It wasn't quiet in the Riley household. Ever. And he didn't want it to be, but… he'd really wish these two would stop picking with each other.
As he laid on the floor in his daughters' shared bedroom, he heard the two bickering and nitpicking with each other in their bathroom. " 'Mira, stop teasing your sister.", Simon softly complained from the floor as his daughters finished brushing their teeth for the night.
The two walk over to him. "She was teasing me first!", Samira, his oldest, said. "You were teasing me second!", Sabrina, his youngest, stomped her foot at her older sister.
Rolling your eyes, you walk into the room with a brush and a container full of rubber bands and barrets, ready to brush the girls' hair for the night. "I don't want any teasing, first or second.", you said, sitting on the younger daughter's bed as Sabrina climbed into your lap, ready to get her hair brushed.
Samira turns to you, finger jabbed into her father's direction. "But dad always teases us?", she said, making Simon pop up with a confused frown on his face.
"Me?? When?", he asked, feigning innocence. Samira and Sabrina exclaimed. "All the time!"
Simon knows his body fills the frame of every door in the house. He was practically the baby gate of each room when Samira was born, so he subconsciously made the game "password", knowing she couldn't get through.
"Password.", he says, as Samira would force her way into a room, but would go no further as Simon barely budged. "Sorry, there's highly sensitive information back here, no one gets in without a password."
Samira tries, "Uh… coconut?" Simon nearly snorts. "Nope." Samira tries again. "Fish fingers?" Simon smiles. "Guess again." Samira stomps her foot in irritation. "Dad!"
Simon chuckles. "Password's not teasing." Samira frowns. "Password is teasing.", she argued.
"And you make us reach for stuff when it's too high!", Sabrina nasally said with a pout. Simon gaped. "I do not!"
"Yeah, you do.", you say, finishing up Sabrina's second pigtail. Simon smiles at you. "You used to do it to me all the time. Still do.", you say, smiling.
Simon rolls his eyes, playfully. "Alright, alright. Maybe I do, just a little."
You scoffed with a smile. "Okay."
"And you pretend like you can't hear us neither!", your youngest complains to her father. "But I do hear you!", Simon told her, humored. Sabrina pouts, sniffling her stuffy nose, "Not all the time."
The girls loved being picked up by their father and Simon loved doing it, just to hear their bundle of laughs.
He'd always pick them up, lugging them over his shoulder and pretended to look for them. "Huh? Where'd you go, sweetheart?"
Sabrina would giggle. "I'm right here!", she exclaimed, bubbles of laughter exiting her as Simon would pretend to look for her throughout the whole house.
She'd pat on his back to gain his attention, but he'd feign ignorance. "Huh, that must be a harsh wind at my back."
"It's me!", Sabrina would laugh.
Simon chuckled. "I don't do it on purpose. You two will just have to try harder to get me to hear you. You're so tiny.", he said, ruffling the girl's head.
Samira let out a huff. "One day, I'll get even taller than you, dad."
Simon cupped a hand over his ear. "Huh? What was that?"
You and Sabrina laughed at his antics and Samira's appalled expression.
thinking about olderbf!simon who finally goes out clubbing with his younger girlfriend. of course it took you weeks to even convince him to go with you. but all your friends were bringing their partners so of course you wanted simon to join you on the night out.
after a few drinks, you and your homegirls are already turnt up at the table. their boyfriends weren’t exactly simon’s age group, so he didnt find himself conversing with them much other than sharing a beer with one another tonight. your friends actually didn’t mind your age gap, especially when they noticed how chill simon was with you.
he practically let you do whatever you want, bought you whatever you want, and did everything you asked without a second thought. he spoiled you endlessly, and your warm touch engulfing his body at the end of every other night that he was home was enough for him to feel loved by you.
you and your friends continue your fun as you suddenly gather the brilliant idea to dance the moment you hear sexyy red play on the speakers. the alcohol fully clouds your judgment at you climb against the booth and began twerking behind simon, laughing as your friends join in and mirror your actions.
simon, slightly feeling buzzed from the sips of his own drinks tonight, can’t help but reach back and pull down your short skirt, making sure you don’t flash anyone in the club especially cuz you don’t always wear underwear. the last thing he needed was to get into a fight tonight.
the older man can’t help but bob his head to the catchy beat of the ratchet song, silently supporting your drunk antics as you practically shook your ass cheeks against the back of his head. his face remained hard and stoic as he continues nodding along to the music, eventually patting your ass in the rhythm that you dance. it was obvious that he was having a good time though, simply by being in your presence.
usually, simon didn’t fit into typical crowds. i mean, not with your age group at least. he was almost 40 and as youthful as he looked, his age also showed occasionally. he didn’t like to party often or constantly be in social outings, but he did only if you asked him to accompany you. he looked like the odd one out having your fine ass dance on him the way you were, especially when he only kept a straight look on his face for the majority of the night.
“girl he’s so chill!” your friend yells over the loud music ass she danced against her own man’s head.
with a grin, you look back down at simon to see him still pulling down your skirt attentively as the waves of your ass constantly caused it to inch up with every move you made. you grin and yell back. “he always is!”
cw: not proofread so dialogue may have errors — && lots of smut!
𐙚 he absolutely loves it when he has you on all fours and he has his thick, long, and hard cock drilling in and out of your pink gushy pussy; your pretty brown wide, and full backside jiggling every time his body connects with yours. it encourages him to ramp up his pace just so he can watch your ass jiggle more. causing your throat to spill out the melodic moans and whimpers he loves oh so much.
𐙚 he also loves it when you ride him, he loves seeing you use his cock as a human dildo. he lets you do all the work at first — lets you wear yourself out, lets you sink into that soft, needy, subby space you slip into so easily. he watches, patient and amused, giving you just enough freedom to think you’re in control. and then, right when you’re breathless and pliant — then thaaaattss when he takes over and grabs your hips and begins to roughly but purposefully fuck hisself up into you.
𐙚 he never would’ve thought he would’ve like when you called him daddy .. but — one day you both were in the missionary position, and he was deeep in your pussy. he had brought you to five orgasms, and you were on the brink of your sixth one. by now you were a fucked out and subby mess. your thoughts were absent, there was nothing in your brain. sooo you couldn’t help it when it slipped out.
𐙚 a whiny and almost inaudible “daddy it feels so so good” slipped out of your throat, and it made ghost stop in his tracks and pause his strokes. that word slipping from your mouth was like music to his ears; he slowly picked his pace back up; but this time it was a little more forceful. and they were also more controlled — like he was aiming for a certain spot in your pink and gummy walls. he leaned down before whispering in your ear a command.
“say it again.”
𐙚 he also loves it when you wake him up to you being between his thighs and taking all of his cock in your mouth. sucking and licking, spitting and slurping spit all on his cock. doesn’t take long before you start bobbing your head up and down on his length. his moans and groans bouncing off the walls, hips slightly bucking, and all of his 8 inches shoved in your throat. you having no gag reflex doesn’t help either. it drives him absolutely wild. he lazily grabs your coils and your jaw before moving your head faster. whilst groaning out praises,
“shit; you’re doing so good baby.” “you’re such a good girl f’me,” “shit you feel so good.”
𐙚 he also secretly loves and has a fascination with your tits. they were gorgeous; he’d discovered he had a tiny bit of a obsession with them one day when you both were in you two’s shared master bedroom your two had completely messed up and disheveled the room . your lacy crop top and white legging pants were on the floor. accompanied by ghost’s clothes as well.
𐙚 and now you were currently bouncing up and down his lengthy base, mushroom tip hitting your spot perfectly. while he gruffly praised you on how good you were being for him. with every bounce your tits move up and down, the action has his orbs locked on your pretty brown breasts. he licks his lips before putting his calloused hand on your boobs — kneading them gently whilst also kneading your nipples, drawing out moans and whines from your throat.
I think ghost would like a high maintenance bitch. make-up, nails, wax, the whole since yards. not because he thinks you need to, or that you're particularly attractive afterwards, but because he likes seeing how much effort you put i to yourself (seemingly for him) and knowing that he doesn't even shower for you.
he likes pushing his musty cock against your cheek, smearing your make-up and causing you to grimace. he likes rubbing his hairy balls against your pretty waxed pussy and watching you squirm. likes dirtying you up after you put in so much work to be clean. you're his to ruin, his to muck up. cry and complain all you like, you'll have to fix your clothes before you leave the flat either way.
this man is so freak nasty it’s insane. but his favourite thing to do because he loves the way it makes you squeal, is lick you
when your feet are on his shoulders, he’ll grab your ankle and drag his tongue over the arch of your foot
and when he’s devouring your cunt, he’ll drop down and lick your asshole and the dickhead will laugh when you push at his shoulders and tell him how improper that is
god and he loves dragging his tongue from your collarbone all the way up to your cheek just to hear you call him a disgusting brute
his little queen is just so delicious he can’t help himself
it’s the fifth night in two weeks that simon has come home late, nothing more than a simple text letting you know and a string of unanswered phone calls left by you following. normally, he tells you to come meet him at the pub and have a couple drinks with him and the lads before you both stumble home tipsy together
fifth night he comes home to you curled up on the sofa, bridgerton on the tv and a blanket draped over you. in the microwave, there’s a wrapped up plate of dinner with a little note saying ‘for you if you’re hungry <3’. the first few nights, it was left on the table with no note. clearly, by now you’re expecting him to not show up on time
he switches the tv off and carries you off to bed, careful not to wake you when he presses a kiss to your head with a sigh. he knows it’s not gonna be long before you start asking questions and he’s not sure he’s got the answers for you
the next day, he’s already at work when you wake up. and you frown when you find the lunch you packed him still in the fridge. you decide to drop it off to him on the site, not wanting him to go hungry during a long shift but when you get there, the only person you’re greeted with is the site supervisor. who tells you that he gave all the boys a day off, since the weather was due to be pretty bad today and they wouldn’t be able to do what they needed to do. he also tells you that they said they were setting off for the pub instead
there’s an itching feeling in your chest, telling you something is wrong because normally simon would pass on information like that to you. so, you decide to surprise him there. it’s a short drive to the local pub, simon’s lunch sat in the passenger seat next to you, slowly ruining out of the fridge
it’s busy when you get there, it takes you a while to spot simon. but you find him, in the smoking area round the back, the only area not packed out with people. he doesn’t see you, but you see him. and her…
you recognise her from a few pictures you found on his phone when you first started seeing each other. the ex who broke his heart before he met you. he told you how he gave her everything, and he came home to find all her stuff packed up and a new relationship soft launched on her social media a couple weeks later. it took him a long time before he felt like dating again, his mates had made a couple off-handed comments about how it destroyed him when it happened
but right now he looks perfectly content, sat with her on the bench, not talking much but she’s got his jacket round her shoulders to protect her from the subtle chill in the air. to you it feels ice cold. they’re passing a cigarette between themselves, her eyes batting at him every time he lifts his pint to drink it
you bite down the tears threatening to spill and make your way over to the table. they don’t spot you until you drop the metal lunchbox in front of simon, his eyes widening at the sight of you,
“you left that at home.”
