THE FEDS RETREAT.

Alpha, Please

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

The first two parts give context, but aren't required for this read.

Summary: It took Price talking to Ghost for him to realize he was neglecting you, his mate. He finally found it in himself to start from the beginning, courting you. You invited him into your nest, eventually allowing him to fuck you into it.

Content Tags: Angst in the beginning if you squint, bits and pieces of fluff, Ghost literally brings you food, Obtaining your mans hoodies and shirts, Dubious Consent, Fingering, PiV Sex, Knotting, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, No use of Y/N

A/N: You guys really liked the sex in Maple Syrup, so here's an extension after The Aftermath with some smut that I excluded from the headcannons I made. As always, more under the cut and my asks are open <3.

Part 1, Part 2, Headcannons

Legally, you and Ghost were in the clear. It took a few weeks and some hearings to get to where you were, but they relented and allowed you to continue working. The only problem was that you couldn't go on missions anymore, not unless you got rid of the bond, which would allow you to take suppressants again.

It pissed you off, but you were more than happy to keep working, even without the missions. You were left with one problem. Ghost was now ignoring you, he would disappear from any room if you happened to walk in, and anytime you thought you caught a glimpse he seemed to disappear.

You were getting annoyed. You wanted your Alpha to want you, you were trying to get him to talk to you but it seemed all for naught. You blinked out of your thoughts as a knock on your office door echoed in the small room. You sighed deeply, giving them a simple come in, and trying to get back to the paperwork you'd been working on.

The door opened and shut, the chair in front of your desk getting pulled back and the person sat down. When you lifted your head, you gave a deep sigh. Price. He leaned back, seeming to be fully relaxed.

"What is it you need, Captain?" He looked you up and down, giving a small sniff as he scented you. You raised your eyebrows, gesturing for him to answer you.

"Has Ghost been ignoring you? You smell bothered," you groaned, wiping a hand down your face. You nodded at him, not wanting to get into it. "That's not good," you barked a laugh, throwing your pen down and tossing your hands up.

"No shit it's not good, Price, it's been pissing me off. He hasn't talked to me since the last hearing we had together," you shook your head, eyes shutting. "It hurts. More than it should, even if I don't really know him," Price nodded with your words, looking away.

He sighed deeply. "I'll have a talk with him, I've noticed it effected both of you. Ghost on the field, and you in the medbay," you had to look away at that, you knew how far behind you were in paperwork. It was piling up and everyone wanted things sorted, but you couldn't get to it. In your downtime, all you did was lay in your nest, trying to soothe yourself.

Price had walked out, and that was the last of the conversation. There wasn't much else to say, but he did make sure to let you know that you needed to catch up on your paperwork. That was all you did that night, leading into early the next morning. You'd made sure to get breakfast, but you were working on the paperwork through lunch and into early afternoon.

You hadn't noticed the hours going by, hadn't noticed how hungry you'd become. Another knock on the door made you shake out of your stupor. You blinked, eyes falling in and out of focus.

"Come in," you called out, rubbing your eyes as you leaned back. God, your back and neck hurt from being hunched over. You hadn't heard the door open or seen Ghost sit down in front of you, but you'd noticed the plate of food slide into your vision.

That made you look up, hands pausing from rubbing your neck. He'd taken off the skull portion of his mask, leaving the balaclava on. So similar to the mission, but so different. He wasn't looking at you, but at the food in front of you.

"You missed two meals," was all he said. You looked between him and the food, not sure how to feel.

"Price talked to you, I'm assuming," you grabbed the fork, finally realizing how hungry you'd become. He nodded, leaned back in the chair.

Ghost looked at you for a moment before looking away. "Price did talk to me," you groaned. God, he was so shit at conversations. Does he really think this is what a conversation entails? Not explaining anything, just hoping you could fill in the blanks.

It was silent for a few moments, the fork scraping against the plate every now and again breaking it. You hadn't looked up from the food, and it was slightly uncomfortable. Did he think this was going to fix everything?

"I want to court you,"

"What?"

It was a few days later that Ghost was called for a mission. You hadn't talked much outside of that conversation, he didn't give you many other details. He would stop by during lunch, though, bringing you food but never ate. The silence had become more comfortable as the days went on, but he'd told you about the mission.

