you a few times, telling you in that thick Scottish accent, “Ghost’s not the kind of bloke you want to push too far, lass.”

But you? You were fearless. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. The more you poked, the more you could feel the tension building between you and Ghost. Every snarky comment, every playful whistle, it was like stretching a rubber band tighter and tighter. You were waiting to see when it would snap.

One day, you pushed it a little too far.

Ghost was at the shooting range, going through his drills, when you wandered over. You leaned against the fence, watching him in action. You couldn’t deny how impressive he was, his movements precise, his focus unbreakable. But you weren’t about to let that stop you from having your fun.

“Damn, Ghost, you’re really showing off today,” you called, your voice carrying over the sound of gunfire.

He didn’t acknowledge you, but you saw his jaw tighten beneath the mask. You smirked, pushing off the fence and walking toward him, your steps deliberately slow, knowing he could hear you coming.

When you got close enough, you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “Bet you get all the ladies with that aim.”

This time, he paused, lowering his weapon and turning to face you. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. For a moment, you felt a flicker of nervousness—but you shoved it down. You weren’t about to back off now.

"You’ve been having fun, haven’t you?" he said, his voice low and gravelly. There was no humor in it, but there was something else. Something darker. Something that made the air around you feel suddenly thick.

"Just a little bit," you replied with a grin, though your heart was pounding harder than you’d like to admit.

Ghost stepped closer, and for the first time, you realized just how much bigger he was compared to you. He towered over you, his broad shoulders casting a shadow. But you refused to back down, even as he closed the distance between you.

"You think it’s cute, don’t you?" he muttered, his eyes narrowing as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. "Messing with me."

Your smirk faltered slightly, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Maybe I do.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But there’s only so far you can push before I push back."

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You swallowed, your heart now pounding in your chest. You had been playing with fire, and for the first time, you wondered if maybe you were about to get burned.

But instead of stepping away, you lifted your chin, your voice steady despite the way your pulse raced. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Ghost’s eyes darkened, and before you knew what was happening, he moved even closer, backing you up until you were pressed against the wall of the range. His hands planted themselves on either side of your head, trapping you there. The closeness of his body was overwhelming, his scent, leather, smoke, something undeniably masculine, filling your senses.

“You should be,” he whispered, his voice so low it sent a thrill through your body.

Your breath hitched as his gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there for a second too long. The tension between you was palpable now, electric, and suddenly your teasing didn’t feel so harmless anymore. It felt dangerous. Intense.

But instead of retreating, you felt a surge of boldness. “Or maybe you’re the one who’s scared.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, and for a split second, something flashed in them, something raw, something primal. And then, before you could say another word, he moved.

Ghost stared at you for a long moment, the tension between you simmering like a live wire. You could feel the weight of his gaze, dark and dangerous, but just when you thought he might do something, close the gap again, say something that would send a shiver down your spine, he did the opposite. He stepped back.

You blinked in surprise as he straightened, his eyes never leaving yours, but something in his expression had shifted. It wasn’t defeat, but it wasn’t victory either. It was calculated. Measured. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but close enough to make your stomach flip.

Then, without another word, Ghost turned on his heel and walked away, his broad back retreating, leaving you pressed against the wall, heart still hammering in your chest.

For a second, you thought you’d won, that maybe you’d finally gotten under his skin enough to make him back off. But as you watched him go, that strange, unsettling feeling lingered. Something about the way he left, the way he didn’t retaliate, didn’t push back immediately, left you on edge. He wasn’t done.

No, this wasn’t over.

It came to a head one day during a routine briefing. You were sitting in the back of the room, half-listening to the mission plan, your eyes occasionally drifting over to Ghost, who stood at the front, arms crossed over his chest, silent as ever.

That’s when you went too far.

As Captain Price wrapped up the details, you leaned back in your chair and called out, loud enough for everyone to hear, “So, Ghost, when are you going to take me out to dinner? Or are you afraid I’ll outshine you?”

The room went dead silent. Every pair of eyes snapped to you, then to Ghost, waiting to see what would happen. Price’s eyebrows shot up, but he wisely said nothing, though you could tell he was biting back a smile. Even Soap looked a little pale, as if he was bracing himself for the fallout.

Ghost didn’t react at first. He just stood there, his face hidden behind his mask, completely unreadable. But you noticed the way his fingers twitched, just a little. His entire body seemed to go still, as if he was debating whether to address your latest insult or let it slide like he had with all the others.

For a moment, you thought maybe you’d gotten away with it. Maybe you’d gone too far, but he’d let it go.

Then, he spoke.

