The dim fluorescent lights of the temporary base flickered like dying stars as your boots crunched against the gravel outside.
The mission had dragged on for weeks—endless patrols through dust-choked villages, the constant hum of rotors overhead, and nights where sleep was a luxury stolen in snatches.
Your muscles ached like they'd been forged in fire, every joint protesting as you slung your pack off your shoulder. The 141 had made it back in one piece, but barely.
Price was already barking orders for debrief, Soap cracking jokes to mask the fatigue, Gaz nursing a bruised ego from a close call.
And then there was Ghost—Simon—Your shadow in the field, the one who always had your six without a word.
You'd shared foxholes, traded rations, pulled each other out of the line of fire more times than you could count. He was like smoke wrapped in tactical gear and that ever-present skull—unpredictable, untouchable.
Late nights in the barracks, you'd caught yourself staring at the line of his jaw under the mask, wondering what it would take to crack that armor.
But he never gave an inch. Professional to a fault.
Friends.
comrades.
Nothing more.
The base was a makeshift affair—tents and prefab units slapped together in the middle of nowhere.
No dedicated female facilities, which meant the women's showers were a myth.
Price had grunted something about "making do," but after days of sweat and grime caking your skin, you weren't waiting. The men's showers were empty this late..the lads were either crashed out or drowning their exhaustion in whatever passed for booze here.
You slipped in, the door creaking shut behind you like a secret.
Steam already billowed from the single faucet you'd cranked on, hot water pounding against the cracked tiles in a relentless rhythm.
You stripped quickly, efficient as always—fatigues pooling at your feet, then the rest. The water hit you like a balm, scalding and soothing all at once. You tipped your head back, letting it cascade over your shoulders, washing away the mission's ghosts.
Your eyes fluttered shut, the steam wrapping around you like a fog, thick and enveloping. For a moment, it was just you and the heat, the world narrowing to the spray and the ache easing from your bones.
Then.. the door hinge groaned again.
Your eyes snapped open, heart slamming against your ribs. Through the haze, a silhouette loomed—broad shoulders, the unmistakable bulk of tac vest.
"Ghost?" Your voice echoed off the tiles, sharper than intended.
You didn't move to cover yourself..modesty was a casualty of this life, and besides, it was just him.
But the air thickened, charged with something unspoken.
He froze, the door clicking shut behind him. "Didn't know anyone was in here." His voice was low, gravel-rough from disuse, muffled slightly by the mask.
But he didn't turn away.
Didn't bolt.
His gaze—those dark eyes you could just make out—lingered, tracing the water-slicked lines of your body before snapping back to your face.
"Base ran out of options..” you said, forcing steadiness into your tone, though your pulse thrummed in your ears. "You gonna stand there or...?"
A beat of silence, heavy as the steam curling between you.
Then he moved, deliberate.
His vest hit the bench with a thud, followed by the clink of belts and buckles. Boots next, laces tugged free.
You watched, breath catching, as he peeled away the layers—shirt clinging to his chest before it dropped, revealing the scars that mapped his torso; war stories etched in skin. Pants, underwear. All of it. He was bare now, every inch of him corded muscle and old wounds, unyielding even in vulnerability.
And then, the mask. His hands—now bare, for once—reached up, pulling the balaclava free in one slow motion. The steam beaded on his short-blonde hair as he tossed it aside.
Simon Riley, unmasked.
Sharp jaw, faint stubble, eyes that burned like embers under straight brows. Older than you'd imagined in some ways, haunted in others, but real.
Human.
He stepped under the spray with you, the water sluicing over his shoulders, rivulets tracing the planes of his chest.
The space felt smaller now, the steam a living thing pressing you closer. You could smell him—clean sweat, faint gun oil, the man beneath the myth.
"Simon..” you whispered, the name slipping out unbidden. Your back pressed against the cool tile, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion.
He didn't touch you.
Not yet.
His eyes searched yours, water dripping from his lashes. "This wha’ you want?"
His voice was quieter now, stripped of the modulator, raw and direct.
A hand lifted, hovering near your shoulder, not quite touching, like he was testing the air between you. "Tell me no, and I'm out. No harm, no hard feelings.. But if we're doin' this..." His words trailed off, the implication hanging heavier than the humidity.
Those eyes—honey brown, unguarded for the first time—held yours captive, demanding honesty.