you turn on your heel, ignoring him calling after you as the tears spill down your cheeks the second your back is to him. you hear his boots stomping after you, but he loses you the second you disappear into the crowded pub. you know the house is going to be extra cold and lonely tonight, but you’ve gotten used to it recently…
Obsessed with the idea of Simon having a big baby. Like a 13 pound baby with the chubbiest cheeks and his lovers eyes. He carries her around like she’s his pride and joy and does bicep curls with her while she squeals in his arms.
She’s an absolute terror as a baby. A wrecking ball of chaos and joy and he hates it so much but loves it too. Shes loud and excited and so very clearly a mama’s girl, but he’s okay with it. He loves her and his wife so much, but he knows that one kid is really all they should have given his line of work.
And when she’s about five years old, his wife ends up getting pregnant again. It was a surprise—he’d had a vasectomy after the first baby, but it healed on its own. So his wife is expecting another easy pregnancy because their daughter was easy, but this time it’s harder. She has morning sickness and her back hurts and she can’t seem to eat enough food because of the nausea so he’s worrying constantly.
He’s off on a mission when he gets the call that his wife at the hospital, three weeks early. She started bleeding and having contractions, so he jumps on a plane as soon as he can and gets back just in time for her to be getting out of a c-section.
And there in her arms is the tiniest baby boy he’s ever seen. He was expecting another big baby, but this one is barely five pounds and tiny. His daughter is over the moon with the tiny thing, and his wife is exhausted so he’s taking care of the babies.
His son ends up having his sweet brown eyes, but his lovers dark hair. He’s still little, and shy, and he has asthma so he isn’t as athletic as Simon was. He’ll always be the baby of the family, but they don’t coddle him. He knows he’s little, but he’s oh so smart and oh so sweet. He’ll do great things one day, just as their daughter will.
As they grow up, his daughter is a force to be reckoned with. She drags her little brother around everywhere and shows him off, and she very much takes after her dad when it comes to the fire she has to protect him. She’s twice his size and ready to fight anyone that comments on him, so she ends up becoming a strong girl who knows how to fight because her daddy taught her all the right moves (and when it’s appropriate to use them).
One time a boy on the playground commented that his son must’ve been adopted since he was so little compared to the others in the family. Of course, it was their daughter that dunked them into a mud puddle and told them to leave her brother alone—but that was the first time he stood up for himself, too, because he was proud to have his daddy’s eyes and birthmarks.
And his wife is long since retired from having kids—has had her tubes tied during the c-section and focuses on work now that the kids are older. Their little family has grown and changed but he loves it. He doesn’t miss a single concert or sports game if he’s in town, and if he isn’t in town, his wife records it so he can watch when he gets home.
Simon never thought he would be a good father to even one kid, but he had a wife and two kids that he spoils every day and that look out for each other and him.
Just obsessed with Simon and his babies being unnaturally large or absolutely tiny.
cw: not proofread so dialogue may have errors — && lots of smut!
𐙚 he absolutely loves it when he has you on all fours and he has his thick, long, and hard cock drilling in and out of your pink gushy pussy; your pretty brown wide, and full backside jiggling every time his body connects with yours. it encourages him to ramp up his pace just so he can watch your ass jiggle more. causing your throat to spill out the melodic moans and whimpers he loves oh so much.
𐙚 he also loves it when you ride him, he loves seeing you use his cock as a human dildo. he lets you do all the work at first — lets you wear yourself out, lets you sink into that soft, needy, subby space you slip into so easily. he watches, patient and amused, giving you just enough freedom to think you’re in control. and then, right when you’re breathless and pliant — then thaaaattss when he takes over and grabs your hips and begins to roughly but purposefully fuck hisself up into you.
𐙚 he never would’ve thought he would’ve like when you called him daddy .. but — one day you both were in the missionary position, and he was deeep in your pussy. he had brought you to five orgasms, and you were on the brink of your sixth one. by now you were a fucked out and subby mess. your thoughts were absent, there was nothing in your brain. sooo you couldn’t help it when it slipped out.
𐙚 a whiny and almost inaudible “daddy it feels so so good” slipped out of your throat, and it made ghost stop in his tracks and pause his strokes. that word slipping from your mouth was like music to his ears; he slowly picked his pace back up; but this time it was a little more forceful. and they were also more controlled — like he was aiming for a certain spot in your pink and gummy walls. he leaned down before whispering in your ear a command.
“say it again.”
𐙚 he also loves it when you wake him up to you being between his thighs and taking all of his cock in your mouth. sucking and licking, spitting and slurping spit all on his cock. doesn’t take long before you start bobbing your head up and down on his length. his moans and groans bouncing off the walls, hips slightly bucking, and all of his 8 inches shoved in your throat. you having no gag reflex doesn’t help either. it drives him absolutely wild. he lazily grabs your coils and your jaw before moving your head faster. whilst groaning out praises,
“shit; you’re doing so good baby.” “you’re such a good girl f’me,” “shit you feel so good.”
𐙚 he also secretly loves and has a fascination with your tits. they were gorgeous; he’d discovered he had a tiny bit of a obsession with them one day when you both were in you two’s shared master bedroom your two had completely messed up and disheveled the room . your lacy crop top and white legging pants were on the floor. accompanied by ghost’s clothes as well.
𐙚 and now you were currently bouncing up and down his lengthy base, mushroom tip hitting your spot perfectly. while he gruffly praised you on how good you were being for him. with every bounce your tits move up and down, the action has his orbs locked on your pretty brown breasts. he licks his lips before putting his calloused hand on your boobs — kneading them gently whilst also kneading your nipples, drawing out moans and whines from your throat.
a man who adjusts to your every need. who kisses you every morning. who never lets you go to sleep angry with him. a man who knows every inch of you, every scar, mole, bump.
a man who never raises his voice at you. who lets his body language talk when he's angry. whose skin bubbles with heat as he crosses his arms and tilts his head, listening to your rant before nodding. "you're right, sugar. im sorry."
a man who practically begs you to let him make it better, kissing from your toetips all the way up to where your night shorts stop, barely covering any of your brown skin. who takes them down with his teeth because even though he's sorry, he's still got his pride.
a man who doesn't let up on your pleasure. who stays nursing on your clit like he's a baby. who makes you cum three times before even thinking about fucking you, your thighs sticky with sweat as he settles between them.
a man who fucks you in heavy, slooooww strokes that drag every vein through your walls. whose groans are low and sensual, driving fire to your clit and ovaries as he sweats, his body hot against yours. he notices how your stomach twitches softly as he lays his hand over it, how your walls suddenly close tight enough for him to halt his movements.
"like it when i lay my hand here, honey? when i feel my cock inside you? you like that?" his voice is taunting. he knows you like it. he knows because your moans suddenly pick up in volume, and your feet next to either of his ears nearly fall from his shoulders. he doesn't let you run from him, though. he wraps one of his arms around your knees, keeping your feet hopelessly in the air as he thrusts into you with debaucherous vigor.
a man who overstimulates every nerve in your body at once, sending you floating off as you come. who holds you through it, watching as your eyes roll like you're possessed. he can't get enough of it, not until you're practically choking, stumbling over how good it feels, how you can't take it anymore. the screams of his name into the heavy air of your bedroom just egging him on to make you cum again. to push your limit. to watch your soul wander from your body for a moment.
a man whose job and life purpose is to please you, a man who's intimate.
tags | Simon ‘ghost’ Riley x ex-wife!reader, a lil bit of sadness, a lil bit of bad husband Simon, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, pussy personification, creampie, possessive behavior
18+ MDNI
There are a few things Simon Riley has taken for granted. Never a warm meal or cold pillowcase. Never a mattress without springs or socks that fit just right.
Maybe sometimes you.
That was years ago, when he was a younger man who didn’t know how to appreciate a woman's company—how to appreciate you.
Marrying you was a privilege, between the sugar-sweet words you whispered to him before dawn and the tender pads of your fingers on his jaw, from the way your eyes softened when you settled your gaze on him.
He almost hated it when you looked at him like that as if you were revealing some weakness of sorts to him. Vulnerability. A soft spot for a man who didn’t have room for fragile things. Something entirely too delicate for a man who couldn’t hold flesh in his palms without leaving finger-shaped bruises and welts.
Soft is weak.
His father taught him so.
He saw it in the way his mother smiled through the pain. Hid her tears behind closed doors and in dirty blanket sheets.
The same way he learned to bottle it all up. Maybe then he’d become stalwart, an unbreakable wall of steel. Lacking dents no matter the amount of scratches.
And yet, you still married him. Like you thought a certificate and a ring would reveal his soft underbelly or tender spot on his scalp that didn’t grow hair.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one to blame for the destruction of the marriage. You knew who he was, yet you painted a soft image of him.
