Ghost is scared of his wife and it lowkey turns him on.
Simon married a woman who hasn’t taken “no” since you were three years old, and his body learned that fact faster than his pride did.
It’s The Look. The one that lifts one brow a fraction and turns your mouth flat like a gavel. He can manage enemy fire without a flinch, but that look makes him sit, heel, shut up, blood dropping straight to his cock.
It started in a pub, weeknight busy. A man’s got his hand where it doesn’t belong on a girl who’s too polite to make a scene. Simon clocks it. So do you.
Before he can do anything about it, you’re already stomping over there, mood ruined, scowling.
“Hands.” Your voice isn’t loud, just shaped to cut. The creep looks over; your smile never reaches your eyes. “Off. Now. Before I fold your fingers back ‘til they touch your wrist.”
The hand flies off. You don’t stop. “You think being pathetic is a personality? You’re not dangerous, sweetheart, you’re dull. Go home and practise consent in the mirror.”
He slinks. The girl mouths thanks. Simon’s halfway up, adrenaline ready to step in, when your palm lands on his chest without looking at him. “Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.”
He folds into the seat. Instantly. No thought, just obedience. The word goes through him like a live wire and he’s hard, humiliatingly fast, heavy against his zipper.
Later, in the taxi, his voice is rough. “Should’ve let me-“
You turn your head. That Look.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, soft, before you even speak. His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
A few days later he’s at the workbench, sorting screws in tidy rows. “I’ll do that thing you’ve asked of me in a moment, luvie,” he calls over his shoulder.
Your shadow crosses the doorway. “No, you’ll do it right fucking now, Simon.”
He turns before the sentence is finished, body answering like you pulled his spine on a string. “Right now,” he echoes, already moving, already thickening in his shorts because the correction lands like a hand at the nape of his neck.
He fixes the shelf faster than he’s ever cleared a room. When he brings you the drill to put away, you take it, then the waistband of his shorts, and snaps the elastic against his hip just to watch him flinch and swell. A reward. A promise withheld.
“Later,” you say.
He nods, cheeks hot, throat working around a quiet, “Yes, ma’am.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley: Chews with his mouth open, smokes like a chimney, barely showers, cuts himself every time he shaves, terminally bitchless, mouth on him like a sailor, has been court martialed, legally dead, drinks other people's drinks at the pub, banned from half the brothels in London, mean, rude, closeted? Maybe. has blocked every person he's ever slept with, have I mentioned bitchless, can cook but it's the most mid food you've ever had, allergic to dairy but lying about it, accidentally shot Soap, accidentally shot his ex, accidentally shot Price, court martialed again, cannot reclaim those slurs he is slinging, oh my god this man is bitchless
As previously mentioned, Simon is a clingy and quite needy hybrid—eager to please and earn praise, no matter how.
Yet his absolute favourite way to receive praise must be whenever he is buried face first between your quivering thighs—licking at your pretty cunt, all puffy and drooling slick for him.
Sweet, sweet ambrosia that leaves him panting and groaning into your warm flesh, utterly addicted and devoted to you.
Even when you climax for the umpteenth time, moaning and mewling his name while your weak hand curls into his short hair to try and pry his mouth from your swollen clit, Simon does not relent.
"More," he huffs against the inside of your supple thigh, sharp canines nipping at your skin. "Need more f'ya."
The mattress is borderline ruined with sweat and his cum at this point, all while he continues to rut his throbbing cock against the bedding for some sort of release.
"Simon—" you try again, speech slurred with pleasure, "please... just f–fuck me already."
That makes his lapping tongue slow down some, though he never fully stops as his dark eyes flit up to look at your wrecked face, his pupils blown. He flicks his tongue almost leisurely over the pearl of your clit, enjoying every tremble of your gorgeous body beneath him.
"Now?" he grunts eventually, blinking slowly, "Did I do good 'nough?"
"Fuck!" His lips latch onto your clit and he suckles while your back bows off the mattress and your fingers claw at the damp sheets helplessly, pleasure cresting in your body once again. "Yes! Yes! S–So good, baby—"
His own body is coiled tied; torn between feasting on your pussy some more and finally burying his aching prick deep, deep inside it.