The night he was set to leave, you found a small box in front of your door. You could faintly smell Ghost on it, but you still hesitated on grabbing it. You weren't entirely sure what was inside, or what it actually was.

It sat on your bed as you stared at it. Nothing moved inside, and you couldn't smell anything outside of Ghosts scent. It made you a little nervous, the thought that if something inside was so important then maybe he knew he would die on this mission.

In a panic, you opened the box, his scent seeming to explode out of it. It made your head jerk away, trying to find unscented air. Once you could shake your head clear of the thick scent, you took a look inside.

It looked like a shirt, black and all you could smell was Ghost. When you pulled it out, you revealed it to actually be a hoodie. It was big, and smelled so good. Leather, hints of tobacco and the gunpowder that they used on base. You turned, still holding the hoodie and opened your closet, dropping on your knees in your nest and fiddling with the different fabrics in it, trying to find the perfect spot.

You knew he was going to court you, but how long had he been wearing this hoodie for it to smell so strongly of him? The second you found the perfect spot you curled up into the nest, small purrs coming from your throat.

It'd been so long since you were happy enough to purr.

A few weeks later, just a few minutes after lunch, your door opened and closed.

Without looking up, you groaned. "Seriously, Amanda, I don't need you still on my case about my scent. You're supposed to be on suppressants, you shouldn't be able to smell much of anything," you looked up and froze. "Ghost."

"Who's Amanda?" You leaned back in your chair and gave a soft laugh. She'd been on your case about how your scent was changing, the leather and tobacco on it making you smell just a little too much like Ghost.

You looked up at him from your chair, watching as he set food down for you. "She's been on my case for the last few weeks, apparently I'm starting to smell like you, but I don't know how she can even smell it. She's supposed to be on suppressants, and I know she isn't mated. I think she's trying to get with one of your soldiers, you know," you pointed at him with the fork you'd picked up, shrugging slightly.

Ghosts face didn't change, but he put a box on your desk, taking a seat in front of you like normal. "I didn't know you were so interested in the lives of your subordinates," you shrugged.

"What's in the box?"

Without a blink, he gestured at it. You looked between him and the box, pulling it closer to you. It still smelled like him, a little stronger than normal. Opening it, you found a few items. A little blanket, small but still smelling of Ghost. When you pulled it out, you couldn't hold back a laugh.

You showed it to Ghost, trying to stop laughing. "You really got me a blanket with a ghost on it? Where'd you get it?" He shook his head, you could see his eyes crinkling a little bit. You really, really hoped it was a smile.

"I honestly can't tell you, confidentiality," you shook your head, placing it across your lap. The next item you pulled out was a shirt, black and short-sleeved. The smell on it was so strong, you had to lean slightly away.

"How often are you wearing these? The hoodie smelled about as strong as this, it can't be from just one time wearing it," Ghost didn't respond, gesturing to the half-eaten food in front of you. Putting the shirt back in the box, you started to dig in.

You were so happy to have him back, and the next few weeks went by very similarly. You tucked the blanket into your nest, starting to wear his shirt to sleep. The hoodies scent had started to fade, so you'd tucked it a little further from the center of your nest, replacing it with the blanket.

Every so often, he would give you a shirt, and you'd eventually invited him to your room for dinner. You'd allowed him to snoop around before showing him your nest.

"That's the blanket I gave you," he had said when he saw it lying in the center. You couldn't see it, not through the mask or with his back turned, but he was smiling, and you thought you heard a chuff come from him.

It took you a few more weeks to allow him to sit in your nest, but you finally did. It was usually only a night or two a week, sometimes he would read while sitting in it, or he would eat with his back to you. In the mornings when you woke up, you found a new shirt replacing one of the stale ones, or a hoodie placed on your bed. They always smelled of Ghost.

The one night he had laid down beside you, he had handed you little box. When you opened it, a necklace laid inside, a little S was engraved on a piece of metal, and a little Ghost was sitting beside it. The smile on your face was so wide, he helped you put it on. You had begun softly purring, allowing him to pull you onto his chest.

It was a few moments of silence before anyone said anything. "Simon," you picked your head up, glancing up at him. You were lost, who was Simon? "That's what the S stands for. Simon," your fingers touched the necklace softly.

"That's your name?"

