oh yeah. god forbid johnny is a little curious after hearing your unyielding cries and moans through the wall last night. it’s not his fault he wants to know what all the fuss is about. it can’t be as great as you’re advertising.
and of course he’s rummaging through your drawers to find yours. no he isn’t buying his own when yours is just waiting for him, tucked beneath your nearly folded underwear. it’s already charged up and everything!
it doesn’t take him long to get hard, not when he’s surrounded by all of your things, your smell, your sheets, the underwear he dug through to find your toy. he’s sporting a stiffy in no time at all.
he starts as usual, stroking up and down, gripping harder at the base and thrusting his hips up into his palm. standard procedure.
when he’s nearly halfway there, that’s when he turns the toy on. studying the mechanics before positioning it directly above his tip.
he’s cumming instantly, and harder than he’s ever cum before. he bucks his hips involuntarily, rubbing his bare ass all over your nice, clean sheets.
he doesn’t have time to do anything about it, though, because you’ve just opened the front door, ready to unwind after a terrible day at work.
he does what he can to conceal the evidence, giving the toy a sloppy wipe against his shirt before running to greet you like nothing happened at all.
breathless and a bit red, he asks you about your day.
“you’re being weird, johnny...”
and god if the disgusted look you give him doesn’t make him hard all over again.
“….i’m going to my room.”
you pull your toy out of your drawer and immediately throw it back down. johnny’s cum glistens on the red silicone.
and maybe you smear the leftover cum all over your clit, and maybe you moan extra loud, just to make sure he can hear you.
oopsie i tripped and spilled my link to archive dot org's downloadable copy of Microsoft office suite for 2007, which features no AI tools and is a powerful word processor that still holds up just fine on windows 10!
[I knew that they had access to an old blood sample, and I knew they'd test it sometime for something.]
Why would you swap your blood? What are you afraid they'll find?
✮ using ghost/simon as your own portable stand, mirror and chair wherever the two of you go.
it's almost routine now whenever the two of you leave the house, as soon as it hits the one hour mark you're opening your camera app and handing it over to him to hold, eyebrows furrowed in slight concentration as you touch up your lip liner and gloss. or when you turn to him and ask if you should fix your hair or clothing. "jus' a bit, love. you look perfect any'ow."
and if you're feet are feeling sore from walking for too long in your heels, simon's immediately finding a place to sit where he can pull you onto his lap instead of letting you sit directly onto the public space and messing up your pretty clothes with dust.
all the while, his eyes are practically gazing at your beauty in awe, not like some uncontrollably lovesick puppy, but there's a softness that only appears when he's admiring your beauty. so long as you give him that sweet smile of gratitude when you're done, he'll gladly let you have your way with him.
Part 2 of fuck buddies with Simon (now with extra emotional damage)
You didn’t text him, you didn’t call, you didn’t chase.
But you did send one final message.
“This is the last time, Simon. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to be someone you only need when you’re lonely or angry or tired. I wanted you, not just your time or your hands or your body. You don’t have to say anything—I’m just letting you know I’m done. Please don’t come back. I won’t open the door.”
Then you blocked him.
Phone, socials, everything. And not in some dramatic, screaming, flinging-plates kind of way.
And for the first few days, nothing happened. No messages, no banging on the door, and no surprise visits in the middle of the night. Just silence.
But on Simon’s end?
Hell broke loose.
He didn’t even notice the message right away. He was halfway through watching a game when he opened his phone and saw it sitting there, timestamped four hours ago. He read it once, then again, and then stared at it like maybe if he glared hard enough, the words would disappear.
But they didn’t.
He tried to reply, of course. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for longer than he’d admit. But when he hit send, the message didn’t go through.
His jaw clicked tight. Something cold and ugly twisted low in his chest. He tossed his phone onto the couch and paced. He thought about showing up at your place but didn’t. Not yet. Not when he didn’t even know what he was going to say.
It hit him, slowly. That you weren’t bluffing. That you meant it this time.
That he fucked it. Bad...
A month later
You’re sitting across from a guy who actually listens when you talk. He laughs at your jokes, asks you questions. He looks at you like he’s interested—not just in your body, but in your thoughts, opinions, and favorite takeout order.
It’s... weird. Not bad weird. Just different. Good, even.
You're at a quiet restaurant, corner booth, tucked into a little space with candlelight and soft jazz playing overhead. You’re just reaching for your drink when you hear it.
The click of a safety being flipped off, before your date goes still.
“Don’t move,” a voice says, low and dark behind him.
You know that voice.
Your blood runs cold before you even look at him.