Simon huffs through his nostrils, clenching his jaw with a frustrated growl before you tug at his hair again, meekly yet it's a silent command that makes the decision for him.
"Fuck me now."
And he's on you in a second with an eager snarl, slotting his wide hips between your legs while his hard, heavy cock dribbles pre on your lower belly, rough hands parting your thighs wider to accommodate his size.
but what if you're too shy during sex to let your pleasure be known? every slick, trembling movement of your hips is proof your body is betraying nothing, but your mouth is a cage, lips clamped tight, cheeks burning, desperate to stay quiet. you're too self-conscious to let the sounds be free.
but simon isn't having it.
a rough hand slides to your jaw, tilting your head. then fingers press into your mouth, curling between your molars, forcing your lips apart.
"stop hidin'," he growls, low and rough. "your pussy's singin' for me. why can't your mouth do the same?"
your eyes squeeze shut, but he tilts your head back, a thumb flat on your tongue, holding your jaw in place, and a shaky little moan escapes, muffled through his fingers.
a glorious, strawberry-stained, unapologetically chaotic mess.
chubby fists full of crushed fruit, cheeks stained red like a tiny dionysus on a sugar high. the kid is perched in the front of a shopping trolley, squealing with unfiltered joy as she squishes another berry against her lips and then—perhaps in a fit of generosity—smears it into her father's shirt. you coo.
coo, like something soft and maternal has cracked open inside you, and simon watches it happen in real time—watches you light up like you’ve just witnessed the first sunrise in human history. “oh my god,” you whisper, slowing your pace beside him. “look at her. look at her face.”
simon is already looking.
he can’t not look.
that baby is a walking portrait of everything he doesn’t have and everything he’s been trying not to want.
the pink sneakers with velcro straps. the milk-drunk eyes. the chubby elbow rolls. the cartoon rabbit on her bib, now stained a bloody red from berry carnage. she's a masterpiece of mess and joy, and simon’s knees suddenly feel like they've gone soft.
he’s staring. hard.
“si,” you tease, nudging him. “don’t gawk.”
“'m not gawkin',” he lies, mouth dry. “just… watchin’. 'lil gremlin’s got a good arm.”
as if to prove point, the baby flings half a strawberry across the market lane with frightening accuracy. it lands near the produce stall. she shrieks with delight.
you laugh. and something in simon cracks.
he can see it, clear as anything: your laugh at the kitchen table, a baby in your lap, sticky fingers tugging at your shirt, the sound of little feet slapping down the hall in the morning.
simon's not just looking at a baby.
he’s looking at a blueprint for the life he’s never let himself build.
and suddenly, he wants it so badly he could scream. “bloody hell,” he mutters, turning away like the sight physically pains him. “she’s killin’ me.”
you tilt your head. “what’s that, soldier?”
he looks at you with the wide, haunted eyes of a man on the edge. “i want one.”
making an amateur sex tape with simon riley... but it's just a view of the ceiling, slapping skin noises, and your pleased cries because he fucked you so hard that the phone fell off the bed lol
ignoring you, simon hitches your knees higher. you wheeze out a breath when he slides his cock back inside your hole, bottoming out with a loud grunt. not giving you a moment to breath, he pumps into you with hard strokes. pelvis smacking into your swollen nub as he grips your thigh.
"wha' about it?" simon pants, and you don't even remember what you were talking about. when you wail out his name instead of answering him, a grin feathers across his lips. "worried about sum phone, instead'a how deep i am, hm? guess i need to get a little deeper..."
making good on his promise, simon slinks a hand into the pit of your knee and pressed it back as far back as it'll go.
"oh, my god," you cry, hand reaching to press into his belly because his tip is reaching places that are blurring your vision. your palm does nothing to deter the snap of his driving hips as he keeps stuffing you with dragging thrusts.
"ain't no gods here, luvie," simon breathes, staring down at the tears in your eyes. bucking into you, he grits his teeth. clenches his jaw at how much wet you gushing every time his balls strike your ass, and growls. "'m i deep 'nough yet?"
you nod weepily, the device on the floor long forgotten... mind numb and full of simon.