You weren’t happy. He saw it on your face, lips tight when he left his dirty boots on the floor, dropped his clothes in the hallway right where he left them. Exactly how you had asked him to stop the day before. When your back faced the door as he came home late from one too many drinks with Johnny at the local pub without a response to your text.
When he would come home from assignments and you had lost a significant amount of weight, your eyes blood shot from crying because he hadn’t answered any of your calls. And the first night back he’d fuck you like he missed you too, leaving stucco fingerprint stains on your skin, whispering promises he’d break the next day.
When you had asked him, fingers shaking, if he would ever leave the SAS for you, for your marriage because you couldn’t take it anymore, he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
He didn’t even fight for you, he signed the divorce papers the moment you presented them. Why would he fight for something he knew he didn’t deserve in the first place?
He was his father’s son after all. He didn’t know how to love shiny things when he was the muddied water.
How was he to know he couldn’t do it without you?
It took him one year to leave the military. Two more to change his ways. And yet, he hadn’t pursued you after.
He just let himself wallow in his own self-pity, lie in the bed he made— always the right side, in the room the two of you shared, your cream sheets still pressed to his skin. They’re tainted now, stained darker than they were before, but he hadn’t let go of them. Not when they reminded him of the warmth he used to wake to, your absence.
Just how he left your Chapstick in the dish on the coffee table, hair tie hanging off his turn signal switch in his pickup.
Just in case.
One day you’d walk back in like nothing changed except him.
Five years ago he was a different man entirely. He was just a boy then, could only hold his patience in the palm of his hand, gentleness only seen on the nights he’s returned from somewhere entirely too dark. It’s vast now, his patience, gentle hands practiced, docile and tender to fragile hearts.
Shiny, soft things.
He was his father’s son after all. He had to learn to cherish the warm things, how to melt his steel wall into silver heart pendants and glimmering rings.
He took you for granted. His loneliness taught him so. The ache in his chest was the cruel lesson for it all.
The local pub became his harsh reality, staring down the barrel of his empty beer bottle, one too many drinks sloshing in his abdomen, a glimmer of the warmth you gave him burning his throat and settling thick.
The bartender knows him by name, knows his order without having to ask. Gives him a sympathetic smile every time he sits at the booth alone, every time he turns down an unwanted patron that’s barely the legal age, giggling and drunk in his ear, slurring about how big he is with a hand on his knee.
It burns through his jean-clad legs, disgust curling in his chest because it’s not what he wants, never was. At first, he was kind about it, with the supposed learning to be a better man for you and all, smiled tight at them, let them down easy. Now, he’s stopped giving them sympathy, just pushes them away with a sharp “Not interested.”
The bartender had asked him one day, “How come you never take any of ‘em home? You got a wife?”
That damn word. Wife. He hated answering the question. It brings bile to his throat, bitter on his tongue when he responds.
“Nope.” He takes a large swig of his beer.
“Then why ya leave here empty-handed every night?”
“Don’t want ‘em.” Simon had shrugged.
Simon despised the sympathetic look, like he was some poor bloke who lost the only thing that mattered to him and was too late to realize that until it was gone. Until you were gone.
Like some lonely drunk. But he wasn’t—not like his father. Three beers is all he limited himself to on his visits and for a man of his size, it did nothing to lighten the pressure on his mind or the tension coiled in his lungs. Thick and stuck, lodged somewhere deep that bitter malt couldn’t ever wash away.
And just like a poor, lonely bloke, he goes home alone. No one warming him up when he curls into bed with slender fingers and soft kisses to skin. No sweet scolding, telling him he shouldn’t be out so late in the cold, or that he shouldn’t drink so much. Instead, he’s got your sheets— gone cold long ago.
It’s the same routine when he wakes up, laces up his boots, the ones he should’ve replaced months ago, and trudges through the mud and snow to a job he’s only kept to distract himself. It’s grueling work, physically taxing, heavy machinery and never-ending demands. He likes it though, makes him focused, keeps him in shape even if there’s a soft layer of pudge to him that he didn’t have before.
The men he works with are younger than him, and lack the discipline that only the military beats in someone. He doesn’t miss it for a day, the military, regrets not leaving for you. It was all he’s ever known, all he ever amounted to, he didn’t know how to leave it.
He sees his old team as frequently as he can, Johnny tags along to the pub when he visits. That’s the only time the bartender doesn’t look at him like he should be holding any sympathy for him.
He still remembers his last day— John had shaken his hand, pulled him into a tight hug after. Sad smile on his lips as he nodded in recognition, understanding, he was the only one who ever met you.
That’s his routine, the sympathy he doesn’t deserve for mistakes he’s made. He thinks life is playing a sick joke on him one day.
Your laugh comes first, even through the loud music blaring through the speakers. He draws his shoulders back, straightens himself out at the sound.
His eyes find you next, perched on a bar stool, fruity martini in your grasp, laughing at something the bartender said. He thinks the world stops, everything else blurring and your smile the only thing worthwhile, the music mute, drowned out by your laugh, by the pounding in his ears.
It’s been years, he’s certain you moved out of town after the divorce. And yet, there you are. Untouchable grace, better than he ever remembered. You’ve got age to you now, maturity, the crows' feet at your eyes more prominent, smile lines deeper than before, but your skin glows, even under the shitty bar lighting.
His ring finger burns where it lies, pinched between his blunt fingernails to make it stop, metal cold against his skin. It only worsens when there’s no silver on your finger, not remarried, still his.
His mouth's gone dry staring at you, mapping out the new depths of your features. His first thought is to rescue you from this shitty bar and take you home, remind you who he is again.
He doesn’t think twice.
Your scent hits him first, sweet and flowery, the same smell he’s been chasing after for years. It makes his nostrils flare, hair standing on the back of his neck.
You turn around like you knew he was there, a smile on your face dropping when you lift your eyes from his chest to his face. Your mouth parts, words wiped from your lips and sticking to the walls of your throat.
“Simon.”
It’s barely a whisper, but it’s so loud to his ears, deafening. He’s waited to hear his name from your pretty lips, imagined it late at night.
“Love.”
He watches your skin heat, a warmth he’s put there, from shock or the term of endearment; he’s not sure. He doesn’t care what caused it.
It’s a few seconds before you stand, realization slowly dawning on you. You go in for a hug, pushing to your tippy toes to wrap around his shoulders. His hand spreads around your back, possessively curling to the other side of your waist, pulling you to his chest so tightly you squeak.
You mold around him, like two pieces falling in place again, smaller frame engulfed in his strong hold. You’re so warm under his palm, even through your clothes, warm and so fucking alive. Something he’s missed so badly, his girl.
It’s supposed to be brief, friendly, but he holds you for a beat too long, keeps the weight of his palm on your hip, presses his nose to your hairline, and inhales deep.
Your hands shake when he finally pulls away, using your chair as support, gulping thick when he sits in the empty spot next to you. No intention to ask if he could join you, he won’t let you get away again.
He orders a drink, the bartender eyeing him with a knowing look, like he finally had enough balls to approach a woman.
He just doesn’t know it’s his wife.
“It’s been a long time.”
He chuckles lightly, “Just three years.”
“That’s it?” You joke, tilting your head teasingly.
He smirks, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Oh? You didn’t know?”
“Never crossed my mind.” You quip.
He has half the mind to know you’re joking, but the words still claw at his heart, like you hadn’t thought about him for a day.
“What brings you back?”
“Friend’s wedding.”
You point to a group of women sitting at a table in the corner, one of them wearing a bright pink sash with the words ‘Bride to be.’ They’re all looking, watching the interaction with amused smirks and wiggly eyebrows waved your way.
He wonders if they know. If you’ve told them about him. If you’ve told them with venom in your words what a shit husband he was or you smiled with your eyes, sad over a waste of a relationship. Somehow he thinks it’s worse if they don’t know him, if you never cared enough to mention him after the fact.
“I left the SAS.”
You turn towards him, eyes widening for just a second, not long enough to show him you care. “You did?”
He hums. “Two years ago.”
“Little too late, don’t you think?” You huff a laugh, but it’s quiet, lacking any true amusement.
“A man’s gotta learn from his mistakes.”
You meet his eyes, unwavering, like he just might still have a hold on your seams.
You clear your throat, eyes shifting to your glass. “What do you do now?”
“Logger”
You laugh, “That’s one hell of a shift in uniform. You wear a flannel?”
“Suspenders an’ everything.” His lips curl over the edge of his teeth.
“I’m sure all the women love that look.”
“Don’t know if they do.” He shrugs.
You squint at him, “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Haven’t been with anyone else.”
“For three years?” Your grip tightens around the glass, words a bit breathless.
He nods.
“Why?”
“I have a wife.”—“Ex-wife.” You correct.
“Divorce papers mean nothin’ to me.”
“I’m not your wife, Simon.” You say it assertively, like you’re trying to convince yourself too.
“I never stopped being your husband.”
He means it.
“I stopped being your wife.”
You don’t.
“Yeah?” He tilts his head.
You nod, licking your lips.
“But you never remarried.”
“How do you know that?”
It’s accusatory, as if he had been stalking you. It’s simpler than that, sweetheart. It doesn’t take obsessive behavior to notice a hand with no ring.
Maybe it tinges his heart, just a little, that you’re not wearing his.
He runs his fingers along yours. “You don’t ’ave a ring.”
The silver of his ring glimmers, “You still wear yours?”
“Never took it off.”
“You’re full of shit.”
That’s when he knows he’s pulled the last thread, unraveled you right there on the spot, bleeding heart and all.
“You didn’t miss me?” He muses, suddenly crowding your space.
You take a deep breath, steadying your voice. “Not for a second.”
He wonders if your friends are watching still, if they think they should come save you before you do something you’ll regret the next day, before he throws you over his shoulder and they never see you again.
“No?” He’s so close he can feel your breath on his cheeks, smell the tequila between each shallow exhale.
“Definitely not.” It takes everything in him not to taste it on your lips, take what’s rightfully his.
“Come home with me.”
“Fuck you.” It’s your best attempt, he knows that much, but your voice is still meek, reeking of something else entirely.