Simon stands there, one hand is braced on the back of your date’s chair. The other? Holding a gun pointed directly at the side of the poor guy’s head.
“Simon—what the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, scrambling out of the booth.
“I just wanna talk,” he says, voice way too calm for someone with a loaded weapon in hand.
Your date is sweating, hands raised. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble—”
“Did I ask you what you wanted?” Simon snaps. Then he smiles. Smiles. “You’re gonna get up and leave. Right now. No questions. Go.”
The guy doesn’t argue. He bolts so fast he almost trips over a chair.
You stand there, staring at Simon like you’re seeing him for the first time. And in a way, you are.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you ask, shoving him back. “Are you insane?”
“I said I just wanted to talk,” he mutters, sliding into the booth like he didn’t just commit a felony in front of three tables.
“Jesus, Simon. You scared the hell out of him. You scared me. You don’t just pull a gun on someone because you’re feeling jealous!”
“I’m not jealous,” he says, lying through his teeth.
“Get out.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You don’t get to show up here like this. You don’t get to throw a tantrum just because I moved on. You made it clear how you felt—or didn’t feel. Remember that?”
Simon’s hands are curled into fists on the table. He looks like he’s about to explode. But instead of yelling, he just leans forward, jaw clenched so hard.
“I fucked up,” he says. “I know I did.”
“Yeah,” you say coldly. “You really did.”
-
Aftar that, he doesn’t text you. After all, he is still blocked, so he can't.
So he writes notes. Slips them under your door, even though you never respond.
"I miss you."
"I keep thinking about what you said. You're right. I treated you like shit. I don’t know how to fix it, but I want to try."
"Still can’t sleep. I keep rolling over expecting you to be there. You're not."
You don’t write back.
Then the gifts start showing up. A bouquet of roses, your favorite. A playlist on a USB drive. A book you mentioned once, two years ago, that he somehow remembered.
He shows up to your building sometimes. Just sits on the steps, waiting, but not in a creepy way—he knows to keep his distance. But he’s there. Rain, cold, whatever. He waits.
One night, you come home late, and he stands when he sees you. “I’ll go if you want,” he says quietly. “Just... let me know you’re okay.”
You don’t say anything. Just unlock the door and go inside.
He doesn’t leave for another hour.
Two months in.
He catches you on your way to work.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, walking beside you like he belongs there. “Just... give me a chance to make it right. Let me earn it.”
You stop walking. Look at him.
He looks rough. The beard’s thicker, the eyes are darker, and the weight of regret sits heavy on his shoulders.
“You can’t fix this with flowers and sad eyes,” you say. “I needed you. And you made me feel like a mistake.”
“I know,” he says, voice cracking. “I know I don’t deserve another shot. But I’m still gonna try. Every day. Until you tell me to stop.”
“And what if I never change my mind?”
“Then I’ll still keep showing up.”
He means it.
You can see it in the way he looks at you now—not hungry, not possessive. Just wrecked. Like he lost something irreplaceable and knows it.
You don’t let him follow you to work.
But for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel as angry. Not because he’s forgiven. Not even close. But because he finally looks like he’s suffering the way you did.
Three months.
You’re out with friends when he shows up again. This time, unarmed thankfully.
You’re tipsy, laughing, leaning into someone else’s shoulder—some other guy’s—and Simon sees it before you do. You turn and there he is, standing just far enough to not make a scene, but close enough to make your heart drop.
You think he’s going to come over. Ruin the night. Scare the guy off again.
He doesn’t.
He just nods at you. One short, respectful tilt of his head. Then he walks away.
No words, nor begging, trying to guilt you into anything.
And that gets to you more than the thousand apologies he could’ve offered.
Four months.
It’s your birthday.
You don’t tell anyone. You keep it lowkey on purpose, like if no one says anything, you can just pretend it’s any other day. You don’t want the reminders. You don’t want the well-meaning texts from people who don’t know what you’ve been dealing with. You definitely don’t want to wonder whether or not Simon remembers.
But he does.
You find out when you get home and there’s a small package sitting at your door. No note. No name. Just your initials written on the wrapping in the handwriting you know better than your own.
You think about throwing it away. You almost do, but curiosity wins, and inside the plain brown paper is a little black box.
You open it and your breath catches.
It’s that necklace you once pointed at in a store window downtown—months ago, maybe even a year. A tiny silver ghost on a chain. You made some stupid joke about how it looked like him: “emotionally unavailable, disappears without warning, weirdly endearing.”
He didn’t laugh at the time. Just rolled his eyes and muttered something like “you’re annoying” under his breath.
You never mentioned it again, but he remembered.