It wasn't too long after that that you had begun your first heat. You had noticed yourself feeling feverish that morning, but didn't think too much of it. It was in the middle of cold season, so you assumed you had just caught someone's sickness. One of the rookies had coughed right on you a few days ago, but you thought you cleaned up well enough to not catch it.

You wore a mask, settling into your office to start some of the paperwork regarding rookies and their needed medications or allergies. You'd only been working an hour when cramps starting spasming in your gut, forcing you to stop.

What the hell? You were fine a few days ago, so what the hell was happening? These weren't consistent with a cold. Something was wrong, really, really wrong.

When you stumbled back to your room, head growing foggy, it finally hit you. You were going into heat. You could feel the slick slowly pooling out of you, you were beginning to sweat as the heat became ingrained in you.

It hurt, the spasms forcing more slick out of you, and you were barely able to stumble into your nest before ripping your clothes off. You could feel your cunt spasming around nothing, your fingers scrambling to fill the emptiness inside of you, but nothing seemed to fill it.

Simon was worried. You hadn't been in your office at lunch, but he assumed you were pulled off to help somewhere in the medbay, so he didn't think too much of it. That night, you hadn't shown up in his room, where you'd agreed to meet for dinner.

That was when he went to your room. From a few doors down he could smell your sweetness and he could feel himself hardening. When Simon opened the door, unlocking it with the key you'd given him, his eyes rolled back at the smell. He'd argue it, coincidentally, smelled as good as maple syrup.

Walking into your room, he saw the bed unkempt and could hear little whimpers from your nest, and he found you curled up and sweating, writhing. Your pretty little face was pressing into the shirt he'd left a few nights ago, whines coming from you with each pass of your hand over your clit. He stood watching you for a few moments before your eyes peeled open, whine deepening into a moan when you finally recognized him.

Alpha, you whined for him. That broke him, and he dropped down in front of you, tugging your legs over his and onto his lap. Your slick was soaking into his pants and he pressed his length into your core, dragging his rough pants over your clit and watching your back arch so beautifully.

Pulling back, he listened to you hiss and try to grind your hips back against his, but his hands caught them and held you down. Simons fingers swiped over your clit, watching your eyes roll back and moaning his name as his fingers slid into you, curling and stretching you out for him.

He could feel his rut starting to take over, and he had to take some deep breaths before it fully came over him. Dropping his head, he pushed his face into your gland and started licking and sucking. Pushing another finger into you, he could feel your nails digging into his biceps as your cunt throbbed around them. Sliding his fingers out of you, he kept one hand on your hip while pulling his cock out, listening to you whine for more, more, please Alpha, more.

Grabbing the backs of your thighs, he places them over his shoulders, lining up to slide right in. Your breath caught up in your throat, cutting your moan off partway through as he stretched you open. Moving slowly, he slid his tongue along your neck to press an open mouth kiss on your jaw.

As he bottomed out, he leaned back up to look at you. Your eyes were glassy and your fingers were scratching at his abdomen, cunt throbbing around him. While Simon slid back out, you finally seemed to catch your breath, moans coming out long and loud. He groaned from deep in his chest at the feeling of your cunt pulsating around him, sliding back in just as slow as he'd slid out. Your hips bucked, slurring out faster, alpha. need more, need it faster, please.

Your eyes rolled back as his hips quickened, all Simon could think about was getting your thoughtless, the only words he wanted coming out of you was Simon, and Alpha. He began to speed up more, hands tugging on your hips with each thrust, pulling you in rhythm to his thrust. You groaned, lifting your head to look at him through glossy eyes, tears falling down your cheeks. Please, Simon, please, before your words caught in your throat as his fingers found your clit, knot starting to catch on your cunt.

Your whines grew higher, cunt pulsing around him quicker and catching further on his knot as your mouth dropped open wider. He kept his pace, watching as your back arched sharply, hands dropping to your sides to grasp at the nest underneath you.

With your head dropping back, eyes scrunching, Simon could feel your pussy trying to milk him. It didn't take long after that, the mixture of your cunt spasming around him, your whines of Alpha, and his knot already growing for him to cum. Simons knot caught fully on you, thrusts shortening to try and keep pumping while he came, head dropping to nip at your gland, sinking his teeth in when your cunt spasming even harder around him.