You'd danced around this for months, the unspoken pull in stolen glances during briefings, the way his presence grounded you amid chaos. He was impossible to read, but right now, the vulnerability in his stance cracked that facade. He was waiting.
Waiting for you.
Your breath hitched, water streaming down your face like tears you wouldn't shed. The mission's toll, the near-misses, it all crystallized in this moment—him, bare and real, offering a line you both knew couldn't be uncrossed.
"Yes..” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your core. "Simon, please. I want this…you."
That was all he needed. His hand closed the distance, fingers splaying against the tile beside your head, caging you in without trapping.
His other palm found your waist, rough calluses sliding over your wet skin, igniting sparks that chased away the chill.
He leaned in, breath mingling with the steam, lips brushing your ear. "Been thinkin' about you. Too much."
The admission was a rumble, low and confessional, as if the words had been locked away as long as the mask.
His mouth claimed yours then—slow at first, testing, a clash of heat and hunger that built like a storm.
You arched into him, hands roaming the hard ridges of his back, nails digging in as the kiss deepened. Tongues tangled, tasting salt and steam, the world narrowing to the press of bodies and the relentless pour of water.
He was everywhere—hands mapping your curves, thumbs circling your nipples until you gasped into his mouth.
But he pulled back, eyes dark with intent. "Not rushin' this." Dropping to his knees in one fluid motion, the tile biting into his skin, he looked up at you like a man who'd crossed deserts for a taste.
Water cascaded over his shoulders, plastering damp hair to his forehead, making him look almost feral—starved, like the walls he'd built were crumbling under the weight of want.
His hands gripped your thighs, parting them with a gentleness that belied the fire in his gaze. "Gonna take care of you first… I need to."
No more words. His mouth descended, hot and insistent, lips sealing around your clit with a suck that ripped a moan from your throat. The steam swirled thicker, the shower's roar muffling your cries as he devoured you.
Tongue flat and broad, he licked through your folds, slow drags that built pressure like a coiled spring. You threaded fingers through his wet hair, holding on as he worked you over—circling, flicking, then plunging inside with a growl that vibrated through you.
He ate you like a man denied for too long, relentless.
Worshipful.
One hand braced on your hip, the other sliding up to tease your entrance, fingers curling in just enough to make you buck against his face.
The tension you'd carried for months snapped here, in the haze of heat and his unyielding focus. Your legs trembled, the world tilting as pleasure crested, sharp and shattering. "Simon—fuck—" You came with a cry, waves crashing through you, his name a plea on your lips as he lapped you through it, not stopping until you sagged against the wall.
He rose then, water sluicing down his body, cock hard and heavy against his thigh. Eyes locked on yours, he didn't ask this time—just lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you back against the tile.
"Ready?" he murmured, forehead to yours, voice wrecked.
"God, yes." You rocked against him, guiding him in. He thrust home in one deep slide, filling you completely—thick, stretching, the perfect ache that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
The rhythm built fast, water pounding like a heartbeat as he drove into you, hips snapping with controlled power. Each plunge hit deep, his hands bruising your thighs, your nails raking his shoulders. Steam cloaked you both, the air thick with gasps and the wet slap of skin, tension unraveling into raw need.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, stubble scraping as he groaned your name—first time you'd heard it like that, possessive and undone.
"So good... fuck, you feel—" Words fractured into grunts, pace quickening until the coil wound tight again. You clenched around him, pulling him over the edge with you, his release spilling hot inside as yours milked him dry.
He held you there, bodies trembling in unison, the aftershocks rippling through you both like echoes of gunfire fading into silence.
The water continued its endless cascade, rinsing away the evidence of your unraveling, but it couldn't wash out the shift between you—the line crossed, the masks shed in more ways than one.
Simon's breath came in ragged huffs against your skin, his arms a steel band around you, holding you up as if you were the only solid thing in his world.
He didn't pull out right away, staying buried deep, letting the intimacy linger in the humid haze.
His lips brushed your collarbone, soft now, almost reverent. "You alright..?" The question was murmured, voice husky and low, laced with that rare vulnerability you'd glimpsed before the storm.
You nodded, fingers tracing lazy patterns on the nape of his neck, feeling the pulse there..
steady.
alive.
"More than alright... you?" It felt surreal, this tenderness from him, the man who'd always been a fortress.
But here, under the comforting pour, he was just Simon.
Your Simon, maybe.
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, vibrating through you. "Bloody brilliant."