You stare at it for a long time. You don’t cry, don’t smile either. You just sit there on your hallway floor, turning the necklace over in your hands until your legs go numb.
Then you put it back in the box and tuck it in the drawer by your bed.
You don’t wear it, but you decided to keep it.
And the next day, for the first time in months, you catch yourself wondering how he’s doing. Like maybe he’s not just doing this to win, maybe he means it.
Still, you don’t reach out.
Not yet...
Five months.
He finally knocks.
It’s late. Not obscenely so, but enough that you’re in sweats and no bra, and part of you is tempted to pretend you’re not home.
But something in you says open the door.
So you do.
Simon looks like hell. Wet from rain, hair flat to his skull, hands shoved into his jacket like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you.
“I wrote it down,” he says, holding out a thick envelope. “Everything I wanted to say. Everything I should’ve said before.”
You stare at it like it might burn you. “Why now?”
His throat bobs. “Because I thought giving you space would be enough. But space doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean I stop showing you I care. I just... I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.”
“And now you do?” you ask, arching a brow.
“No,” he says. “But I’m learning. And I’ll keep learning, with or without a second chance.”
You take the envelope. You don’t invite him in. But you do say, “Good night, Simon,” soft and tired.
And he smiles, just barely.
You read the letter that night. You weren’t going to, but you do.
It’s messy. Honest. Full of crossed-out lines and little notes scribbled in the margins. He writes like he talks—short sentences, straight to the point—but you can feel how badly he wants you to understand.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel disposable. That’s not what you are. That’s not what you ever were.”
“I never knew how to show you I gave a fuck. That’s on me.”
“I kept thinking if I didn’t say anything, you wouldn’t expect anything. But you did. And I should’ve met you there.”
“I think about your laugh. I hear it sometimes when I’m dead tired. It makes me hate myself.”
“I’m not asking you to come back. But if you ever do, I swear I’ll never leave you wondering again.”
You fall asleep with the letter in your hands, crumpled a little at the edges.
John price who’s done so much wrong with just his two hands. So much so to the point he’s got blood under his nails lodged so far under, the only way to clean it up is to rip the whole nail out. Hands are so stained by red the only way he feels clean is by cutting them off.
And his hands that have hurt so many.
Are touching you.
He’s heard screams that haunt his dreams. His hands have done more pain than pleasure, he doesn’t know if he’s redeemable anymore.
But when you make that little sound? Just a hum of content? You’re pushing back further into his body whispering, “don’t stop,” while his hands roam.
Rough, sinful hands. So slowly caressing every inch of flesh and every curve. How it feels when he touches you and feels that tightness inside of him quelling.
It’s like you are his redemption. The one good thing in life he can hold onto and it will be okay, like his hands are washed free. Like the blood can simply be mistaken for dirt.
Or when your head is in his lap and he tries to stop brushing his fingers through your hair. He doesn’t want to stop, ever. But he only does because it feels like he’s corrupting you. Only for you to bring his hand back with a huff and slight pout.
Pt.3 of touch repulsed!simon riley x touch!starved reader
18+ Very angsty, emotionally unavailable and kinda toxic Simon, some gaslighting vibes from Simon in this part, hints of potential Soap x reader, they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else and ig Reader is taking that to heart in this part
Pt. 1 | Pt.2
There are two things you’ve known about Simon since you met him that night almost a year ago. First, he doesn’t like to be touched. Second, he’s very, very good at following orders. So he doesn’t call, and he doesn’t text— exactly like you asked— but what he does do is let himself into your apartment the morning after you sent that fateful breakup text.
Malicious compliance, is what comes to mind as you scrutinise the towering figure taking up space in your kitchen like an omen of death.
Should’ve sent the text after you changed the locks. Oh well…
Well there he is, all mile-long legs and burning dark eyes that drag over your figure like molten glass over your skin. It burns terribly, and you can’t tell if the scorching heat pooling in his bottomless irises is rage or desire. Maybe it’s both.
He’s leaning almost casually against the kitchen countertop that he had bent you over not even 24 hours ago. You cringe at the memory of scrubbing the resulting mess off of the marble, and then cringe even harder when you remember that his handprints from that ordeal are still branded across the skin stretched over your hips.
Distantly, you wonder what kind of sight you make with mascara still smeared across your cheeks from last night’s tears, still in your sleep rumpled clothes, and your hair a wreck atop your head.
Simon just looks… the same as ever. Distant, nonchalant and carefully blank in the face, almost statuesque with how stoically and still he stands there with his thick arms crossed over his chest, but there’s a line of tension thrumming through his powerful body that you can clock even from across the room. You’ve lovingly massaged that live wire of tension from his body many times before, pressed kisses to the freckled line of his sore shoulders, and the tenderness of those memories makes something in your eyes sting.