When Simon finally came to, he dropped your neck from his bite and moved slowly to avoid jostling you too much. He twisted around, pulling you on top of him in order to get you into a more comfortable position. Your breaths heated the side of his neck, and when you came to all you could smell was Simon, felt his knot caught inside of you and his warm hands brushing against your back.

"Go to sleep, love," he whispered in your hair. God, he hoped all of your heats would be spent here, in a nest you carefully created. Even hoped you'd allow him to spend his ruts in your nest.

Tom Holland is too pure. We don’t deserve him at all

Am I wet? Am I on my period? Did I pee my pants?- next on wtf is going on down there.

a/n: sorry there’s so much drama in this one LOL im nothing if not a sucker for nightmare tropes

-as always comments/reblogs are appreciated!

-want to leave a tip? heres my kofi!

The Accused | Simon Riley/Reader

3.

As the morning sun rose and shone through the splintered gaps of the boarded up window, you realized how exactly Ghost got his name.

You weren't sure when he'd arrived, but he was certainly your sight for sore eyes, rising from your fitful slumber. His back faces you, the light dances over the darkness of his tactical gear. For just a moment, you allow yourself to take it in. The birds outside offer a lovely soundtrack. His chair creaks underneath him while his weight shifts.

"Mornin'." Is all he says.

It takes a couple seconds before you're able to sit upright. Your back aches something awful, and you aren't sure if you've ever felt so thirsty in your entire life. Lucky for you, it seemed your friend had brought a couple of gifts. Four water bottles and what appeared to be a few bags of jerky and an assortment of nuts. Your stomach grumbles at the thought, upset at you for not feeding it sooner.

You mumble a good morning as you rise to your feet and take the chair next to him. If not for the situation at hand, you were sure this would have been a lovely morning indeed. The situation at hand only grows worse when Ghost breaks some news.

48 hours, he'd said with a flat tone. Meeting someone out in Las Almas.

For two days you'd be alone, cramped up in this shed with nothing but the everlasting sound of nature as entertainment. To hide the disdain on your face, you grab at one of the bottles and take a long swig. It doesn't work. But it also doesn't stop him from taking his leave less than an hour later.

The rest of the day was spent in phases of isolation. The first phase, immediate boredom, came with anxiety quickly in tow. Ghost would be across the country and you were merely a few miles away from base. It was over if someone decided to stray away just as you used to do and actually found you here. Running couldn't save you forever.

Phase two was quieter. Your left side ached as the bruises began to settle deep into your bones. The birds chirped high in the sky, your tired eyes numbly watching the light cracking through the windows morph from a proud yellow to a dim orange. And, eventually, white with the moon casting through the trees.

You slept better that night- fed and hydrated, mind empty and full all at once with questions. What if's haunted you deep in your core.

By day two you were starting to feel better, but the air around you felt heavier than before. Moist, almost. The shed was dim. When you peeked outside, tentative and afraid that even poking your head out the door would render your life over, you realized that dark clouds had rolled over the sky and parked right on above. Wind blew through the leaves and you could practically smell the impending storm brewing.

When it began to rain, late into the evening, it was nothing too serious. Light pattering on the thin roof, a couple drops slipping through gaps in the shingles and puddling on the floor.

When the thunder cracked over the sky it almost sounded like a bomb. You jumped in your seat so hard you almost fell off, scampering to the window and peeking through the tiny cracks. The wind had grown menacing, tearing through the branches and launching leaves to the grass. Just as before, the sky remained just as baleful as it had been that afternoon.

Eventually, the rain began to come down like it was hail. It beat the roof ruthlessly, more and more water gathering on the floor as it forced its way through the ramshackle shed. You tucked yourself up on the chair, bringing your knees to your chest, trying to have faith in your little shack to keep you safe. There was nowhere else to go- this was it. With no blanket, you were reduced to a shivering mess, listening to the deafening chants of the falling rain.

But, even through it, you could still make out something else.

A great clap of thunder. The unmistakable sound of craning wood. And then an ear-splitting crash. You'd barely even managed to hop from your chair in time.

You felt the wind on your skin before you felt anything else.

And then, water. Lots of it- soaking you almost instantaneously. Pieces of wood and metal lay at your feet, surrounding you, your mind struggling to grasp what the hell was going on. Roaring gusts of wind echoed in your ears.