He eased out slowly, the sensation drawing a shared hiss, then set you gently on your feet. Your legs felt like jelly, but he steadied you with hands that knew restraint now as well as force. Turning you under the spray, he worked shampoo into your hair—his, with a faint scent of pine and earth—fingers massaging your scalp with surprising care.
You returned the favor, soaping his broad back, tracing the scars that told stories you wanted to hear someday, when the world wasn't breathing down your necks.
The steam began to thin as the hot water faltered, a reminder that even in this stolen pocket of time, reality loomed.
He shut off the water, the sudden quiet amplifying your heartbeats.
Grabbing towels from the rack—rough, institutional things—he wrapped one around you first, tucking it secure before tending to himself. His eyes met yours again, unmasked and open, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Didn't plan on this. But... glad it happened."
"Me too..” you whispered, stepping closer, stealing one last kiss—soft, lingering, a promise amid the uncertainty.
The mission's ghosts might return at dawn, but for tonight, you'd forged something unbreakable. As you dressed in the dim light, stealing glances at the man piecing his armor back on—mask last, like slipping into shadow—you knew the tension that had simmered for so long had only deepened into something fiercer.
Whatever came next, you'd face it together.
More than friends.
More than ever.
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These requests are giving me motivation.. pls keep sending them<3
The transport back from this mission felt longer than any deployment. Not because of distance—but because of what waited at the end of it. Silence. Stillness. Civilian life that never quite fit anymore.
You sat across from Ghost, boots braced against the floor, arms folded, skull mask hiding everything except those eyes. Always those eyes. They flicked to you every so often, quick, unreadable, like he was checking you were still there.
You always were.
You had been for months. Through gunfire, dirt, blood, sleepless nights, shared rations, and the kind of quiet that only exists when both of you are too exhausted to pretend you’re okay.
Friends. That’s what everyone called it.
You weren’t sure that word had ever been… accurate.
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Home leave.
The others scattered fast.
Soap already had plans, loud ones. Gaz disappeared with a grin and a vague promise of “not dying while I’m off-duty.” Price gave his usual nod before vanishing into whatever corner of the world he called rest.
And then there was you.
Standing outside the base with a duffel bag and nowhere to go. You stared at your phone for longer than you’d admit. No contacts you wanted to call. No place that felt like home.
“Got somewhere?” his voice cut in.
You turned. Ghost stood a few feet away, bag slung over his shoulder, posture as rigid as ever—but waiting.
You hesitated.
“…Not really.”
Silence stretched. Wind tugged at your sleeves.
Then, carefully, too carefully for someone who’d faced down gunfire without blinking— you said..
“Mind if I… come with you?”
Even through the mask, you felt the shift. Subtle. Immediate. “Yeah.” he said, like it was obvious. Like you hadn’t just asked something bigger than it sounded. “C’mon.”
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His place was exactly what you expected.
Sparse. Clean. Functional.
A couch. A small kitchen. A bedroom door half-open. No clutter. No personal touches beyond what was necessary to exist.
It didn’t feel empty, though…Not with him in it.
You set your bag down near the couch, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—of him moving around behind you, of the quiet, of the fact that for the first time in months there was no mission, no team, no excuse for proximity.
Just you and him.
Alone.
“Water?” he asked.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Your fingers brushed when he handed it to you.
A mistake.
A small one.
But it lingered.
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Evening came slowly.
You both fell into the same rhythm you always did, comfortable in theory, charged in practice. Talking about nothing. Sitting too close but pretending it wasn’t deliberate. Avoiding eye contact just enough to make it obvious.
You changed in the bathroom, swapping into something softer, just some leggings and a ratty t-shirt. Not tactical. Not armored. Just… you.
When you stepped back out, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves pushed up slightly, watching.
He didn’t say anything….that was worse.
You cleared your throat, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll take this.”
His head tilted slightly. “What?”
“The couch,” you repeated, already reaching for a blanket. “You’ve got one bed. I’m not—”
“Are you stupid?”
You froze, then slowly turned.
He pushed off the counter, stepping closer—not fast, not aggressive, but deliberate. Each step closing space that already felt too thin.
“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve slept in the same bed.” he said.
Your heart rate jumped.
You forced a laugh. “That was different. That was—”
“A pile of rubbish in Afghanistan?” he cut in.
“…Yeah.”
“Shared bunks at base?”
“…Yeah.”
“Fell asleep on each other more times than I can count?”
Your mouth opened. Closed.
