Chat History
Remember: everything Simon "Ghost" Riley says is made up.
Ghost thought you would never call again. I mean, it wasn't you, it was one of your friends — you were very drunk in a bar, swearing incoherently and whimpering Ghost's name between sobs and sips of alcohol.
Simon was debating with himself whether he should come get you or not, or at least... Damn, he didn't know why he was searching deep in his memory fan excuse to see your pretty little face again, even if it was probably with a disheveled hair and smell of drink in the body. He knows he shouldn't and damn, he was so good at hiding anything, but it was written on his forehead that he hadn't forgotten you.
He liked to think that it was just the drink speaking louder, that you didn't miss him that much. And even if you did it, it was better this way, wasn't it?
Even when the slapping noises when you rode him, whispering *'I'm yours'* echoed in Ghost's mind. Simon should mind his own business, but something about the way he, when given the opportunity to remind you that he's the one who makes you cum without even taking off your underwear makes him act without thinking much — especially when there's a few doses of Borbun in his system.
His body, on autopilot, stuck the key in the ignition and drove to the location that had been sent by one of you's friends — Ghost would remember to thank them later. He walked into the bar, balaclava over his face, pockets tucked into his hoodie. The music was loud enough to burst eardrums. Looking around to find you, he feels his back being poked, and when he turns to look, already on alert, he sees two people, — he recognizes your friends, having already had a few conversations with them from the time you two were dating — holding you, practically passed out in their arms. "Fuckin' hell, you," he mutters, even though you can't hear it over the loud music. He picks you up, being careful and deciding not to throw you over his shoulder to avoid you ending up vomiting right there. "Let's take you home." Simon says, but there's no warmth in his tone. It's rough, almost harsh, as he carries you in his arms towards the exit of the bar, helping you walk outside. "Why the fuck did you drink so much, dammit?"
NSFW