"Stay after the briefing," he said, his voice low and calm, but there was something in it, something dark that sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, your bravado faltering just a bit. But you were committed now. You couldn’t back down in front of everyone. So, you flashed a cocky grin and shrugged. “Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

The briefing wrapped up, and the room emptied out, the others giving you quick glances on their way out, as if they were watching someone about to walk into the lion’s den. Even Soap gave you a sympathetic look before slipping through the door.

And then it was just you and Ghost.

The door clicked shut behind the last soldier, leaving the two of you in the dimly lit room. Ghost hadn’t moved from his spot at the front, his eyes still fixed on you. You could feel the weight of his stare, heavy and unrelenting, as if he was sizing you up, deciding exactly what to do with you.

You stood up slowly, trying to maintain your usual confidence. “So, what’s this about, Ghost? Gonna tell me off for embarrassing you in front of the boys?”

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, his gaze never leaving yours. The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. You felt your pulse quicken, but you forced yourself to stay calm.

Finally, he moved.

In two strides, he closed the distance between you, towering over you with that imposing frame. He didn’t touch you, but he didn’t have to. His presence alone was enough to make you feel like you were pinned to the spot.

“You’ve been having fun, haven’t you?” he said, his voice low, almost a growl.

You swallowed hard, your bravado crumbling slightly under the intensity of his gaze. But you weren’t about to let him see you back down. “Maybe I have. Didn’t think you minded.”

Ghost tilted his head, studying you. “Is that what you think?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, he took another step closer, backing you up against the wall. His hands planted themselves on either side of you, trapping you in place. The closeness of him was overwhelming, his scent, the sheer heat radiating off his body, the way his eyes bore into yours, dark and unreadable.

“You’ve been running your mouth,” he said quietly, his voice so low it sent a thrill through your body. “And now you’re going to see what happens when you push me too far.”

Your heart raced, but instead of fear, you felt something else. Something hot and electric buzzing just beneath your skin. This was what you had wanted, wasn’t it? To push him, to see how far you could go before he snapped. And now, here you were, cornered by the very man you’d been teasing, his breath warm against your face, his presence swallowing you whole.

You tilted your chin up, your voice steady even though your pulse was thundering in your ears. “What are you gonna do, Lieutenant? Scare me off?”

He chuckled, low and dangerous, and the sound made your stomach flip. “No. I don’t think fear’s what you want from me.”

Your breath hitched as his gloved hand came up, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but the intensity in his eyes was anything but. You could feel the heat rolling off him in waves, the raw power behind his calm demeanor.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, the solidity of his muscles against yours, the firmness of his chest against your soft curves. He leaned in, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath hot on your skin.

His voice was a low, dangerous murmur, his gaze locking with yours with an intensity that made your pulse race. "What you want," he said, his voice a rough whisper in your ear, "is for me to put you in your place."

He grabbed you by your hairs, a seductive whimper escaping your lips as he tilted your head to expose your throat.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive flesh of your throat, sending a shiver through you. "You think you're so damn cocky," he murmured against your skin. "But you've been asking for this for a long time, haven't you?"

You completely melted in his hands, done and dusted.

Ghost could feel you surrendering to him, the tension leaving your body as you melted against him. A slow, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He liked seeing you like this, all defiant bravado gone, replaced by raw, unguarded need.

He pulled your hair a little tighter, his free hand coming to rest on your hip, pulling your body even closer, making sure you could feel every inch of him pressed against you.

He chuckled softly at the sound you made, his eyes flicking down to your parted lips. God, you looked so perfect like this, all soft and pliant, your body pressed against his, the sound of your ragged breaths filling the air.

He tightened his grip on your hair, tilting your head back further, exposing more of your neck. "You look damn good like this," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your flesh. "All mine."

And then, before you could think, before you could say another word, he closed the gap between you.

His lips crashed against yours, fierce and unrelenting, stealing the breath from your lungs. You gasped, your hands instinctively reaching for his chest, clutching at his shirt as you pulled him closer. The kiss was wild, a mix of frustration and pent-up desire, everything you’d been pushing him toward finally snapping.

Ghost’s hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him, his touch possessive and firm. You moaned into his mouth, the sheer intensity of it all sending a jolt of heat through your entire body. It was overwhelming, the way he kissed you, like he’d been holding back for too long, and now that the dam had broken, there was no going back.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads resting together. His eyes were darker than ever, filled with something raw and primal.

“I warned you,” he whispered, his voice rough, “but you didn’t listen.”

Your heart was still pounding, but a slow smile spread across your lips. “Maybe I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Ghost chuckled again, a low, dangerous sound. “Now you know.”