Standing there, your eyes finally adjusted through the murky darkness just enough to see leaves and branches bent at all angles before you. A great tree lays horizontal through the shed, mere feet away from where you stood. Moon poured in through the gaping maw of what used to be the roof.

The chairs you and Ghost once shared lay shattered to bits under its mammoth weight.

The tree welcomed the entire night into your little safe haven. Angry outbursts of winds, the relentless rain showering every inch of your body. In an attempt to protect yourself, you crushed yourself up into a corner of the shed, the only part of it with a chunk of roof remaining semi-intact. It bowed down, barely held up by the wooden posts, but it dipped just enough where the water ran down it and pooled at your feet.

Tears bite at your eyes, and you let them. They fall in heavy streaks.

And your chest heaved, your hands shook. The storm swallowed your cries, hungry and angry and ripping away any last remaining shred of normalcy you had. Everything around you seemed to be riddled with fractures just waiting to shatter. You grieved the life you had merely three days ago- spent more on the upside than down and wasting your in-between hours alongside Ghost.

Ghost. Beautiful, enigmatic, scary Ghost. With all of those rough edges and those forlorn eyes. He haunts your mind as you fold into yourself, but your limbs offer little cover to the elements. Your head hurts, your body aches something deep and awful. Your skin burns at the cocktail assaulting you- equal parts the pelting rain and the whipping of the wind pitching shards of wood and glass at your weak frame.

A part of you wonders if this would be your demise. If, out of all the wrong cursing your life, this would be your downfall. Cramped in the corner of a shed attempting to outlive mother nature like some pitiful stray thing. Your protective grip on yourself tightens. The nightmare doesn't end.

And the storm rages longer than you can stay awake for.

You remain where you sit even in your dreams. The world is all underwater garbles, the branches of the fallen tree try to reach out and grasp at your shaking body. It's almost like being in a bubble- feeling so full an empty all at once. Hearing the raging storm but it's booming voice just can't seem to fully reach you. But, you swear you hear something else.

You swear, with your face tucked into your knees, you can hear your voice rising above the thunder and the whirlwind.

And then it's like you can feel hands on your skin. Gloved, but warm. Something soft and fuzzy tucked wrapped around you. Those hands pull your arms off your cut-up legs and then you're weightless. It reminds you of your fall. Weightless, hung by your hand. Your eyes screw shut and you're torn from your spot like a ragdoll. Clearly, your soul must be leaving your body.

"-Up."

That faraway voice reaches you. It tears through the veil.

"-Hear m-"

You blink. Everything suddenly rushes in- real. The lamenting winds, the torrent of rain, the creaking of wood and the whipping of leaves on shaking branches.

The softness of a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

Then, it all stops when you lock eyes with those familiar, melancholic blues. He's shrouded in black, the edges of his form painted in the most beautiful of blues, droplets gathered on his gear reflecting in what little light the moon could creep through those rich clouds. He touches your face. He holds your face. And then he's picking you up like you're broken and you try to remember the last time you've been treated with some fragility. You try to think back to a time when you'd been treated with such care.

"Ghost." You murmur, your own voice the loudest thing reaching your ears.

"Me." He says, and it draws tears of relief to your already wet eyes. You sink into his large arms, allow him to duck out of what remained of the shed. Allow him to pull you to his chest so tightly it's almost too much of him. Almost.

But it never gets to the point. You press your head against him and swear you can hear his heartbeat thrashing in his ribcage, restless. For the first time that night, you felt safe. Utterly safe in his hold. If your body could say thank you, it would have.

The relief knocks you out a moment later.

----------

It's warm when you stir awake. Quiet.

Soft.

When your eyes open, met with a burst of yellow light, you struggle to grasp where you were. Your elbows try to prop you up, but they sink into something plush.

It takes a few moments to realize you're a sopping-wet mess laying atop a couch. Your clothes stuck you grossly, but the cushions you lap upon make it hard to feel uncomfortable. You almost wondered if this was the dream. If you were going to wake any moment in a jump to defend yourself or run, scamper into the stormy night and earn one more day on earth.

But then you see a window with tightly shut blinds. You see a coffee table with coasters, a tiny TV mounted on a wooden entertainment center. An air conditioner pokes out of the wall and it strikes you how similar it is to your flat back at the base.