Heat crept up your neck.
“That’s not—” you started.
“Then what’s different?” he asked.
The question hung there.
Heavy.
Because you both knew the answer.
There were no bullets here.
No excuses.
No distractions.
Just months—years—of tension finally given space to breathe.
“I don’t want to make it weird..” you said quietly.
Something shifted again.
Softer this time.
He stepped closer—close enough now that you had to tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze.
“It’s already weird.” he said.
God.
Your chest tightened.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
It had been weird the moment you realized how long your hand lingered on his arm after missions. The moment you noticed how he always stood just a little too close. The way silence between you felt full instead of empty.
The way you both never talked about it.
“Bed’s big enough.” he added, quieter now.
You swallowed.
“Simon—”
“Ghost.” he corrected automatically.
You held his gaze.
“…Simon.”
That did it. You saw it. Felt it.
The crack in his armor.
His hand flexed at his side, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“Don’t—” he started, voice rougher now.
“Don’t what?” you asked.
Too close.
Too quiet.
Too much.
“Don’t say it like that.” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like it means something.”
Your breath caught.
“Maybe it does.”
Silence.
Not empty.
Charged.
His head dipped slightly, like he was debating something. Fighting something.
And losing.
“Let’s to bed..” he muttered.
You didn’t move.
“Together.” he added, almost reluctantly.
Your heart pounded.
“…Okay.”
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The bedroom felt smaller than the rest of the apartment.
Or maybe it was just the awareness of him behind you as you stepped in. The quiet click of the door. The weight of everything unsaid pressing in from all sides.
You sat on the edge of the bed first.
He moved slower. Like approaching a situation he couldn’t control.
Which, for him, was rare.
You lay back stiffly, staring at the ceiling.
He turned off the light.
Darkness.
Then the mattress dipped beside you.
Close.
Not touching.
But close enough that you could feel the heat of him.
Your breath felt too loud.
Your thoughts louder.
Minutes passed.
Or seconds.
Or hours.
You didn’t know.
Then..
“Stop moving.” he murmured.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
“I—” You exhaled sharply. “I can’t sleep.”
“Yeah..” he said.
A beat.
“…Me neither.”
Of course not.
Because this wasn’t about sleep.
It never had been.
You turned your head slightly.
Which you shouldn’t have, because he was already looking at you.
You didn’t know who moved first.
All you knew was that the space between you disappeared.
And suddenly—
His hand found your waist.
Not forceful.
Not hesitant.
Just… certain.
“You sure?” he asked, low, serious now.
He was always like that. Even here. Even now.
You nodded.
“Yes.”
That was all it took.
The last thread snapped.
His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer—finally closing that distance that had existed for far too long.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, grounding yourself, or maybe losing yourself.
“Been a long time..” he muttered against your skin.
“Too long..” you breathed back.
And then—
His hands—rough, calloused from years of gripping rifles and scaling walls—found the hem of your shirt. They slid beneath it with a hesitation that belied the fire in his eyes, calluses scraping lightly against the soft skin of your stomach.
You shivered, arching into the touch, and that was all it took for the dam to crack. Simon's mouth crashed against yours, not gentle, but starving, like he'd been holding back a lifetime of want and now it was spilling over.
You tasted the faint salt of him, the whiskey on his breath from the half-empty glass on the coffee table. The faint light from the window casted shadows that danced across his scarred forearms as he lifted your shirt higher, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion.
No words, just the ragged hitch in his breathing as your bare skin met the cool air, then his warmth. His lips trailed down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, a low growl rumbling in his chest when you tugged at his sweats.
"Simon..” you whispered, half plea, half command, your fingers fumbling with the waistband until it gave way. He didn't stop you—didn't stop anything. His hips pressed forward, the hard line of his erection straining against his fabric, grinding against your thigh through the thin fabric of your leggings.
You hooked your leg around him, pulling him closer, and he groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin.
Clothes came off in a frenzy after that—his shirt yanked free to reveal the taut planes of his chest, marked by old scars that told stories you ached to trace with your tongue. You did, just once, across the jagged line over his ribs, and he hissed, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. He shoved your leggings down, palming the curve of your ass before lifting you effortlessly on top of him.
"Fuck, love..” he muttered, voice gravelly and low, his hand sliding up your inner thigh. His fingers found your core, slick and ready, and he circled your clit with deliberate pressure, watching your face like he was memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes.
