Keeiv - Layer:01

more blunt!simon because he’s hot

he doesn’t even look up from his phone when he says it.

just sprawled across the couch, one arm behind his head, legs spread like he’s on a throne instead of a beat-up cushion that still smells like smoke and sweat.

“ya know, if you’re gonna walk around like that, you oughta be ready to get fucked.”

you freeze. halfway across the living room, wearing nothing but a big t-shirt and the tiniest pair of shorts you forgot you even owned.

“like what?” you ask, already feeling the heat crawl up your throat.

he finally lifts his gaze.

smirks.

“like a mouth-watering little tease,” he says. “jesus. i can see the crease of your pussy from here.”

you make a shocked sound—half gasp, half laugh—and wrap your arms around yourself like that’ll help.

he scoffs.

“don’t act shy. you bent over the fridge earlier like you wanted me to notice. ass all high, thighs squeezin’ together like you were tryna get off on the cold air.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, lazy and cruel.

“if i pulled your shorts down right now, you’d be wet already. bet your fuckin’ panties are stickin’ to you.”

you stare. breath caught in your chest.

he grins wider.

“c’mon. lemme see. won’t even touch. just wanna take a look. see if i’m right.”

his eyes drop, heavy-lidded and hungry.

“you do like it when i talk like this, huh? your nipples are hard.”

you cross your arms tighter, turn to walk away, but his voice chases after you—

low and amused and absolutely depraved.

“run off if you want. just know the second i hear that shower start, i’m gonna be sittin’ here jerkin’ off with the door open. loud. so you know what you did to me.”

Cocteau Twins: Treasure (1984)

12.27.24

ghostsoap commission for @bluegiragi!

thank you so much for an opportunity to draw them again 🖤

scaredy cat

chapter: unumbered one shot (maybe more to come) pairing: simon 'ghost' riley warnings: nothing explicit. all lowercase. a/n: because everyone deserves a love that is patient and kind. in spite of everything. for @wraithdance and @disgustingtwitches

it’s why he blames himself when you run.

he’s invaded your space, pushed too hard against the ease of the relationship you’d found yourselves in. it wasn’t purposeful, but simon knew there was something amiss. could sense it from the way your gait had changed around him. how you’d taken to covering parts of yourself from him that you’d otherwise let him bare witness to. the clothes didnt change, no, but your laughter did. clipped and short, long enough to fool others but simon knew you better.

he saw you transform into a version of yourself he’d only seen before he knew you. a hardened version of you made by the winds that eroded your softness.

you’d erected walls for refuge. hiding yourself away from the reach of any hands who tried to tug at you, kind or otherwise.

and yet, simon had been granted access until recently.

he’d pushed his luck, known some conversations were likely to push you to the brink, but you held strongly. in the end, it wasn’t even a conversation. you’d clammed up mid conversation giggling over childhood talks. he’d seen the realization dawn on you in real time.

overexposed, overly comfortable, unprotected.

your things were gone the next day. his side table clear of anything of importance to you. there were still traces of you, lingering in the crevices of his flat but he knew they were there to keep him off your scent. to keep him from being alarmed.

he’s a damn good soldier though. better at understanding when someone’s got the urge to run. and exceptionally good at finding people.

he gives you two days. no messages, no calls, nothing.

all so you can breathe a little easier. work yourself out of the state of mind you’d found yourself in. leaving you bare and exposed.

then he shows up to your coffee shop. order his drink and yours and simply waits.

the baristas know him by now, and they’ve already known you, so when you approach the counter eager to get your liquid energy they simply wave to simon.

you’re an expert at hiding your emotions. anyone else would have accepted your absence of a reaction as expectation but simon knows better. sees the small inhale, your hands curling on the strap of your bag, other hand clutching your phone a little tighter. you’re unhappy, but not angry.

he’ll give you your space, let you run but be within your vicinity. watching you from behind the glass while you get comfortable around again. until you allow yourself to have your back to him, to let your fingers graze the back of his, until you find yourself curled into his side again.

he’s willing to wait.

“just a cup of coffee. take your time, i’m not in a rush for anything love. i’ll be here”

Ghost doesn't cutesy talk cats, he talks to them like other adult men and it's hilarious.

They're at a safehouse, and Ghost is listening to the radio, Price hears him talking to someone, and he's confused because both of his sergeants are conked out asleep.

So, he walks around the corner and finds Ghost sitting on a step with the radio playing and a stray kitten biting his laces while he talks to her. "I don't believe shoelaces constitute part of a balanced diet."

John just sits down on the step next to him and ignores how his knees click. "What's her name?"

"She's yet to disclose name or rank, but given that she's clearly smarter than those two through there, I'd say she's a lieutenant." He responds so dryly that John can't help but snort.

"Ah, I see. Making her way through the ranks at her young age, impressive." He leans forward to pet the kitten, flattening down the tuft of fur sticking up on her head.

"She's a hard worker, look at those paws. Grubby, she's been busy."

The kitten offers them a mewl in response, and he nods accordingly.

"She's stern, reminds me of Laswell."

That makes Ghost laugh.

Early morning shenanigans

cw: somnophilia-adjacent

3:07 a.m.

You feel him before you hear him. Broad chest pressed into your back, thigh nudging between yours under the sheets. His hand slides across your waist, firm, certain.

“Turn over.”

It’s low. Rough. Not a question.

You blink, still dazed with sleep. “Simon—what—?”

“To your side, sweetheart.” His voice is deeper than usual, coated in something hot and lazy and fucking dangerous. “Need you like this.”

You roll without thinking. Your body always listens to him first. The second your thigh hikes forward and your spine curves, he’s already there fitting behind you, bare skin against bare skin, cock thick and hard, sliding between your legs like he’s been grinding against you for hours.

“Fuck,” he groans, like the heat of you ruins him. His hand slips between your thighs, fingers stroking through the slick mess between them. “You were already wet for me, weren’t you?”

You whimper, caught between sleep and need, pushing back into him without shame. “Simon—”

“Shh.” His mouth is at your ear now. Teeth scrape. Tongue soothes. “S’just me, yeah? Let me fuck you slow.”

He doesn’t give you time to beg. Just tilts your hips and presses in—slow, steady, all of him. The stretch makes your breath stutter. You clutch the pillow as his hand comes to your throat, soft but heavy, holding you there while his cock sinks deeper.

“That’s it. There she is.” He’s fucking you like he missed you. Like you weren’t already in his arms. The sounds are obscene in the quiet, slick and wet, the soft drag of his cock inside you, the creak of the mattress with every slow grind of his hips. The bed creaks with each grind of his hips, your soaked cunt dragging him back in every time he pulls out.

His hand drags up, cups your jaw, tilts your face back toward his mouth.

“Love you like this,” he breathes. “Warm, soft, still dreamin’.”

You come like that. Half-asleep and full of him, biting down on a moan while he holds you through it, hips rolling, mouth at your throat. And he doesn’t stop until he’s buried deep, groaning against your skin like it splits him open.

You fall asleep with him still inside you, cock softening slow, arms wrapped around your body.