He's never been worried. Not at home, not when he could fight any assailants off himself. Hell, they'd be fucking loose in the head to think they could take him on. It's not like he had much to show either--he didn't have much in the ways of luxury, simply because he chose not to purchase it.
Until he met you. He was nervous then, suddenly fixing shit around the house he'd let slip by him--the broken security system, the hole in the ceiling where he'd ripped out the smoke alarm because of its incessant 'low battery' beeping. Sure it was dangerous, but he hadn't cared before.
What never changed was the fact he'd had guns all over the house. You told him before that you'd feel sorry for whatever poor bloke thought he could grab a quick check off of your home, and he'd laughed in response, told you not to worry about it. He'd deal with it, after all, should push come to shove.
So he's prepared when he hears rustling from downstairs, and the beeping of the security system he'd had installed beeping away beside his ear--quiet enough for you to never notice, loud enough for him to wake up. He slips out of bed, sooths the crease that forms between your brows when his warmth leaves from beside yours, and grabs the pistol under the bed.
Whoever's broken in is about to feel bloody sorry for even trying.
He's efficient. Makes quick work of checking upstairs, deems it all clear before he's creeping down the stairs--the perpetrator's back in immediate sight. He's rifling through the desk in the study, thumbing through cabinets for cash, or anything expensive.
He only notices Simon when Simon wants him to. It's a firm press of the gun to the guy's head, causing him to jump, flinching under the touch. "What the hell--"
“I’d shoot y’point blank right ‘ere if I could, but the missus is sleepin’ upstairs. So y’ve got thirty seconds t’fuck off before I turn y’into a stain on the carpet," Simon interjects, checking the clock on the wall absently. Like it's just an average weekday to him.
"Hey, hey man, I'm just--" he raises his hands placatingly, dropping the papers he had been holding.
"Aye. Don't give a fuck. Would rather not stain the carpet, though, missus really likes this one. Said it's real soft n' nice on 'er feet."
Simon catches the door as he practically sprints from the home, only to avoid it slamming--he wouldn't want to alarm you, of course. He hums, shuts it quietly, and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.
When he's back upstairs, shuffling into the bedroom, your wide eyes looking at him and quietly asking him where he went--how dare he leave you when you were cuddling, he smiles, places the glass on the nightstand and sneakily slips the gun right where he'd first gotten it.
“Nothing, luv, was thirsty, needed t’grab some water.”
Notes: Now I'm not a big Ghost girly, I'm a fan of the Johns, BUT, Ghosts voice? Yeah I'm gushing, proudly too
Ghost who's gentle with you because he knows you're little compared to you, so as you ease onto his dick, struggling to take it with your pretty plush thighs trembling, he has to encourage you
"That's it, pretty, you can take it" Ghost mumbles, lightly patting your hip and making you stutter- he groans when he feels you clench the hardest he's ever felt you clench
And the best part is his length isn't even halfway in! You jerk forward a little and Ghost hums, speaking again, the most talkative he's been in a while
"Easy, luv" You continue slowly easing on but the small pulsation of your hole isn't missed by Ghost, hell at this point Ghost is basking in the feeling, it's bliss for him, making him want to urge you even more, he never usually felt the desire to talk girls through it, he'd grunt occasionally and he was content with that
But your sweet little whine and lurch forward whenever he spoke and your already tight pussy fluttered around him egged him on completely
"There we go" A small groan escapes him as you finally fit him fully in, your little hands finding purchase on your chest "You like when I talk, don't you, sweet'art?"
You didn't need to say another word, your body spoke for you with a mind numbing clench around him, he definitely stored away this new talent for later
can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.
he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.
he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.
and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.
so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.
you feel like you're in a trance as you pack yourself an overnight bag, then move to simon's room and just start grabbing the softest clothes you can find and a bunch of snacks from his side of the pantry, then you're off.
you didn't want to see desperate or overly worried about a man whose favorite song you don't know but you're pushing into the high 90s on your way down. and your mind isn't clear until you're standing in front of a tired looking nurse in sanrio scrubs.