That brings a quirk to his lips. “T’s why I’m tryin’ t’get you back in our bed, sweet’art.”
———
Simon watches you from the bedroom door, shoulder against the frame as you stand in the middle of the room.
“They’re still the same sheets.”
“Mmh.”
You turn to face him, “Just— Just because you kept the ring and the stupid sheets doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you.”
“Never said tha’s why.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
He walks across the room, stopping once you craned your neck back so far it hurts. “Then why’d you come home with me?”
“Tequila.”
Simon snorts, fingers trailing on your shoulder, “I think, you knew comin’ into my town— our town, meant I wouldn’t let you leave again.”
“Not everything’s about you, Simon Riley.”
“No, but it does pertain to me when it’s about my wife.”
His hand slides higher, deft fingers curling possessively around the back of your neck, thumb at the divot of your jaw, leaning in so close your noses almost brush, until all you can breathe is him.
“I’m not your wife.” It’s a stuttered whisper.
“Tell me to stop, then.”
All that denial, and yet, you cave under him, flesh gone tender to the pads of his thumbs.
He surges forward, lips colliding with yours. Your hand finds his wrist, a muffled sound spilling from your throat. All that denial, but still, you kiss back with the same ferocity. Bruising lips and velvety tongues assuage the brute force.
Your top is torn off in seconds, thrown on the floor in the same instance he sprawls you out on the bed.
Same stained sheets. Same shitty mattress.
It’s like clockwork, the way both of you move in sync, dusty cogs finally running on a loop again. You try to fight it, just a bit, for some shred of dignity you think is worth saving, push at his chest, stubbornly shorten the kiss so you can breathe. He just takes it as an opportunity to map his lips along your neck, an opportunity to wrap his arms around your frame and pull you closer against the grooves of his.
God, he’s hard against the seams of his jeans. His hands are everywhere and nowhere at once; body, lips, tongues, and teeth he’s been dying to taste all under his fingertips.
Your pants soon follow the forgotten path, dainty lace panties revealed.
“You wear these jus’ for me?” He snaps the band against your hip.
“Didn’t even know I was going to see you tonight.”
“That’s okay, like ‘em better off you anyways.”
You inhale when he slips them off, laid bare between his fully clothed body. He watches you squirm, toes curling in the sheets when his thumb drags slow along your clit, building a rhythm he already knows you like. It’s instinct, a routine he never forgot, deft fingers already melting into your warm flesh.
“Tell me,” He murmurs, lips pressed to your ear as the rough pads of his fingers tease your seams, “When’s the last time a bloke got you off?”
“None of your business.”
“My wife’s business is also mine.”
“Many other men filled your place.”
“ ‘ts okay, just gotta remind her of me again.”
You open your mouth to retaliate, but he sucks the words right from your throat with two fingers, glides them right into your pussy without warning. You feel just like he remembers, just how he pictured it when he was desperate at night. Warm and gummy flesh, tight and so fucking sweet.
Your eyes widen when you feel it, when you realize the cold wedding band on his finger is now pressed to the inside of your scorching cunt.
You push at his wrist, “Simon, your ring.”
He hums, “You feel it, dove? Never takin’ it off, right where it bloody belongs.”
His fingers find that spot in seconds, the tender one that turns you soft, just a few inches deep, body going doughy under the pleasure. That’s how he likes it, when you finally give in, let your muscles sink into the mattress, succumb to one nudge.
You breathe heavy through your nose, lips pinched tight, and eyes clenched shut as he curls his fingers against that spot over and over again. Wet cunt squelching each time he flicks his wrist back just enough to leave the tips before pressing forward again.
He likes the sound, lewd as it is, likes the sound of your breath increasing in intensity with each stroke, but he likes your voice even more. Loves when it gets all breathy and broken and so sweet, when you can barely stutter out a response beside his name.
“Let me hear you, sweet’art. Always sounded so pretty for me.”
You manage a glare, biting your bottom lip as if to hold your noises even deeper in your chest. He laughs, it’s cute the way you pretend you don’t like it, like your pussy hadn’t clenched tight around his fingers when you felt his wedding ring, like your pussy didn’t leak at the thought, seeping your arousal over the silver, and into his palm.
He retracts his fingers, makes a chipped whine slip from the cracks of your teeth as he does. He just tuts his tongue, shaking his head because he’ll get what he wants when your walls stretch pretty for his cock.
His pants and boxers are peeled off before you can even blink, reddened cock slapped against your stomach in the same breath, precum smearing below your belly button. Your brows clench tight, lips falling wide when his head pops through your walls, fingers clawing their way to his shoulders.
He kisses the corners of your parted lips and coos like you somehow forgot how big he was. He guides himself until he finds resistance, walls overwhelmed at the sudden intrusion, quivering around his girth.
“Jus’ a bit more.” It’s a lie, he’s barely halfway, and you’re already tense, breath stuck somewhere along the way.
When he bottoms out he groans deep, eyes rolling as he drops his forehead against yours, finally home. God, he won’t let you walk away again, not like this, not when this is where he belongs, not when your pussy already molds to the shape of his cock.
He looks down, where the two of you are connected, where your pussy parts for him. It’s a sight, the way your lips cling to him when he ruts his hips ever so slightly, when you make a high-pitched sound as the bulb of his tip bluntly grinds against your cervix.
“Theerrre she is.” He croons, and he’s not entirely sure if he’s talking about your cunt or the fact that you finally let him hear your voice.
It’s too deep, he knows you don’t like it when he bullies your cervix, but he couldn’t resist, not like this, when he hasn’t been sheathed in your warmth in years. He pulls back just enough when tears well in your eyes, when he can tell you’re about to whimper that it’s too much.
“Any of those blokes get you like this?” He breathes it in your face, makes you know you’re his, “Quiverin’ and fucking shakin’ on their cock?”
“Shut,” A whimper breaks your words apart, “Up.”
His hips are slow, languid, curling his hips against yours until they snap against each other, forces all his weight on you. Makes your legs wrap around his hips because he knows that’s how you fucking like it, nice and calculated, slow strokes that bump against your sweet spot with each agonizing drag.
That’s your favorite, when he takes his time to take you apart, it’s his favorite because it leaves you a shaking mess, clinging to him desperately. Even if he does like to plow into your cunt, fuck you deep into the sheets so fast all you can see is white. He just needs to make you cum once before he breaks you in half.
He smiles at your denial, like you have any room in that fight, like you’re not clamping down on his cock with each drive of his hips, like you aren’t arching into him for more, like he isn’t the only one who knows your body this well.
“Listen to her, she fuckin’ missed me.” He grinds back just to make a show of the way your pussy gushes around him, “Fuckin’ missed her too.”
That does something for you, makes you mewl loudly, face buried in his neck to hide from him, or maybe to get impossibly closer to him.
“Missed you.” He whispers it in your ear, emphasizing by fucking into you a little harder. “Missed my girl so much.”
Your fingers dig into his skin, a garbled sound stuck in your throat.
“Missed you, too.”
It’s like everything perfect in the world is in his arms again, admitting that you did miss him.
“Fuck baby,” He grunts it out, the words having an effect on him he didn’t expect, “Say my name, please.”
And god you do, with arched toes, and a voice so breathless as you orgasm, pussy clenched so tightly around him his pulse stops. He stuffs you full at the same time, balls pressed to your ass as his cum spurts in your walls.
Your legs are shaking around him, aftershocks of your orgasm running through your veins as he fucks all his cum deep in you. He keeps himself tucked, not letting you get far when you’re right where you belong, with his name on your lips, and a hazy look in your eyes.
It’s a few seconds of you blinking at him, quiet whines falling from your lips because he won’t stop grinding his hips, can’t resist when you’re so warm and pliant and filled with his cum.
“Too much, Si.”
The smile on his face hurts, “I know, baby, but have t’make up for lost time don’t we? Have t’make sure a baby sticks.”
Rugby!Simon who shot to worldwide fame practically the moment he stepped onto the pitch.
He gets well known through the league as one of the most dangerous players in the game, the one you want on your team, a member of the national team's bomb squad. Players know that when Riley's in between them and the try line to be prepared to get melted and to feel it for days after.
He's also well known for having absolute dogshit PR skills.
He absolutely hates the cameras and microphones shoved in his face. He hates seeing the back of a phone pointed in his direction out of the corner of his eye constantly. He hates seeing his name and face jumpscare him when he's trying to scroll the news.
He's a mean looking bastard, he knows that.
Huge, scarred, tattooed. His shoulders alone take up the frame of a camera shot. He towers over the interviewers and reporters. Sometimes they'll catch him when he's just come off the pitch and his jersey is still soaked through with blood.
Now, he doesn't try to be a total dick to the journalists unlucky enough to be the ones to have to deal with him. But that doesn't mean he makes it easy for them. (The first time some newly graduated, dolled up sports journalist tried flirting with him on camera he did nothing but hit her with such a stone cold, dead eyed look that the internet blew up. It became an instant meme).
Which is why when a lucky reporter manages to snap a couple of shots of him looking at you after a game, the online rugby world goes nuclear.
Your back faces the camera, standing near him where he sits just off the touchline near the barricades looking up at you with what can only be described as the world's sappiest, loving, puppy-dog eyes beyond what anyone could imagine Simon Riley to be capable of.
He looks at you like you're the first sunrise after a lifetime of darkness. Like for the first time in his life he can finally feel his heart beating in his chest and it beats perfectly in time with yours, because it knows that they are one and the same. That it only beats because yours does. He looks at you as if the mere presence of you is a miracle, one that brought him back from the dead.
The internet goes wild. Memes are made, twitter threads are on fire, people are even making bloody tiktok edits of it.
And inevitably, when some interviewer brings it up, the bomb that Simon drops sends everyone into a frenzy all over again:
Been thinking of king!ghost I love that nasty, hypocritical man bruh
Also hormonal, pregnant queen, she's been having cravings and an attitude lately, he indulged in getting whatever she craves because of course, his heir needs to grow strong, her tantrums are amusing as log as they aren't directed towards him, that one time when a poor servant dared to suggest to eat more protein instead of the pastries she's been eating all day? His queen threw a Candlesticks at the wall and the servant almost felt their soul out of their body.