Like instinct, you glance to your right, and sure enough, you're met with a kitchen you recognize so eerily you have to pinch yourself. A half wall divides the two rooms, the stove visible with the steam outpouring from a kettle.

You were back at base. You were sure of it now.

But it was as if your flat never had the loving touch of personal taste. No photos, no decor. Void of anything to suggest a person with a life worth living inhabited it. It felt hauntingly empty. The same blanket you'd had tucked against you lay a crumpled pile atop the armrest. Your eyes linger on it longer than they should, mind still half empty with sleep and confusion.

You reach out, and you draw your fingers along the blissfully soft fabric of the blanket. It reminds you of your own blankets, and the saddening realization that you may never get a bed of your own ever again, should you not clear your name somehow. You get lost in your thoughts, idly running your fingers along the blanket, still damp from the rain.

"Enjoyin' yourself?"

Ghost's voice pops you out of the bubble you'd slipped into. He stands there in the kitchen, his torso visible over the dividing half wall. The first thing you notice is his evening attire- a skull print etched over a his black fabric mask and a casual black t-shirt spread gaunt over his muscles. It never struck you how naked he looked without his gear on. How bare he seemed with his ruffled blonde hair and thick eyebrows on full display.

The second thing you notice is the sudden shrew scream of the kettle, forgotten on the stove. Ghost settles a pile of clothes on the table and turns to tend to the piercing sound.

For some reason, your mind remains far away. Like you're watching through a lens, not truly where you were. All your brain seemed to want to focus on was the softness of the blanket. The faint smell of amber spice lingering in the air. Your eyes travel to the outline of Ghost, particularly to the broadness of his shoulders, and to the way he moved so languidly, pouring water into a pair of mugs.

You don't even fully realize it when he's suddenly walked directly in front of you, your mind lagging. The mugs are set on the coffee table, and in two snaps of his fingers an inch away from your face, you're blinking up at him like you'd been ripped from a trance.

"You there?" He asks, and you finally offer a response.

"I'm here." You murmur, eyebrows knitting together. "I'm confused. Are we at mine?"

Ghost shakes his head. "Mine."

Your stomach drops like lead. Settles in your gut when he adds, so keep your head down. It's a struggle to digest his words when you're suddenly keenly aware that one wrong move, one wrong sound would have you surrounded. It would be over before the chase even began. Ghost senses your dismay- reads it off the lines in your face that drag your features into a sinking frown.

"No where else to bring you." He admits, settling beside you. "This'll do for now. Just got to keep your head down."

His words do so little to ease you that it actually makes you laugh. Low, pitiful chuckles. "Simon Riley harboring a fugitive. You're a changed man."

"Not changed anything. You'd do it for me." Is all he says with a huff, and you know he's telling the truth. He reaches down and grasps a mug, and he brings it to your lap.

Your hands shake as they reach out, the chill of wet clothes still biting at your bones. It's nearly comical when you take the mug into your own hands, the immediate ripples bouncing off the walls as it shook in your hold.

"Christ. Give me that." Ghost sighs, and before you're even able to respond, he's plucking the cup from your trembling fingers.

Then he's bringing it to your lips and you're so excited to finally drink something that you barely even register how close he is. How he has to shrink himself to be beside you, how gently he tips the mug back while you sip. The warmth drops to the floor of your empty stomach and relief washes over you so intensely it nearly draws tears. How emotional you’d become, the last few days pushing you to your limits. But now you have real shelter, Ghost at your side, a bit more color in your vision and of course the luxury of warm tea.

You're so eager to get it down that droplets gather and fall from the corners of your lips. They dribble down your chin and you pull away with a grimace, swiping at your skin.

" 'Sposed to drink it." Ghost says, and it leaves him so sweetly.

You match the smile you swore you'd heard in his words. When Ghost brings the cup back up to your lips, much less tentative this time around, you can't help but subconsciously reach up to paw at this wrist. The dull ache of an empty stomach ebbs away as you empty the cup, and finally, your sore muscles relax into jelly.

"There you go." Ghost's voice, low and observant. Something in the tone makes you squirm under your skin, and you're met with the reality of being disappointed when he pulls away and sets the cup aside.

It makes you all too aware of the heat over your face, and you lower your head to escape his gaze. A quiet thanks leaves your lips.