"um, i need to get into room 1206?" you barely choke the words out before she's getting up to lead you, "oh! mrs. riley, they told me you were on your way."
"oh-i'm, well" and if you hadn't watch so many hospital shows where they don't let anyone but family into the room you would have just told her the truth, but you just shut your mouth, give her a tight smile, and follow her down the hallway.
the room doesn’t take long to get to, but the door is shut and you can hear the people inside talking. but the nurse doesn't even hesitate to swing the door wide open, "mr. riley, your wife is here."
and then there are four sets of eyes trained on you, but all you can look at is the hulking figure of your roommate sat up in his comically small hospital bed. and all you can muster up is a slight smile and a small wave in his direction before the bags you're holding fly straight onto the floor.
"oh, shoot- i'm sorry. i didn't know if you needed anything so i just grabbed some things from your dresser- and some of those granola bars you like, and there should be a gatorade somewhere in there. and, oh my god, i'm sorry, how are you? i came as soon as they called, and they said you got shot, and-"
"calm down, sweetheart, or yer gonna be the one that needs a hospital bed." ok, simon could still speak that was good, and he was conscious and remembered you.
"i'm sorry. i just got worried, and-" simon knew you well enough to know that you'll worry yourself to death if he lets you keep going, "nothin' to worry about, sweetheart, pull up a chair, you've 'ad stressful few hours."
you practically fell back into the chair that the man with the kindest brown eyes you've ever seen pushed towards you. and for the first time since you arrived, you took a deep, long breath. hand clasped in your lap as you take simon in.
"feeling any better, mrs. riley?"
"she's fine, garrick."
'garrick' seems utterly unphased by your roommate's- husband's? you can address that later- tone and just continues to smile at you.
"c'mon simon, we just wannae ken 'bout the bonnie lass yer hidin' from yer pals. ye 'aven't even introduced us." you're glad the scot waited until you'd calmed down to start speaking because it took you at least 30 seconds to realize he was even talking about you.
"sweetheart these are the boys, boys this is sweetheart, now fuck off before you scare 'er away"
they didn’t seem like they were going to leave until the older man practically dragged them out saying something about the heaping loads of paperwork they had to do. so will a little wave and a cheeky smile, they were gone.
"so, um, ho-how are you feeling? they, uh, said that you got shot?"
" 'm fine, sweetheart, better knowing i've got a bird at home who'll come runnin' cause she thinks 'm hurt, yeah wife?"
yeah, maybe you'll let the mrs. riley thing go on for a little bit longer.
idk i just really like the idea of simon just picking someone random and being like 'yeah this is it, you're mine now' and they have literally no idea
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.
ghost accidentally realizing that if he shifts his recliner over a couple inches and tilts his head down, he can look straight into the window of the little bird across the street.
and he knows its wrong--i mean, he may be a murderer, but hes not a pervert. and yet, he finds himself coming home, grabbing a beer, settling down, and staring at your body swaying when you cook dinner or glancing at the space in between your thighs as you watch tv.
and soon his foot is tapping against the ground, re-runs of some old footy match in the background, eyes shifting from the tv to outside the window---just waiting for you to get home.
really, hes not some perv, but who can blame him when his pants start to tighten up when he sees you. he does feel bad, truly. but its not his fault you never close the blinds. or that you like to walk around naked.
maybe one day he decides enough is enough, hes a grown man who should know better than to be looking through unsuspecting girl’s windows.
but maybe his mind changes when you bend over in front of the window, looking back a little just to check if hes looking.
I think of Gaz and Johnny as nosy bitches, especially when it comes to ghost, and they’re always trying to look over his shoulder to see what he’s doing on his phone
And they start noticing a contact that keeps popping up (not saved with a real name, no one in Ghost’s phone is) and getting sent money. Hundreds at a time. Heart emojis being sent in response.
They compare notes with each other, Soap and Gaz, and they come to the conclusion that he’s finally done it. ghost has gotten so terminally bitchless that he’s letting some bimbo fleece him for all he’s worth.