You rutted down against his hand, nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails that made him curse under his breath.
He didn't tease for long—couldn't, not with the way you were clenching around his fingers as he pushed two inside you, curling them just right to hit that spot that made you whine.
"So wet fo’ me.” he rasped, thumb brushing your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. You came embarrassingly fast, the first orgasm ripping through you like a shockwave, your cries echoing off the bare walls as your walls fluttered around him.
But he wasn't done. Not by a long shot. Simon pulled his hand free, slick fingers guiding your hips down to his free cock—thick, veined, throbbing with need.
He gripped your thigh, urging you as you hovered right above him, the tip nudging your entrance.
"Look at me while you ride me." he demanded, and you did, eyes locking on his intense gaze as you sank down, inch by torturous inch.
The stretch burned, filling you completely, you moaned, head falling back as you bottomed out.
He groaned as you moved—slow at first, moving your hips to take him deeper and deeper. His hands roamed everywhere, clutching your hips, griping your breasts, tangling with your hair to pull you down, forehead against his.
“M-More” you begged, he obliged, hips snapping up to meet yours with bruising intensity. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, mingled with your shared moans—his low and guttural, yours high and desperate.
One hand slid between you, fingers finding your clit once more, rubbing in small circles as he fucked up into you, hard and relentless. "Cum for me.” he growled, and you shattered, clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed over you.
He followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a choked groan, spilling inside you, hot and pulsing.
You both stayed like that, panting, tangled and spent, his arms caging you in as he pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple.
The tension was gone.
It unraveled.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Years of restraint slipping piece by piece, until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and the quiet realization that this had been inevitable all along.
And later, much later..
You lay tangled together in the dim light creeping through the curtains.
Your head rested against his chest. His arm was draped over you like it belonged there.
No armor.
No mask.
Just Simon.
His fingers traced absent patterns along your arm.
“You still taking the couch next time?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.
You huffed softly.
“Not a chance.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“Good.”
And for once, The silence that followed wasn’t tense.
pairing: Simon Riley x gn!reader
cw: mentions of sleeptalking, honestly just fluff
wc: 1085
an: STAWWPP this is so cute, i had so much fun writing this. I used to sleepwalk (and talk) like crazy, so maybe im projecting here. I might like this version more than Price's. Enjoy!!
To say Ghost’s sleeping schedule was thoroughly fucked would be an understatement. Even before he enlisted, he’d had his fair share of reasons to indulge in insomnia. Sleep had never come easy to him, no matter what pills he took, which meditation techniques Gaz wouldn’t shut up about, or the amount of times Soap had offered to knock him out with the butt of his gun—tempting, but not sustainable.
Which is why it was so jarring to have met you. A soldier, hardened by bloodshed and angry COs who, somehow, was able to fall asleep on command. At first, it was odd to find you sleeping in every possible place, flat surface available or not. Briefing room, supply tent, comms building, mess hall—sometimes your head would fall against a table, sometimes you’d be seated, sometimes, somehow, you’d be standing up, asleep like a mummy.
He didn’t understand how you’d developed the habit—not until he slept with you for the first time. It was that night, when both of you were covered with a shit blanket that did little to keep out the cold, that he realized why you were exhausted all the time.
You talked in your sleep. And not just talked—you rambled like crazy. It made sense why you got no rest, given you spent most of your time asleep arguing with people who didn’t exist.
Tonight, far from the gunfire, safely tucked in your flat while the two of you awaited deployment instructions, you were still plagued by dreams you couldn’t explain once awake.
He exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair with another—the one he always stole from you after insisting he didn’t need a second one. Steam followed behind him as he took quiet steps across the room, eyes locked on your sleeping form.
You lay sprawled on the bed, wearing nothing but your underwear and an old shirt he’d accidentally forgotten once and never managed to recover. Not that he’d tried very hard to get it back—he loved seeing you in it. The only source of light in the room came from the bathroom behind him, engulfing you in a warm hue of yellow in an otherwise dark room. The blanket was kicked to the feet of the bed, covering only half of your leg. The clock on the nightstand glowed in neon-red, late enough to let Simon know he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.
As he was about to turn to the dresser where you’d mercifully given him a quarter of a drawer to put all of his belongings in, you muttered something under your breath. He halted at the noise, knowing exactly what would follow. You had the same routine—mumble, conversation, yawning, sleep. He’d memorized it, as he had memorized all the…characters that seemed to live in your dreams.