What a show, fucking beautiful, his woman turned into a tiny tyrant, god help her ladies in waiting.
oh he loves it so fucking much
everyone in the castle begins avoiding you and your wrath, except him. he makes a serious effort of having you in his presence when you’re like this. just so he can ragebait you. he’ll tell the cooks you asked for a specific food he knows you don’t like, just to watch you flip your shit when they put it in front of you
loves your grumpy little face and the way you roll your eyes at every single thing someone says to you. when your ladies are showing you the latest fashions shipped in from paris, you just snap at them, “does it look like I can fit in that right now?!”
when you’re heavily pregnant and just tired and aching everywhere, this is when simon must host a feast to show everyone his newest accomplishment, you.
his aggravated little queen, swollen with his heir. oh, and she gets so annoyed when people approach simon to congratulate him on his accomplishment,
“why are they congratulating you? you didn’t do anything. this brat isn’t pushing on your bladder every 5 minutes. ridiculous!” you’d scowl, shoving his hands off of you and folding your arms over your chest
he’ll just smile, watching you with a pleased look in his eye. thinking about how he can irritate you again tomorrow
idk why.. but I wonder what king!ghost would do if reader showed jealousy?
he’s such a nasty cruel bastard that he’s gonna play into it even more. when a recently widowed duchess comes to visit the palace for a few weeks, attempting to find a new husband among the men of the court, you notice she has her eyes set on your husband
and he feels the way you curl closer into his lap, fingers gripping onto the fabric of his shirt when she curtseys and meets his eyes with a sultry gaze. and she’s oh so beautiful, and he can feel the inferiority reeking off of you
and all of a sudden, he decides to throw of the natural balance between the two of you. leaving you waiting on his bed for hours before he finally enters his bedchambers without sparing you a glance. Instead he calls the servants to escort you back to your own bed
and when meals come around, you no longer have a place in his lap. he has you placed in a chair on the other end of the extravagant dining table, meanwhile the duchess is sat virtually next to him. talking so quietly you can’t even hear what they’re saying to each other, leaving you to pick at the food on your plate with a fork
and he’ll gift her a magnificent piece from the royal jewellery collection right in front of you, just so he can indulge in your teary eyes and quivering lip. watching you storm out the hall with a few of your ladies in waiting scurrying off after to comfort their queen :(
Reader who did go home to have their hallmark movie moment after being influenced by your ex from highschool to move back home for love.
Bad decision. Terrible decision.
He cheated on you within the month being back home.
And it was Ghost who you called wailing like an idiot when the truth came out, blurry eyed and snot coming out your nose. He didn’t have to say ‘I told you so’ it was in the silence from his side of the line. The ‘Mm, sorry dovie.’ And, ‘A stupid fuck that guy is, yeah? should carve his face in for ya.’
As if he was actually sorry, he had cocky grin on his face because he packing a duffle to come get you, more than due from a Vacation day. And it’s not like your family is any better, they’re trying to get you to stay with your ex. Even after making him look like a good guy again— and it’s you realizing it was them doing all the heavy lifting. Probably telling that jackass where you were in town.
It’s Ghost who runs off the guy who’s been pulling a ‘Say Anything’ with the fucking boom box but playing some generic shit Simon knows you don’t like.
Your ex gulps looking up at the rugged and masked man, “W-Who are you?”
Simon only shifts walking right past him and grabbing the key under the mat. Letting him yell another question, as if he has the right to question Ghost.
Ghost only gives him a lazy look, but his eyes are filled with mischief, “The one who’ll have her sitting on ma face in the next 4 hours.”
It’s not a lie. Far from it.
Simon is packing for you while you sit on the bed, barely said much since he gave you a tight hug. Told you he’d work it all out. Puffy eyes and voice hoarse from crying so much. “I think I should stay.”
A beat, “No.” and he’s back to packing.
“But my family-“
“They’re a bunch of bloody cunts [+], got you in this shit t’ begin with. Family doesn’t do that do they? you loved your job, loved your new friends,” and he tilts your head up with his fingers. “And loved bein family with me.”
Your heart is pounding, looking into his pretty coffee brown eyes. “Now,” he starts, bend down to your eye level till he’s on his knees, hands on your thighs, “Flights in 10 hours, how many times you think you can let it alllll out on m’ face?”
And yeah, you did Ride his face till you passed out, slick drenching his chin to his nose, hips stuttering and sloppy hole clenching around his tongue. And then theres Simon, who woke you up 2 hours before you had to leave, tongue swirling his tongue between folds, crooked nose rubbing your abused and used clit-
“Fuck mama,” voice raspy with your cum down his throat, “let’s get ya back home.”
I missed all the work drama but it's given me an idea.
simon who's wife is a perfectly ordinary civilian. and by perfectly ordinary, sinon means perfect. he loves you more than anything.
you're his everything, his secret. he doesn't want anyone on base knowing about you. he doesn't burden you with the horrors he's witnessed.
but you give him all your work drama. he knows too much about susan and damien and their love lives.
"rebecca is pregnant," you told him over dinner one night. your dinner table was big enough for six people, but you and Simon practically ate from the same placemat.
simon raised his eyebrows. no mask, that was a rule whenever it was the two of you in the house. he could be ghost out there, but the moment you two were alone, he had to be simon.
"rebecca who is in her 40's and already has six kids?"
you nodded your head. "the dad wants nothing to do with her. she keeps pretending she's not pregnant but we all know."
simon sat back, his plate empty. it had been a dinner you worked on together, something therapeutic so that he could decompress from the day. you took such good care of him.
"and susan and damien broke up," you said.
simons eyes went wide. it had been months of hearing how obsessed they were with each other, how uncomfortable they made everybody in the break room. and they'd broken up. he couldn't believe his ears.
"you're jokin'," he said and you shook your head.
"she broke up with him. I'm gonna get more information tomorrow."
simon pulled you close and kissed the top of your head. he couldn't tell you about his work, but hearing about yours made him feel semi normal.
Synopsis: You and the 141 decide to spend a night in Vegas to celebrate completing a mandatory training week in the heart of Nevada’s desert. It was simple in theory — a few drinks, see the city, browse the casino floors, and you’d be on a flight home the next day. But when you wake up in the morning with one more ring on your finger than memories to accompany your newfound marriage, things begin to spiral.
pairing: simon “ghost” riley x reader cw: misuse? of alcohol, suggestive content, smoking, hangover, incredibly bad memory loss (for the plot ofc), drunken antics (classic soap amirite), fluff, simon is JEALOUS, forced proximity?, enemies? to lovers trope, full disclosure I have never been to vegas nor gambled (except on rdr2) so lets ignore any inconsistencies! wordcount: 6.8k
Radio: ‘Waking up in Vegas’ - Katy Perry
The first thing you’re aware of is the ringing in your ear. A flash of light. Blink, blink. Oh, god, my head’s killing me.
You don’t think you’ve ever had a worse hangover before in your life, which was saying something.
You sighed, turning your face into your pillow, stretching out your limbs. When did these barrack cots get so soft?
You squeeze your eyes shut and feel something catch on the silk. Your eyelashes. False, of course. Are you still wearing your makeup from last night?
You shift, lifting your head up from the pillow, brows furrowed together in drowsy confusion. The headboard is different— no, the whole room is different.
Right. You're in Vegas, you and the guys took a trip down here for the night.
You’re wearing a dress. You look down, it’s white, pretty enough, but you're so unbearably uncomfortable. You'd kill for a pair of pyjamas right now.
Sitting yourself upright, you glance around the room. Shit.
The light shining through the windows is barely shielded by the curtains, which, after rubbing your eyes, appear to be half hanging off the curtain rail — ripped out of the wall. The carpet is an ocean of cans and feathers, pillows, sheets, playing cards, casino chips which were undoubtedly stolen, and various articles of clothing. In the middle of it all an island, Soap, stripped down to his pants, passed out with a black bowtie around his neck. If your head wasn’t pounding right now, you’d have found this insanely funny.
The pictures are askew on the walls, and as your eyes pick up on more and more details of last night’s debauchery, you can’t help but cringe at how high the damage charge is going to be when you check out. You don’t even know which hotel this is.
Leaning back against the headboard, you feel hopeless. What the hell happened last night?
In a bout of despair, you bring your hands up to hopefully bury your sorrows and hide your face, and that’s when you notice it. The ring.
When did I start wearing jewellery?
Shit, there’s a diamond. Can’t be more carats than a standard engagement ring, but it’s beautiful. Of course, it doesn’t belong to you. You don’t own this ring. Did you steal it last night? You can’t remember anything.
The mattress shifts, you pull your hands from your face.
Simon is laid next to you, head resting against his bicep, wrist covering his eyes. The silk sheets flow over his hips, leaving just the valleys of muscle on his back exposed.
You don’t know when he got there, but you can’t help the thought that crosses your mind. Did you…?
No, you’re fully clothed. There’s no way.
But he really is beautiful like this, peaceful, in a way you’ve never had the pleasure of witnessing before. There are a few moles dotted on his back. You wished you could trace your fingers over his skin and join them up like constellations. And his hands, god.
His hand.
A ring.
A wedding band, silver, like the one you’re wearing-
You hear a groan from the bathroom. “Gaz?” You call out, your voice more hoarse than you intended. Legs wobbly, head pounding as you stand up. “Shitting hell…”
You round the bed, stepping on a few betting chips and cursing, being careful not to step on the sleeping beast at the foot of the bed. Soap always was a horrific snorer.
There was a clink of porcelain coming from the bathroom, and another groan. “Gaz, is that you in there?”