Never again.
There are too many things to say, too much weighing on your mind and on the tip of your tongue, things like I think I’ll never love again like I did with you and I don’t know how I’m going to live without you haunting me and I’m just now realising you gave me nothing in return, and most self-deprecatingly did I do something wrong to deserve this?
The woman you were a day ago would’ve been asking Simon how to fix this, would’ve seen him standing there and run into his arms like a rabbit into a hunter’s snare believing that the fact he showed up at all meant he loved you, that his presence alone was a good enough apology.
The woman you used to be would’ve said and done so many different things, but now you simply settle for a quiet “Leave, Ghost.”
Simon doesn’t startle, but he does narrow those dark eyes when he hears his callsign instead of his name, his spine visibly coiling with tension as he draws himself to his full height.
“Saw yer text,” he begins, and you clench your jaw.
“I don’t wanna hear it Ghost—”
“I ain’t here ta talk, birdie.” His face is carefully neutral as he says it, but his tone indicates that a sneer would be marring his face if he allowed it. “Jus’ wanted to know if you were sure—”
You snarl, flushing hotly with sudden impatience at the doubt in his tone. “I am—”
“—‘Cause we both know you’ll be back.” He says it evenly, surely, like it’s the simple conclusion waiting at the end of this story, eyes boring steadily into your own and stripping you layer by layer to your core insecurity.
The anger drains from you in an instant, mouth hanging open with shock. There’s a battle raging in your mind and a growing hole in your gut because you’re actually not sure if he’s wrong.
“Fuck you Simon,” and you hate the way your voice wavers. You point a trembling finger at the door. “Leave.”
“It’s been the other way round this whole time, swee’heart.” A smirk flits across his scarred lips as he moves to follow your command, maliciously compliant once more, his eyes glinting smugly like polished obsidian as he sees how you fall apart bit by bit.
He slinks out your front door and strides into the hallway with the grace of a cat, while you feel like you’re going to shake out of your skin. You follow on instinct, only coming to a stop when you see that Scottish bastard standing in the hallway, one of the boxes of Simon’s clothes in his arms.
Those blue eyes flit over you, a brief recon, lingering just a touch too long on the streaks of mascara on your face, careful consideration in his gaze, before darting to Simon for orders. A loyal fucking mutt if you ever saw one. “We set LT?”
“Solid, Johnny.” Johnny, you scoff.
Simon is the first to disappear round the corner but Johnny pauses there, meeting your eyes with blatant curiosity and something startlingly like concern in his gaze, before he too vanishes from view.
Fuck you, Simon.
You slam your door closed, something symbolic settling within you as you turn the lock with finality. It takes a few minutes for your brain to process what just happened, for the rage to settle in, simmering lowly in your blood. This anger is going to make you do something stupid, you just know it.
They say the best way to get over your ex is to get under someone else… and with icy blue eyes lingering in your mind, you think you have a more than suitable candidate.
A/N: sorry this next part took so long 😭 life has been hectic lately and I didn't have time to write a lot
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Thinking about how the two sergeants, Gaz and Soap, wouldn’t stop picking on the new recruit, just because they both had their eyes on them.
It was IMPOSSIBLE not to notice.
Sometimes, Ghost had to yank Johnny — violently — away from you when he realized the sergeant had started getting a little too handsy. But could you blame him, bonnie? God knows how much that man longs to feel your skin between his fingers. Anything. I repeat: anything is better than being more than 4 inches away from you. It could be an arm wrapping around your waist as he walks past you, a hand resting on your thigh while you talk, or a light, playful shove with his shoulder.
Poor Price has already tried assigning different missions and activities to Kyle and you in an attempt to keep you apart, but it’s all been in vain because the sergeant is determined to make it seem like you always run into each other "by chance". Kyle knows the rules; he knows what he’s doing is inappropriate for a military setting. Price never in his life thought he’d have to deal with a disobedient Gaz, he thinks, as he watches the man whisper sweet nothings in your ear for the thousandth time that day.
And do you think these two sergeants would get competitive upon discovering that they both like you? Quite the opposite. In fact, they’d start helping each other out.
And, as always, they’re not exactly discreet about it. You almost choke when you hear Johnny say he’s sure “you’re Gaz’s ideal type, bon”. The other day, you almost tripped over your own feet when you heard Kyle ask, “Do you like Soap, sweetheart?” By the end of the night, the two of them will gather together, as if on a secret mission, whispering to each other about the new information they’ve managed to gather.