Tonight, however, it wasn’t a non-existent figure who had earned your anger. Tonight, you were mad at Soap.
“Can’t understand shit he says, Simon,” you whined lowly, barely comprehensible as you drawled out the words. “Stop him.”
Ghost stilled, hand covering his mouth to keep his smile from breaking into a full grin. He walked closer to the bed, legs pressed against the mattress by your feet. He tilted his head, wondering what Johnny could’ve done to be a subject of your irritation tonight. He let the spare towel fall to the floor, knowing you’d be annoyed at it the following morning.
“Those bloody Scots,” you huffed out. Despite the arm thrown over your eyes, he could practically hear the frown forming on your face.
He pressed his lips into a thin line, bending forward to place his hands on your ankles. “Yeah? What’d he do this time?”
You hummed at the touch, seemingly struggling to form a sentence as he ran his hands up your leg, fingers digging into your skin once he reached your thighs. After a beat, you dropped your arm from your face and sighed softly, eyes still closed. Ghost lifted a knee to the bed, letting some of his weight fall on your thigh as he leaned forward, eyes practically glowing with amusement.
It seemed the topic was too much for you to linger on Ghost’s touch, however. You pouted as you answered, as if this weighed heavily on you. “He keeps askin’ me to eat haggis, Simon. Haggis.”
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. The sentence was so ridiculous he couldn’t help it. Yet, a small part of him wondered how much of it was true—Johnny did like haggis, after all.
He dipped his head lower and planted a kiss on your hipbone. “You don’t have to eat haggis,” he assured you, enjoying the way you shivered beneath him as he placed a kiss on the other side. “I’ll kill him if he makes you.”
Ghost finally placed both knees on the bed—one between your legs, the other to the side. He placed slow kisses on your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. Each kiss caused your voice to come out quieter and slower than before. As much as he enjoyed your nonsense and barely-coherent conversations, the longer you talked, the less you rested.
By the time his lips reached your jaw, you had stopped talking about sheep intestines and Soap—thank God. Speaking about Johnny in your bedroom at four in the morning was far from his definition of late-night romance.
He planted a slow kiss on your jaw, feeling the vibrations of your hum against his lips. You yawned once, loud and wide. That was the cue he’d learned to interpret as your rambling finally coming to an end. He let himself fall by your side, still wearing nothing but a blanket that seemed to struggle to stay in place.
You turned your body with impressive speed. In a blink, you had already wrapped a leg over his, and had snaked his middle with your arm. After another, briefer yawn, you placed a slow, lingering kiss on his throat. If you felt the way he swallowed dryly at the sudden proximity, you showed no signs.
“Haggis,” you muttered, and it was the last thing Ghost heard from you that night.
He shook his head as he pressed his palm against your warm cheek, rubbing your cheekbone gently. He let his forehead fall against your own, smiling at the sight.
“Bloody haggis,” he muttered back, well aware that you wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning.
simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader, sprinkled with mentions of soap, price, graves, gaz
genre: fluff
warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, graves being flirty
synopsis: some more attractive habits/quirks that ghost does that make the reader weak in the knees! headcanon edition!
a.n. i’m overwhelmed with the amount of support I’ve gotten for the first one so I drafted this as quickly as I could to show how grateful I am! <3 also your comments/reblog hashtags make me cACkLE,, pls keep it coming! *quietly posts this and runs away*
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ simon riley is a dry texter. especially in the beginning stages of your connection.
he’ll say: Ok (like a fuckin millennial parent) sure, I don’t know, copy.
usually its radio silence from him
but the one thing he’ll happily respond to is your texts. well. try. he never did good morning texts. but silly you loved to send them even though he was in the damn kitchenette, and you 10ft away brushing your teeth in the bathroom. always grunted and furrowed his brow “mad woman.” when his phone pinged.
but one morning you were doing your hair early for a cute lunch date with him, on call with your “bestie,” he’d already forgotten the name of. hearing your squeals he was going to enter to tell you if you wanted the pink cat cafe or the book nook one (which you liked both depending on ur mood) and then:
“well this morning i woke up and for the first time i saw a good mornin luv from him thought i was goin crazy. but he SENT it. the absolute brute of a man texted me. I got him to SUBMIT, next, I’m putting him on his knees.”
and hearing the smile in your voice, the giddiness and the excitement, he paused & suddenly changed ur name to: muffin baby
because in ur phone he was muffin daddy.
and just to see the same excitement in ur face again, even more, he’d done it.