"Clothes are on the table, no chance they'll fit you though. Better than being soaked." Ghost's large hands clap over your knee before he stands up. "Washrooms on the left."

When he leaves the room, and you start feeling that gnawing sense of isolation, you finally take to standing and wander into the bathroom. Its white light on even whiter walls blind you for a moment. When your eyes adjust, you're met with eyebags and wet, messy hair. Cut up arms and shaking hands. You look like you've aged 10 years. Your wet clothes plop down in piles as you shed them, layer by layer.

It felt strange to be in Ghost's house. Even more, it felt strange to be naked in Ghost's house. Quickly you unfold the clothes he'd provided, and then proceed to gawk.

Ghost hadn't been kidding. They did not fit. Just the t-shirt alone engulfed you. Somehow you managed to secure the sweatpants around your waist after finagling the drawstrings into a belt. Your legs swam in the fabric pooled around your feet. Haphazardly you roll them into cuffs.

Ghost, again, wasn't kidding. Shucked of your wet clothes, blanketed by his, you were already feeling better. The world felt a little less shattered around you. You hang your old clothes over the shower rod in the hope’s they’d be dry by morning.

When you leave the bathroom and saunter back to his kitchen, you find him there leaning against the table in wait. For a brief moment, he doesn't see you enter. And for that brief moment, your eyes plant on the sliver of skin visible between the gap of where his t-shirt ended, and his mask began. His gaze flicks over to yours and you meet it.

"Better?" He asks.

"A lot better." You say with a relieved sigh. You fidget with the hem of your shirt, eyes downcast, thinking the night over. "Goodbye hangout spot."

"Hangout spot? Are we fifteen?" Ghost scoffs, laughing lowly under his breath. He motions for you to follow and you're led into a modest bedroom.

"Come on, it was like a hangout spot. And now it's gone." Your voice falls at the end, and doesn't go unnoticed by his listening ears. He watches you through the corners of his eyes. "Was one of my favorites, too."

"We'll find another." He offers.

You shrug. "It won't be the same."

Ghost sighs and wanders to the side of the bed, and only then do you notice the blankets laid out on the floor.

"We'll make it the same. Come on, you need some sleep."

When he pulls the blanket from the mattress back in invitation, you frown. Even more so when he begins to kneel on the blankets mounted on the floor.

"I'm not sleeping in your bed. I'll take the floor." You deadpan. He shakes his head.

"Absolutely not."

"Man, come on. Let me."

"Not a chance." He settles over the blankets, laying flat on his back. You crawl onto the bed to peek over the edge down at him.

"Are you sure?" You ask.

Those blues peer up at you from the floor. They roll, his voice a grunt. "Shut it. When's the last time you got real sleep?"

You scoff. "You're gonna' talk to me about getting real sleep? I could ask you the same question."

Ghost laughs deep in his chest. A sound you rarely get the joy of hearing. But then he rolls over, back facing you, and you feel him shut the argument down in one fell swoop. Your combative perspective dies somewhere in the back of your brain, and suddenly your new focus is just how plush Ghost's bed is. It sucks you in, it feels. Practically reaches up with and tugs you down against it. You sprawl out, your muscles crying out in relief.

The scent of him surrounding you is intoxicating. As is the deep, soft breaths you hear from the floor. Your head suddenly becomes too heavy to lift.

"You know what," You mumble with half-lidded eyes. "I think I am gonna' take the bed."

Whether Ghost answers or not, you're unsure, asleep nearly the same second the last syllable left your lips. A heavy dream cloaks the forefront of your mind.

And it paints such awful pictures.

Fireworks of light, clapping explosions, and the distant howls of your friend's voices echo cry into the back of your mind. All you know is that you're running, your legs struggling to heave the weight of you. Darkness nips at your heels as you flee. Hands grab at you from all angles, long twisting fingers rooted to bony knuckles.

The crashing waves of the emptiness pass you with ease and you're swallowed into nothingness. Your feet splash through it like a pitch-black puddle. Though warped, you catch your own reflection in the murky depths. You kneel down and reach out, touch at the wet surface. It rippled like water but sat on your finger thick, like honey.

It reeked of tar.

And before you knew it, staring at the black ooze, a hand crashes through the surface and wraps it's spindly fingers around your arm. It yanks, rips you down. You struggle to your feet with an outcry, find your footing despite the hands hold, just to see more hand breaching. Your feet sink inches into the murk. The hands claw at your ankles, and then your legs. The ground drinks you down. Your thighs, then your waist.