Oh, he was in there alright. Not exactly in the state you’d expected him to be. Or maybe this, the sergeant sprawled out in the bathtub, limbs askew, is exactly what you’d expected from him. “Fuckin’ hell, Kyle…”
“Wasn’ me, I swear…” He slurred, trying to lift his head up and failing miserably. You walked over to the tub, mildly tripping over your dress on the way in.
“C’mon, just...grab my hand-“ You told him, holding out your hand for him, pulling him up with a grunt. The blind leading the blind.
After hauling Gaz out of the bath and sitting him down on the edge of the tub, you lean against the sink with a sigh, adjusting the straps of your bra that had been digging into your shoulders as you slept. "What even happened last night?" You mumbled, dragging a hand over your exhausted features.
"Dunno..can't remember a thing- my head's fuckin' killing me." Kyle despaired, hunching over with his elbows to his thighs, head in hands.
You'd feel bad for him if you weren't utterly bewildered, wondering why you were still in your clothes from last night, why the room was trashed, and why you felt like you'd been ran over by fifteen- no, sixteen industrial sized trucks moving at 115 miles per hour.
"Mine too. Let me check my bag, I should have some pain killers." You left the bathroom, trudging through the hallway, dragging your feet as you went.
Unsurprisingly the bedroom hadn't changed, no fairytale animals had come to do housekeeping, but Simon was now awake. He sat cross-legged amidst the heap of bedsheets, looking like he'd seen a ghost.
"Morning." You said, your tone devoid of interest as you searched the floor for your bag, muttering about how disgusting the room was, and how much of a pig the guys were.
Soap stirred from his spot on the floor, groaning. You saw him roll over, spot you, and giggle. He was still drunk.
You rolled your eyes, rummaging through your bag for some aspirin, huffing and puffing about how you just wanted a damn change of clothes.
Simon, spoke up, his voice wavering behind you. "Hey, uh-"
Johnny interjected. "How's married life, you two?" He slurred, cackling with his knees up to his chest, rolling around on the floor like a child.
You scoffed, brows knitting together. That got your attention. "You've got a real sick sense of humour, Soap. Real fuckin' funny." You shook your head.
"You hear this guy-?" You mumbled, looking to Simon for some sense of sanity in this stuffy hotel room. Only he wasn't laughing.
No, he looked uncomfortable. More than usual.
Johnny, still laughing, managed to pull himself upright, poking his head up from the foot of the bed. That shit-eating grin could only mean one thing: danger. The alarms were ringing in your mind, what did he mean, 'married life'?
"You don't remember?" He murmured, that scottish accent luring you into a false sense of security. He was totally enjoying this, that welcoming tone didn't fool you.
"Johnny-" Simon warned, his voice gruff with the gravel of just waking up.
Soap couldn't stop laughing. Why did he find this funny?
"Finally locked down a lass, and she don't even remember?" He snickered, swaying drunkenly, "Aye, well that's just too bad, Ghost."
Simon's eye was twitching. If you weren't there, he probably would've knocked Johnny's teeth out.
"What? Simon- what is he talking about?" You turned to him, frowning, panicked. The pieces were coming together in your mind, but you didn't quite want to believe it just yet.
The dress, the rings. Oh my god. Had you actually let yourself get so drunk- had you really been that stupid as to marry your lieutenant in Vegas?
He looked at you sheepishly, swallowing back the nerves in his throat. "I, uh.."
You'd never seen him like this, shy, ashamed. And at the same time, you could swear there was something there, something slowly breaking in the bottom of his heart; he'd allowed himself to indulge in a fantasy for one night, to believe a girl like you could ever like a guy like him, and it had crumbled before his very eyes.
It was gone as soon as you noticed it. He straightened up.
"Looks like we're newlyweds, love." He stated, shrugging, as if he didn't have the slightest clue how this had happened either.
It was getting lighter outside. The sun reflected off the windows of the other buildings along the vegas strip, illuminating the hotel room. The ring on your finger caught the light.
You looked down, staring at the diamond with a certain kind of wonder and rage usually found a few floors down in the casino of the hotel.
Why the hell was Simon being so damn complacent? Why was no one explaining anything to you, and why the hell had your own brain betrayed you, gatekeeping the memories of last night?
Soap's voice pulled you out of your thoughts. "What's wrong, Mrs Riley, is the rock too small?" He cackled, falling back against the carpet again.
Mrs Riley.
You were so deep in shit right now, you couldn't even blame Vegas to pull yourself out of this one.
14 Hours Prior
"Laswell's only agreed to let us stay one night." Price's voice rang out through the van, sat upfront with the driver like a dad on vacation. You stared out the window, watching the outskirts of the city pass by. Initially, you had voted against staying the extra night - you could care less about Vegas. But alas, Soap's whining had convinced you. "I'll go if you shut up", you told him back at the training camp dorm as you packed your bags. The week had been hell, Price had put you through hell. Running drills at the crack of dawn, gym sessions, competitive training simulations. Simon had set the record of 'who can save the doll from a burning building fastest' at 4.39 seconds. You had scraped in at 5.56 seconds.
All for good reason, of course. You were due to be shipped out to an unknown location in just a couple of weeks, top-secret stuff. Even Price hadn't been let in on any intel. You figured you'd do what you always do; get the job done whatever the cost.
"Consider this the last hurrah. Have fun, but don't stay out late. Don't do anything stupid." Price announced. "I want you in the lobby packed and ready to go at 1000 sharp tomorrow morning. If you're late-" Soap cut him off, "You'll break our necks, aye, we get it sir. Just don't be waitin' up for us eh? We'll behave." He leant forward in his seat, grabbing the captain's shoulders for reassurance. But the wink he gave you, and that 'I can't wait to get smashed' grin told you otherwise. Soap was planning on doing a little more than just letting loose.
He was planning on partying tonight, hard. And with his boys, how could anything go wrong?
Price said your name, pulling your attention from Johnny. "You're in charge tonight." He said, giving you a nod that said I'm counting on you.
Gaz interjected from the seat behind Soap's. "C'mon sir, putting the lady in charge?"
"Got nothin' to do with gender, she's just the least likely out of you three clowns to fuck everything up." Price said.
"What about Ghost, you don't think he's dependable?" Soap muttered, hands gripping the captain's headrest as he leant forward excitedly in his seat, seatbelt tucked under his arm like a kid that couldn't sit still.
"Oh, Ghost's got a wild side. I've seen it." Price murmured, his mustache lifting in a smirk that only you could see from where you were sat. Soap cackled, glancing over his shoulder at the masked presence behind you. "That true, Ghost?" He grinned.
You could practically hear Simon's eyes rolling, you didn't have to check.
"Shut up, Johnny." He grumbled, his voice hoarse beneath the mask, as if he hadn't used his vocal cords in a while.
You shook your head in light amusement at the boys' antics, smiling as you watched the world outside of the van. That's when you saw it, the sign.
'Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada'
Sitting up straighter in your seat, "Guys, look-", finger pressed against the glass. "It's the sign."
Soap nearly fell out of his seat trying to catch a glimpse, Gaz unbuckled his seatbelt to crowd Ghost's space and press his cheek up against the glass. There was a melodical 'Oooh' of awe from the van. Simon just grunted noncommitally.
This was it. One night of fun reserved just for you and your coworkers. Team. Friends?
You didn't really know what to call them. Sure, you liked them, got along with everyone. You'd only been in the 141 for a little under a year, and yet it still felt like they had all these stories you weren't involved in, memories that you weren't there for; a tight knit group that you just couldn't quite penetrate.
Maybe tonight would bring you all closer on a personal level. Work had been pretty non-stop since you joined, not enough time for the small moments. You hoped tonight would offer that much needed respite, a chance to really get to know everyone. Especially some of the quieter members.
To be honest with yourself, you just wanted to know what was going on in Simon's head. It had been driving you crazy, the stares, the small gestures that made you question do you actually like me or are we just doing business? You couldn't get a read on him, not like Soap, who practically threw himself at you, or Gaz who was easy to talk to, or Price, who had taken you under his wing and made you feel truly like one of the guys. No, Simon was represented by a blank page in your mind, a vast nothingness, crinkles in the paper and faded words where you'd scribbled out an idea in pencil and erased it almost immediately after your next interaction with him.
For once in your life, you couldn't plan ahead. Couldn't predict his next move, his greeting to you in the morning, if he'd greet you at all. It was your great skill in life, understanding those around you, it was what made you so good at your job. You were a people person.
With Simon, you were a nobody. You were lost. And it drove you insane.
Johnny smirked, watching your profile against the window as the Las Vegas sign passed by. You slumped back in your seat, sad that it was out of sight.
"Look who's excited about Vegas, eh?" He grinned, nudging you with his elbow. It wasn't even 24 hours ago you were pouting about having to spent another night in Nevada.
Now you were...sort of looking forward to it. You'd learned at a very young age not to get your hopes up, but tonight, despite all odds you were hopeful. Who knew what could happen?
The van pulled up outside Caesars Palace, the hotel you'd be staying at for the night. It was truly a marvel, a great grecian structure built on money and gambler's tears. If only Caesar himself had been there to see it. Kyle kept pointing at things in the lobby, talking about how this was, 'just like The Hangover'.
You each had your own room, but that didn't stop Johnny from busting your door down as you got ready for dinner. He called out your name from the other room, sounding like he was on a mission as he tripped over your bag on the way.
Soap found you in the bathroom, doing your makeup. You almost laughed at the sight of him in the mirror, dressed in a tux. "We're going all out tonight, ye hear me? Got you this." He said. You turned around to see him holding a long white dress with a sweetheart neckline, a slit up to the thigh. It looked simple, but... structurally sound. You didn't wear dresses often.
"Oh- wow, that's...a bit bride-like don't you think?" You asked, stepping forward to take the hanger from him.
"Then you better find a groom, bonnie, 'cause we've got these rented for the next twelve hours." He chuckled, pulling at the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. You stared down at the gown in your hands, feeling the material between your fingers.
"C'mon, didn't you play dress up as a wee lass?" He asked, leaning against the bathroom doorframe.