You liked that. matchy matchy things
and then he walked off quietly, swiped to your text bar and typed: “do put me on my knees, luv.”
minutes later he heard a scream erupt from your shared room.
Hey guys, I hope you all like this! Keep in mind that these are my personal head-canons, so you may disagree or feel that some are inaccurate. I would love to hear feedback from anyone, just please keep it respectful.
Simon runs hot, it's not necessarily something he's conscious of, but for someone like yourself who runs cold, it's great having your own personal heater. In the winter months, you'll be tucked under the covers with him, multiple blankets covering your cold body but it still won't be enough. He'll throw his big, meaty arm over you, pulling you tight to his chest. You'll snuggle into the crook of his neck with a sigh and press your cold feet against him, making him groan ( though he would never make his sweet girl move). He secretly loves that you snuggle up to him almost every night, there's no where he'd rather be than with you all pressed against him cutely.
No matter how much he washes his clothes, he always smells faintly of gun oil and smoke. It's a deep, woody, masculine scent that lingers throughout your shared flat even when Simon's on deployment. You'd be mortified if he caught you, but sometimes you find yourself inhaling his scent off anything you can find, sweatshirts, old worn down t-shirts, even his pillowcase. When he gets back from deployment, you'll run up to him, embracing him and pressing your nose to his chest and (what you consider subtly) inhaling your man's scent. Little do you know, Simon is quite aware of your little secret, in fact, he finds it soo attractive that you find comfort in his scent. Of course, he would never embarrass his sweet little bird, it's your secret, for now.
Simon loves you, you really do know that. But sometimes it can be hard for him to show it on the outside. When you're asleep though, well that's a whole different story. He'll stroke your hair, pull you closer where you're curled against his chest, and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Only after your soundly snoring does he allow himself to succumb to sleep. And in the morning, when the sun is shining slightly through the curtains creating a golden halo around you, he can't help but smile down at you lovingly while wrapping a protective arm around you. Nothing will ever come between him and his bird, not as long as he has something to do with it.
Ahhh! Hope you all enjoyed, feel free to drop a comment or message me through my asks! <33
Seeing sweet (stalker)neighbor Simon outside of the shitty apparent. <3 more parts of him here- here- and here!!
Tw: (slight stalking.)
It’s a rough morning for you.
Cat vomit on your rug, coffee grounds in your early morning cup of Joe, your clothes not sitting right on your skin. Everything seems to be going wrong for you today.
Slamming you cup into the sink you rush out the door, late. Because, of course you’re late.
And of all days, the day you needed to be early to work to set up a meeting.
The day seemed against you.
The morning air wraps around you but does little to soothe the simmering anger under your skin as you march to work.
So lost in your thoughts you don’t see the man slowly walking in front of you.
Only to stop dead in your tracks, running into what you can only assume is a human wall.
A masked man with dark eyes chuckles at you.
You snap your head up to meet his eyes, when recognition slaps you out of your bad mood.
“Simon?”
He nods, taking a step to the side to keep you away from the street as cars pass.
“Seems you’re in a hurry.”
You drag your hands over your face.
“I’m so late, you don’t even understand the day I’m having.”
His eyes crinkle above his mask.
“I’ll walk with you.”
—
Simon knew something was wrong the minute you didn’t rush out of the door at 9.
He left long before you could realize Simon wasn’t there for you to say good morning to.
The lucky charm that set heavy in his pocket reminded him just how important it was to look after you.
Stupid bird you are.
Someone had to.
—
Your eyes tiredly move to your clock sitting on your nightstand. 12:00 AM shines brightly back in your face making you squint.
Something like a groan leaves your lips as you toss once again in your bed, sheets ruffled with exhaustion.
You’ve been laying here for way too long, sleep avoiding you like a cat in a bath. Sitting up, your body aches with the tension you hold.
Your stomach twists and churns into knots with hunger, your mouth filling with saliva as an intense wave of nausea hits you.
Not enough to make you gag, just enough for you to hold your stomach cursing.
“Damn it, wish I ate.”
Huffing, you throw off your warm covers and move to your front door, giving into your relentless growing stomach.
You move down the eerily hallways of your apartment building, the wallpaper cracking and peeling from the walls.
The walk to the convenient store near by goes by quickly.
You’re still dressed in your pajamas, bunny slippers warming your toes as you enter the small, suspicious gas station.