"Fucking hell." A voice garbles, echoing and distant. The choir of outcries beat against your eardrums.

Your eyes search, and they land on something emerging from the darkness. A creature shadowed in the darkness blossomed, its dripping teeth and glowing eyes drawing closer. The air pulls from your lungs and you choke on nothing.

The creature claps its talons over your shoulders, its grip puncturing bullet-sized holes into your flesh. You rip and tear fruitlessly. It taunts you, laughs at you. Gargles your name out fuzzy and far away. You're suffocating.

"Look at me!" It chants, shaking you ragged. "Open your eyes!"

Your mind statics and blurs around the edges. Your eyes clench shut, and then tear back open, and it's like being pulled out of the water. You suck in your first full breath. A hand presses firm to your cheek and you react with vitriol, ripping away with its touch. Fighting harder when it persists, another hand planting on your shoulder to keep you still. The image of the monster lights up in your mind, with its piercing stare and snapping jaws.

"It's me!" A voice rings in your ears from a foot away. Right there, real. It reaches into your mind and drags you out with a thrashing heart and heaving chest.

The creature melts into the familiar shape of Ghost before your eyes, and that's when you realize it's silent. Nothing but the sound of both of your heavy breaths. The color floods back.

"It's me." He says again, softer this time, edged with gruffness. He touches at your arm, the other still set firm on your other shoulder. You peer up with him through tears.

"I couldn't breathe." Is all you manage to sputter.

For a long moment, he studies you. Then he drags his touch down the length of your arm, to your shaking wrists. He pulls at your hands and gently drags you to sit before he settles beside you. He sinks the mattress down and you don't stop yourself from tilting and resting on him, too tired to fight anything anymore. Besides, you needed it. Needed to feel his presence, the sense of safety his energy alone provided.

When he doesn't immediately shift away, you wonder if he knows it too. Or, maybe he feels pity. Feels bad and isn't really sure what to do other than just... be there. Which doesn't necessarily not work. When your body goes lax against him, you can hear the deep, long breath that escapes him.

Relief.

Relief because finally you seem like you’re all together.

"I'm sorry for making you take care of me." You croak. "Fuck, this is so embarrassing."

"Enough of that. Relax." Ghost's voice is so quiet. You don't think you'd ever heard him bring his voice so low, barely even audible. You wonder if you'd scared him, somehow. Or perhaps he felt if he spoke too harsh, too loud, you’d be rocketed back into your spiraling.

The image of that monster you'd gone face to face with seeps into your thoughts. It sends a chill over the plains of your skin, reminds you how vulnerable to feel without a blanket on. As if he reads your mind, Ghost drags it up from the foot of the bed and drapes it over you. Even goes so far as to slightly tuck the edges haphazardly.

When you realize he goes without, you frown.

"Here," You say, lifting the side of the blanket and tossing it over his legs. Any minute now, you expect him to roll his eyes and return to his place back on the floor.

But, instead, he gets comfortable. He shifts, sinks into the bed just a little more. Breathes just a little deeper. Warmth blooms in your chest and rides straight up to your cheeks, masked by the darkness. You can't however, hide mask the smile that takes over your lips when his shoulders go slack. His head tips to rest on yours.

The world stops turning for a moment. Lost in his breathing, his heartbeat slowing in your ears. Somehow, you think deep in your mind, that perhaps this had made it all worth it. His hands rest in his lap, just as yours do.

Barely, just barely, you touch the back of your knuckles to his own and let your eyes fall shut. His skin vibrates against yours.

You aren't sure the exact moment you doze off into a quiet slumber, but you do, fit with heavy eyelashes and mirrored breaths.

welp. i was THISCLOSE to posting an adolescent “i hate everything” post… and then i saw this.

STOP SCROLLING!

Oka, I plan on following everyone on tumblr

literally everyone

Please reblog so I can make this happen

Me when I saw people bullying Peter Parker in this deleted scene of Spiderman Homecoming

hey

if any wants someone to talk too, about everything during this mass hysteria, i am absolutly happy to meet new people so if you want you can dm me

“the kind of white people white people dont fuck with” lmaoo