"Well, yeah-"
"Then finish getting dolled up and meet us downstairs. Heard the food at this restaurant is exquisite, bonnie, not to be missed." And just like that, he had convinced you, with a sickeningly charming grin and that stupid haircut. If he hadn't joined the military, he probably would have made a killing as a car salesman.
You left your room fifteen minutes later, having struggled with the zipper for about ten, and stared at yourself in distaste for five. It wasn't that you didn't look good, no. The dress fit disturbingly perfect, and you felt sexy. But when was the last time you had worn something like this? You were sure it had been years, definitely before you joined the military. It had been army trousers and sweaty vests for so long, that the feeling of your legs being out in the open was a shock to the senses. Not to mention these heels.
But you sucked it up, because tonight was about bonding with your teammates, and you were sure you'd be too drunk to care about the nauseatingly high slit on your thigh in about an hour or so.
You met the team down in the lobby. They looked like some kind of gang, dressed in matching tuxedos, all with their own little personal spin. Price had retired the tie for the night, his shirt unbuttoned at the top. Soap had abandoned the blazer, said it was 'suffocating his fun', his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, wearing a black bow-tie and waistcoat. Gaz hadn't scruffed himself up like the others; he rocked his suit with casual swagger. And Ghost, well.
He was hard to miss. The suit accentuated his broad shoulders, head covered by the usual skull balaclava. He stood out like a tall tree, and god did you want to climb him.
Price smiled as he spotted you coming out of the elevator, nodding in your direction. "She's over there." He said to Johnny, who lit up at your appearance.
"Fits then, eh?" He grinned as you walked over, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked you up and down.
You felt wildly uncomfortable, being seen in such a glamorous light by the four men who had only ever seen you at your worst; covered in mud, blood, and other debris from war. But here, under the light of the Vegas glow, you were beautiful. Together, you all looked like some kind of mismatched wedding party.
You could feel Simon's eyes on you the entire time.
"Yeah, it fits." You replied, smirking amusedly at Soap.
"You look great." He replied, shoving his hands into his pockets, looking proud of his dress choosing skills. "Like a proper bonnie."
"Can finally tell you apart." Gaz chimed in, grinning at his own joke.
You rolled your eyes. "Har-har."
"Yes, we all look dazzling, but that reservation isn't going to wait for us." Price announced, smiling at you. It was subtle, the way he looked at you, but it told you that he thought you looked nice too. You smiled back. "Shall we go?" He asked, holding out his arm for you to take.
You chuckled softly, taking the captain's arm. "Yes sir."
Soap tailed the two of you, grinning. "Real fuckin' gentleman you are cap, you know that?" He jeered. Gaz laughed beside him.
You could see Price smirking out of the corner of your eye, looking pleased with his chivalry. "It's the only thing we're good for lads, one day you'll learn that." He said.
Soap continued to banter with the captain as you walked through the lobby of Caesar's Palace, a gaggle of highly skilled military operatives playing dress-up for the night. If anyone found out, they'd probably think you were a joke.
Not that you were paying attention, but Simon hadn't said anything about your dress. Not that he had to, but it sure would've been nice to receive a compliment, or atleast a grunt.
Instead, he just trailed along silently beside the rest of the guys, hands shoved into his trouser pockets, eyes focused on nothing but you and the movement of your hips as you walked, your mouth-watering legs on display for him, the rhythmic click-clack of your heels taunting him. He hated not having what he wanted. If only you knew how much he wanted you, that each brief accidental brush of your fingertips and meeting of your eyes was used as fuel to the ever-burning fire in his heart that had started when you joined the 141. He stroked his cock at night to just the thought of you, and you thought he hated you. It was almost comical. Maybe you guys were a joke.
In your defence, he didn't make it obvious. No, that would be too easy. Eye-fucking you from across the room was Simon's go-to move.
Price had booked a table at this cushy 5-star michelin restaurant within the hotel, with low lighting and round tables reserved for quiet chatter and drunken whispers. The walls were avant-garde, the architecture something out of a magazine. But you wouldn't expect anything less, judging by the look of the lobby, you had high expectations. And oh, they were met alright.
You had champagne on tap courtesy of the captain's credit card, and as much food as you could imagine. The portions were small and the flavours rich, with sauces detailing the plates. This wasn't just a step up from the base canteen, this was a whole other planet.
"I'm never eating rations again." Gaz said, mouth full of crab.
"I second that." You added, feeling a little bubblier now that you were a few glasses deep.
Johnny kept whispering dirty jokes in your ear all throughout the meal, and unlike your sober self who would've rolled your eyes and swatted him away, you were laughing. At every. Single. One of them. Some might even say you couldn't stop laughing.
And Johnny was eating up every bit of it.
He loved getting a reaction out of you, and now that you were finally all giggly and blushing with a perfect ear for him to murmur into? Yeah, you better believe he was taking full advantage of it.
He leant over as Price ordered his desert, asking for 'extra cream'.
"I bet that isn't the first time he's asked for extra cream."
You, about five glasses in now and mid-sip, burst out laughing. Bringing a hand up to cover your mouth as champagne came running out of your nose.
Simon got up from the table, muttering something about needing a piss as he slammed his napkin down and stormed off. You hardly noticed, too preoccupied with being patted on the back like a baby by Gaz. Soap was absolutely no help, laughing and pointing at you as the Captain shook his head in amusing concern, passing Kyle his napkin to help clean you up.
The champagne dried, and so did your tears. Johnny was eager to get to the casino as you came out of the restaurant, which Price took as his cue to leave.
"M'hangin' up my hat for the night, team." He said, and after shushing a whining Soap, murmured something about being too old for this.
You gave him a quick hug goodnight, thanked him for the dinner, before waving him off with the rest of the guys as he walked to the lobby elevators.
Turning your attention back to Soap, you immediately recognised that grin. You all did.
"So who's buying the first round?" He asked.
"I will." Simon replied, already leading the way to the casino floor. Johnny trailed behind. "Really Lt? You'd do that for me?" He taunted with faux-puppy eyes, following Simon like a needy chihuahua.
"If I don't have to hear you mouth off for the rest of the night, I'd do anything." He grumbled.
"Anything you say?"
You and Gaz followed behind, chuckling softly at the banter between Ghost and Soap. Kyle surprised you sometimes, whether it was his refreshing insight during a mission brief or just simply bringing you a coffee in the mornings, and in that moment you felt pleasantly surprised as he offered you his arm like the captain had done a few hours ago. "M'lady." He grinned.
You laughed, taking his arm. "Price has taught you boys well."
The atmosphere of the casino was like entering a completely different world. The ceiling streamed in bright lights, the floor covered in grecian-style carpets and gold encrusted slot machines with comfy leather seats. You walked through the rows of blackjack and roulette tables in complete awe, hearing the frustrated groans of one patron coming from your left, and the cheer of another after winning a game on your right. The place was crowded with people, each hoping to try their luck and win a fortune fit for Caesar himself. You thought if he could see this right now, he'd roll over in his grave.
As you reached the bar at the far end of the casino hall, Ghost ordered a round of tequila shots. Holding up your salt-rimmed shot glass, you looked around at your teammates.
You wanted tonight to be special. You wanted to make memories that would last, to finally feel like you weren't just working with these guys but friends.
"A toast." You announced, chin held up high. Soap grinned at you, Kyle chuckled. They all held up their shots in solidarity.
"To Vegas, and to task force 141." You smiled, Ghost nodded, and there was a unanimous 'wheeey' from the guys as you clinked your glasses together, tequila splashing onto your fingers. You knocked the shot back like a champ, sucking on the lime for relief immediately after.
You all traversed the hall, following after Soap, who was eager to get on a slot machine. You crowded his seat, watching as he pulled the lever.
Lemon...cherries...BAR.
"Fuck's sake-" He grunted. Gaz grabbed his shoulders, rubbing them aggressively. "Come on, you beautiful man. You've got this."
You and Simon cheered Johnny on from the sidelines, grinning at the sight of Gaz coaching him through this like he was a boxer in the ring.
Soap pulled the lever again.
BAR...BAR...Lemon.
You groaned along with the others, laughing as Soap got up from his seat, hanging his head dejectedly, muttering something about needing to stop before he blew his life's savings.
After watching a few other people play, there was a unanimous decision among the group to go get another round. You were totally drunk by this point, wondering how Simon managed to stay so damn stoic and mysterious even whilst intoxicated.
Next was roulette. You stood at the foot of the table, watching the dealer. Simon was coaching you, he told you he used to watch his dad gamble when he was a kid, said he knew what to do. Soap and Gaz crowded the two of you, eager to see if you'd win.
The dealer tossed the ball, the wheel spinning, the colours blurring into a haze of red and green. The numbers slowed to a halt.
7.
It wasn't much, but you'd won your bet back. The team erupted into drunken roar. Soap and Gaz bumped chests behind you as Simon clapped you on the shoulder. You high-fived him.
"Thanks, Lt." You smirked.
"Anytime, love."
The rest of your time in the casino was a flurry of stumbling around, laughter, and tequila. After skipping down the golden halls of Caesar's palace and almost breaking your ankle, you made it outside. The fresh air hit you in waves, the rise and fall of your chest like the sweeping of the tide. You held your arms out and closed your eyes, stood at the top of the concrete stairs of the exit, and in that moment, you felt eternal.
Soap ran past you, grabbing your hand and hauling you down the steps. You laughed, grabbing onto him for support as you stumbled out onto the street. The city was alive, and so were you, and all you could think of in that moment was Simon.
He and Kyle trudged down the stairs after you, watching as you almost keeled over, cackling.
"Alright-" Simon mumbled, peeling you away from Johnny. He was far too drunk to keep you in check, Simon didn't trust him.
"Slow down, you two." He said, letting you press a flushed cheek to his chest, grabbing handfuls of his blazer to hold yourself upright. Simon slid an arm around your waist. He had to pretend this wasn't making his heart race. You had to pretend you didn't want to slide your hands into the warmth of his jacket and press your face into his neck.