They’re debating how to intervene, tell him it’s not over, he’s tall enough that he could find a real girlfriend probably, when he invites them over.
And you’re completely normal. It’s clear you love Simon a lot, and while you have a lot of hobbies, there’s no designer purse or high end rhinestone nail extensions, no souvenirs from Paris.
“L.T. I’ve gotta ask. All tha’ money… the hell was it all fer?”
Boyfriend!Simon Riley picking you up after a night out
pairing: Simon Riley x reader
wc: 504
warnings: none!
Simon Riley, who said he didn’t do dating. The man with the skull balaclava who practically rolled his eyes anytime Johnny mentioned someone batting their eyes at him in a pub. The operator with a kill count high enough to concern international authorities. The soldier with too many skeletons in his closet unrelated to his military duty.
The same man who fell for a fucking civvie, out of every possible option.
Simon Riley now finds himself doing shit he didn’t think he was capable of doing. He remembers your favourite books and what you order at the coffee shop. He’s met your closest friends—albeit quite reluctantly—and those distant relatives you only see once every blue moon. He knows when you’re asleep and when you’re just pretending to be—you can’t possibly think you’re slick, he always mutters as he pulls you closer to him, back against his chest.
Simon Riley, who now finds himself parked outside a club he’s never been to, nor is he interested in the slightest about. Except, of course, for the fact that you went out with your friends to that very same club.
The hood of the car feels warm beneath him, which serves as the only sign of how far he drove to pick you up. He won’t mention his flat is almost forty minutes away, or that he was just told he’d be deployed again next week, or that the shoulder he dislocated during his last op gave him hell the entire drive.
Tonight, he isn’t Ghost—there’s no mask, no face-paint, no bloodshed or violence. Tonight he’s a man picking you up.
When you stumble outside of the club, he spots you immediately. Red-faced, swaying like the ground beneath you has turned to Jell-O, muttering something to your friend that even they can’t seem to understand. When you spot him, you give your friend a half-assed hug and practically sprint in his direction.
He meets you halfway, otherwise you would’ve eaten shit against the concrete. You trip on nothing, but one arm snakes your waist almost instinctively, the other supporting your elbow. You grin against his shoulder, and the way you laugh echoes in his ribcage like you’ve replaced the very heart that beats for you.
“Hey, handsome,” you slur, grin wide on your face.
He shakes his head in what could look like irritation to anyone else, although the smile on his lips is one you’ve learned to recognize as affectionate. He helps you to the car as you tell him everything—how someone hit on you quite poorly, how the tequila was lightwork, how you wished he’d gone with you.
“Actually, no,” you shake your head with furrowed eyebrows. “You’re a party pooper.”
Simon chuckled lowly, and by the time he looks back at you, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on your thigh, you’re fast asleep. He gives himself two seconds to look away from the road, but the smile stays on his lips the entire drive back home.
Ur a newer addition to the 141, and the guys take u out drinking as a little bonding moment to get to know u better, yeah?
Well, among the many topics of conversation that came up (favourite animals, past partners, sex toys, a billion lions...), kyle ends up asking u what ur ideal type is.
"Oh, im not picky, but there's some things I just love." You begin, taking a sip of ur drink to sort out ur thoughts. "Tall, strong guys, obviously. But I like the ones who are still soft, yknow? Blonde curls and sweet brown eyes," you begin to list off, totally oblivious to the way ghost had begun staring at u from where he was chatting with price.
You've never seen him without his mask, and yet... "and of course some scars, they can be so pretty, yeah? Maybe even some tattoos or piercings..." you sigh dreamily, cheek resting on hand.
"Really? Thats what you find hot?" Johnny asks, moreso to stoke the fire than anything when you give him a raised brow. "What, you mean to tell me you wouldnt drop to ur knees for a man like that?" Ur too busy defending ur honor to hear the choked sound ghost makes.
"Nah man, im serious. I'd suck his soul out through his dick then rail him into the mattress, its what all pretty guys deserve." Ghost stands suddenly, grunts something abt needing to piss, and ducks into the bathroom. The guys share knowing looks, while you remain oblivious, dreaming abt ur ideal guy.