Simon Riley discovers his partner up late one night.
The room is dark yet next to him, in the corner of his eye, your face is lit by a tiny screen and the sounds of crashing waves fill the bedroom. You had obtained your child’s switch, it seems. Blasphemy if the kid found out.
“It’s called Animal Crossing.”
“Why d’they sound like that?”
“Because they’re villagers!”
He grunts at your response. Finds the garbled chatter of the “villagers” annoying as you play beside him in bed most nights.
Then, finds himself falling asleep to the soothing music and repetitive sounds erupting from the little console in your hands. The rapid tactile clicks as you try to hurry along the diagloue options. Your “methodical chaos” and your mini-you running through an island filled with trash, mismatched furniture, and way too many flowers, growing more and more by the day (much to your displeasure).
Then, he starts playing with you. Curiousity piqued as you two discover that splitting the red and blue controllers means you can both manage the chaos. Flowers trampled. Villagers whacked with nets until they stomp by you, furious due to some newcomer — Ghost, the resident imbecile with the skull face paint and a royal crown atop his head.
When he discovers that he can hit you with the net. It’s game over. You want to fish? Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. You see a bug you haven’t donated yet? Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. Oops. He caught it by mistake. Whack. Whack.
You’re whining for him to stop and he simply levels you a deadpan as his massive fingers engulf the tiny controller, his thumb resting on the input key-
Whack.
He’s trampling flowers. Shaking the money from your precious trees. Enraging villagers. Placing random objects down on the ground in a manner that’s worse than you somehow. (“we need a workout set” “next to the bakery?!” “especially there”)
Chaos.
Yet, somehow, Simon Riley manages to attain five stars on your little island first.
The concept of ghost freaking out over minor disagreements....
You're simons first real partner, well into his thirties, and as such he has zero frame of reference for what an actual fight is. All he knows is that sometimes prices spouse makes him sleep on the couch and sometimes gaz and soap sit on opposite sides of the mess hall.
So you really shouldn't be surprised to find ghost on the sofa with a thin blanket and no pillow, resolute in his fate.
"Simon, baby, what are you doing?" You ask, baffled.
Ghost looks up at you from his position, feet hanging over and off the arm of the sofa. He looks vaguely like a kicked puppy, with wide watery eyes. "....we fought..." he says, heartbroken.
"What? When?" You ask, having absolutely no recollection of this so called 'fight' let alone one harsh enough to warrant exile from the bed. "Baby what are you talking about?"
"When– when I got dirt all over the kitchen. You were mad. We fought." His voice practically wabbles with how distressed he sounds.
"The kitchen...? Oh." You remember that. You had just mopped the kitchen floor, you even told ghost it was mopped and to let it dry. Yet not ten minutes you came back to find muddy prints from the entrance to the fridge.
"I mean, I was upset at the moment, but it was just a moment simon." You explain, grabbing the blanket off of ghost and pulling him up by the arm. He follows willingly, eager for approval "I still love you. You just forgot, it's fine, it happens. You could track mud all over the house and I'd still want you in bed with me."
"...you aren't upset wif me?" He asks as you lead him back to the bedroom. Ghost visibly relaxes when he sees the bed, his weighted blankets stacked on top.
"Nope!" You reply, playfully shoving him into the mattress. You're sure you'll have to talk to him about this eventually, but right now you're tired.
Thinking about patching up ex-husband Simon Riley. He comes in with the cloak of darkness not close to sunrise, a witching hour of sorts. Three slow deliberate knocks on the other side of your door. No more and no less. Staring at the mahogany frame, you could ignore him. It would be for the best.
But ghosts tend to haunt all night.
So you'll let him in.
You always do.
Bloodied knuckles with a nasty gash on his upper eyebrow. He'll hoist you onto the bathroom countertop with your legs spread as he steps between them. Firm hands grip your waist, grounding you in your stupid decision to let your ex back into your life. Again. He doesn't flinch as you swipe the alcohol soaked towel over his eyebrow wound. Determined eyes search your face in hopes you'll crack under his gaze.
"Ask me what happened." He whispers.
"No." you dab the towel more firmly on his eyebrow as it soaks the raging red liquid.
Simon grabs your wrist and leans down, his lips pressing into the shell of your ear. "Really?" Your heart pounds in your chest, as your body betrays you for your ex -- feeling a heat set every fiber of you ablaze. His teeth grazing your skin as he noses his way down the column of your neck and breathes in your unyielding scent. He knew the effect he still had on you and you hated yourself for it.
"Birdie really doesn't wanna know what I did to that bloke you went out with last week?"
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