You walk to the aisle your feet take you to, standing in front of a colorful array of chips and sweets.
Nothing and everything looks good.
Footsteps approach you from your side, out of instinct you look over to see a familiar hulking sized man.
A smile pulls at your lips, almost embarrassed to be so casually dressed.
He’s not even looking at you, his attention dead set on the snacks sitting in front of you.
“Simon?”
You chuckle, his name sounding repetitive after the other morning of literally running into him.
Like he just noticed your presence, Simon looks over at you only to look back at the food with a stillness in his features.
“You been walkin’ a lot.”
He says without any hint to what he’s thinking.
You sigh, reaching for your go to snack.
“Can’t find my car-keys anywhere.”
You look at him with an exhausted expression, more tired than any sleep could fix.
“And trust me, I’ve looked everywhere.”
He clicks his tongue.
“Not safe at night.”
Too tired to argue you nod, honestly you do agree. It’s not safe, especially around this area. You open your mouth to reply when his rough voice cuts you off.
“Let me drive you home.”
He adds as he turns to face you.
“We literally live in the same building.”
You shake your head no, an embarrassment flushing your cheeks.
“What, no Simon it’s fine.”
You stammer.
“Plus we’re only like—“
Again he cuts you off, this time with a stern look that makes your spine tingle.
“I’m taking you home. Check out, and let’s go.”
Now flustered and exhausted you rush to the counter to pay.
You leave with your snacks in hand, climbing into Simon Riley’s beat up Chevy.
He leaves empty handed, minus the extra car key sitting in his pocket.
—
Simon sits in his truck a while after you leave.
His knuckles white around the steering wheel as he watches you walk inside the building.
Something loosening in his chest when he sees the third floor second window over go from pitch black to warm with light only a few minutes after you leave.
He lets go, hitting the back of his seat with a soft thud.
Exhaling harshly through his nose.
Safe.
He’s spent the last week watching you walk. Noticing how you never check over your shoulder, not even once.
He clicked his tongue at the thought, shutting his door a little too harshly once he gets home.
—
By the time the bus makes it to the grocery store your hands are sweaty with anxiety.
So many people, all sitting way too close, a man having the confidence to brush against you during the ride. Your mind immediately runs through the worst possible case scenarios that could happen.
You gasp as you shove your way out of the automatic doors.
Feeling an automatic rush of relief, as you step farther away into the less crowded streets.
A couple feet away, your eye catches a large shadow moving across the street.
Your gaze stays there, only for a moment before you move back to your original mission.
“Fuck, need more coffee.”
You mutter underneath your breath, taking a turn towards the supermarket.
Maybe it was the bus ride, maybe it’s the lack of caffeine and sleep in your system but with every step you take, you hear another one.
But, everytime you turn you see nothing.
Not a person.
Not Simon.
You swallow the unease building in your chest as you quickly walk into the grocery store.
“One thing. In and out.”
You tell yourself like that will make this feeling go away.
As you walk down the isles you’re looking over your shoulder, turning too quickly at the sound of a squeaky cart and bumping into almost everything in your way.
You’ve never felt like such a scary cat until now.
You fiddle with your phone that’s been sitting heavy in your pocket.
You walk around in circles, going nowhere.
You chew at your cheek until you taste metal.
You spot two doors that lead to somewhere tucked away, above the doors read a sign that you ignore as you push past the metal doors leading you to what you can only assume is the back.
There’s crates full of packaged foods giving you the perfect wall to hide in, if someone was really on your tail.
The glow of your screen illuminates your face as you unlock your phone with shaky hands.
The metal doors you just entered from slowly creak open. Your breath gets caught in your throat.
Someone was following you.
Your finger hits the call button on Simon’s contact, using your last ditch effort.
It rings.
Then.
In the quiet of the room, another phone begins to buzz…
living with simon riley is more like living with a large, slightly scary dog than a man.
he’s quiet, low-maintenance - as long as he gets his hour or two of exercise a day. skip it and he gets restless.
right before dinner he appears in the kitchen doorway like clockwork, staring at you with a hopeful, wide eyed look that says “feed me, please.”
when he’s home from ops, he follows you from room to room without a word - your silent, ever present shadow. if you leave for work, he’s waiting by the front door when you get back, like he’s been lurking there for hours.
and every morning when he wakes up hard, pressed right against your ass? he humps against you like a horny mutt who’s forgotten all his manners.
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