"You got a vendetta against havin' fun, Lt?" Soap taunted, swaying drunkenly as he stared at the sight before him with a slight grin.
"No, but she ain't gonna be havin' much fun if she's puking her guts up because you couldn't keep your hands to yourself." Simon snapped.
"Oh, and you can?"
"Take a walk, Johnny."
"C'mon, lads, let's be civil." Kyle stepped in, knowing Soap was just trying to get a rise out of Simon.
Johnny knew better than anyone how Ghost felt about you. It was obvious to him. He just needed to spark enough jealousy in his lieutenant for the grump to actually make the moves on you.
Gaz managed to pull Johnny away, patting him on the back as they walked on down the street.
Simon turned to you. "Can you walk, love?"
"Hm? Yeah- fine." You slurred, blinking up at him with a dreamy look in your eyes. God, his chest really did feel like a wall.
The two of you followed after Soap and Gaz, briefly stopping to sit yourself down on a bench and take off the matching white torture devices on your feet called heels. Simon held them for you as you walked side by side.
A few minutes down the Vegas strip, you came across the fountains at the Bellagio. It was midnight, and the final show of the night was starting. You watched as Soap spotted a bachelorette party, running over to photobomb them. Gaz ran after him, holding his stomach as he laughed.
The fountain show was spectacular, great big sprays of water in majestic slopes, dancing in unison with the grace of a swan. You watched in awe, the light reflected across your features.
Simon glanced over at you after boring of Soap's antics. He couldn't help but smile under the mask, reaching his free hand into his pocket.
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, peeled up the bottom of his mask, and brought the pack to his mouth to pull one out. He lit the end and took a drag, before offering it to you.
You did a double take, having to tear your gaze from the fountain. "Oh- thanks." You said, taking the cigarette from him.
Simon watched as you inhaled, letting the fumes fill your lungs, he found himself growing jealous. He wished it was he who was inside of you, not the smoke.
Your eyes narrowed as you exhaled, watching Soap get pulled along by the bowtie by a woman wearing a 'Bride' sash. The other girls were grabbing at him and Gaz, scruffing up his mohawk with hilarious interest.
"You know-" You began, your cheeks flushed with the pink hue of alcohol. "I think I'm finally starting to get you." You said, handing him the cigarette back.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He scoffed a small laugh, taking another drag of the cigarette. "And what exactly does that mean?"
You smiled, watching his profile, gaze fixed on the fountains. "The brooding stares, the grunting, the mask. It's all a facade." You explained.
He smirked, letting the smoke blow past his lips. He glanced over at you. "Is that what you think?"
Your smile grew wider as your eyes met his. He offered you the cigarette again. You took it.
"I think.." You took a drag. "That behind all that muscle and mystery is a big heart."
Simon watched as the smoke curled from your mouth when you spoke. He was transfixed by the certainty in your words.
You weren't afraid of him. You certainly weren't afraid to tell him what you thought of him, and as much as he'd like to deny it, you were right. He knew he had heart because he felt it pound in his chest everytime you were near. It was in his jealousy, his protectiveness, in the way he stared at you across the common room, in the way he'd shielded you from Johnny earlier, in how he'd stormed off from the table at dinner when he saw you laughing at another guy's jokes.
He knew he had heart because you existed. Because you had entered his life around this time last year and changed him forever.
No one had ever told him he had heart. No one had stuck around long enough to see through his hard shell, no one had ever bothered to get right down to his core.
Except you.
You grew concerned the longer he stared. "Am I wrong?" You asked, sheepishly.
He shook his head, blinking in astonishment. "No..."
"No, love. Not wrong at all."
You heard someone call out your name, turning around to see Gaz running up to the both of you. He was out of breath. "I can't-"
"Can't find Johnny, he was with me, and then those women- they're vultures, they-"
"Slow down, Kyle." You said, tossing your cigarette to the floor before gabbing onto his shoulder. "What do you mean, you can't find him? Where did you go?"
He took a deep breath before responding, Simon pulled his mask back down and got to looking around, trying to spot a flurry of pink dresses and tiaras.
"They told us there was a club nearby, s-said they had a table, wanted to dance with us- We're simple men, you have to understand- and they were wearing a lot of perfume..." Kyle's eyes drifted off behind you, smiling to himself at the memory.
Simon interjected, appearing beside you both with a silk black tie in his hand, identical to the ones the boys' had rented. "Come on." He grunted.
Like some sick retelling of Hansel and Gretel, the three of you followed a trail of Soap's clothes all the way down the Vegas strip, until you found him naked and hopeless, curled up on the street outside a 24-hour wedding chapel in nothing but his underwear.
"Oh, thank the lord-" He cried, rushing over to Kyle, grabbing his face in his hands. You were finding it very hard to suppress the laughter bubbling up in your throat, knowing this was a sensitive moment for Johnny.
"I thought they got you too!" He cried, pulling Gaz into a bear hug, to which he rejected, pushing his naked teammate away.
"Get dressed, you bastard." Simon scoffed, tossing Soap his pile of clothes.
Whilst Gaz stood on the curb apologising to unsuspecting pedestrians for his friend's indecency, you and Simon watched from the side. You laughed, still feeling the buzz in your stomach, the free sway of your equilibrium.
"You know what would be crazy right now?" You giggled to yourself, staring up at the sign outside the wedding chapel.
"What?" Simon answered, equally as buzzed as you.
He frowned, glancing up at what you seemed to be grinning at.
He glanced back down at your shining face, a thought crossing his mind before he shook it away.
You bit your lip, knowing you were insane for even thinking it.
"Nothing." You giggled.
"Oh, come on..." He smiled, his eyes hazy as he watched you laugh. God, he loved your laugh.
You laughed, stumbling around barefoot. "No, it's nothing. You'll think I'm weird."
"I already think you're weird." He smirked.
You shot him a look. But your mouth was already moving before your brain could keep up. "I was just thinking.."
"..Don't you think it'd be so funny if we got married right now?"
Soap had finished putting his clothes back on, trudging over to the two of you. Gaz trailed behind, saying goodbye to a drunk couple he was talking to. "What's this I hear about gettin' married?" Johnny grinned.
Simon was staring at you. Dumbfounded.
You were either incredibly stupid or a complete idiot. One, for wanting to marry him of all people, and two for deciding this on a drunken whim.
And he was absolutely all in.
"Let's do it." He said, pulling his hand out of his pocket, the other still holding your shoes.
"Yeah?" You lit up, grinning up at him.
"Alright! Let's do this!" Soap erupted into excitement, Gaz too once he'd caught on. "Happy for you, man." He told Simon, blinking in a slow, drunk sort of complacent way.
You headed into the chapel and were greeted by none other than an Elvis impersonator. You wouldn't expect anything less from Vegas.
He led you and Simon to a small desk by the entrance, where it was perhaps too easy to get registered. But there was something missing.
"Johnny!" You called him over, sending him and Gaz on an errand. If you and Simon were truly going to be married, you needed rings, of course.
The two of them returned with two silver rings from a pawn shop a little further up the street, handing Simon his card back. The two of you signed the marriage contract, your heart pounding in your chest.
You couldn't believe you were really doing this.
The Elvis impersonator handed you a bouquet courtesy of their 'Newlyweds' package. To make it an official union, you needed at least two witnesses. Thankfully Johnny and Kyle were there, stood in the pews of the chapel with faux-teary eyes.
Simon stood at the altar next to Elvis, rolling back his shoulders, standing with his feet slightly apart. He was nervous, but he'd never been so sure of anything in his life. You were the one constant, the one motivation, and you'd been his for the past year whether you knew it or not.
He wanted this. He wanted you. He didn't care what stupid lengths he had to go to. This was it, you were the one for him, the only one who understood him.
The tinny melody of 'Here Comes the Bride' could be heard from the small speaker in the corner of the chapel. You stood behind the saloon-style heart-engraved wooden doors to the church, heart racing.
You were so incredibly excited. It felt like fate, the white dress, the rings, Simon. You knew that whatever forces out there had been looking out for you. You knew that this was your fairytale happy ever after.
You took a step out into the aisle, and Soap kicked up a fuss at the sight of you, cheering and clapping. You laughed, walking carefully in tune with the music. Don't fall over. Don't fall over. Don't fall over.
Your eyes met Simon's, and the rest of the world melted away. You wanted to kiss him, terribly. But Elvis had to speak first.
As you reached the altar, you handed Gaz your bouquet, turning to take Simon's hands in yours.
"We are gathered here today..."
You weren't listening. You couldn't. Not when he was in front of you, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, eyes softening behind the mask. As a little girl, you'd always thought about this moment, wondered what your wedding would be like. You weren't very particular about the details, but there was one condition.
You wanted to be looked at like that. Exactly like that.
Soap stepped up to hand you Simon's ring. You snapped out of your daze.
"Do you take this man to be your husband?" Elvis asked.
You smiled, sliding the ring onto Simon's finger. "I do."
"And do you," Soap handed Ghost your ring. "Take this woman to be your wife?"
"I do." He said without hesitation, sliding the ring onto your finger.
You smiled, eyelashes fluttering as you glanced up at him.
"Then, by the power vested in me by the state of Nevada.." The impersonator announced, voice laced in vague Elvis-ness.
Simon squeezed your hands a little tighter.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
You didn't wait to be told, letting your hands slip out of his grasp, reaching up to peel back the bottom half of his balaclava. You giggled at the irony, imagining it was your own perfect twist on a man peeling back the bride's veil.
Simon cupped your face in his hands, leaning down to kiss you as soon as humanly possible. Your lips met, your eyes fell shut, your nose nudged against his, and you felt incredible.
Maybe it was Vegas, maybe it was the alcohol, but you had never been happier to call yourself Mrs Riley.
Next Chapter
Thankyou for reading this ridiculously self indulgent and stupid plot idea I had while listening to katy perry! Hope you enjoyed <3
I had soo much fun writing this and I have a lot of ideas on where to take it so please let me know if you'd like more!
