“want me to,” he grunts, shifting to show you what he means. shifting until his arm’s looped around your neck. it’s not tight, not painful, scary. more like a big, warm pillow to rest your head on as he fucks into you. (hopefully.)
it’s like he’s read your mind. like he knows what you think about after an unsatisfying hook-up, where the guy thought he’d get head and that was it. what’s on your mind as you slip your fingers through soaked underwear in your dreadfully empty apartment, heart pounding like he’d know about it.
“uh, y-yeah,” you reply, mouth dry. “please.”
you need him desperately, like he’s an oasis and you’re stranded in the desert.
“say the word, love,” he whispers into your ear, taking full advantage of the position to nip at the lobe. “an’i’ll stop. okay?”
you sigh, settling into the plush mattress underneath his weight.
❦ bodyguard simon riley and spoiled rotten reader ❧
warnings: age gap, power imbalance, bodyguard/client dynamics, possessive!simon, dom/sub undertones, piv, oral (f receiving), slight corruption kink, tensionnnn, not proofread, smut 18+
You weren’t supposed to like how safe he made you feel. And he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to like how soft you sounded when you said his name.
Simon Riley was hired for your protection by your father two years ago.
You were twenty-one, bratty, overindulged, and had no idea what danger looked like. He did. He saw it in every shadow, every flick of a lighter outside your apartment, every unregistered car that slowed when you crossed the street.
And still, somehow, the most dangerous thing in his life became you.
The pink gloss you wore like armor. The perfume you sprayed before bed. The way you’d whisper “Simon?” through your cracked door at night like you just wanted to know he was there.
He’d been in warzones. Watched men bleed out. But nothing rattled him like the thought of you crying his name for the wrong reason.
Now you’re twenty-three. Still bratty. Still overindulged.
But a little lonelier. A little smarter. A little better at pretending you don’t want him to cross the line.
You dress for him. Not in anything obvious—your father would kill you both—but in those soft little nightgowns that cling just right, or the clingy crop tops when you drag him to the mall like he’s your boyfriend. You call it “keeping up appearances.”
And Simon? He lets you.
Let’s you pout and boss him around and call him “Riley” like it’s a dare.
But lately, there’s something mean in the way he stares. Something a little cruel in the way he grabs your wrist when you wander too far from him in a crowd. Something unholy in the way his hand presses to the small of your back when you’re walking through a club, barely legal and already drunk off attention.
It’s not about the mission anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.
And you know it when you catch him in your doorway one night, shadowed in the soft pink glow of your bedroom.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at you in that tiny silk set you wore on purpose. Something heavy in his jaw, his fists clenched at his sides. And you? You pretend to be surprised. Pretend not to shake when you ask,
“Did you need something, Simon?”
He doesn’t respond right away, just stands there all broodingly, staring into your eyes like he can see your soul. It’s late—his mask is already pulled off, suit and vest tucked away, front door locked and his gun in the safe. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his biceps like he’s wet and grey sweats—you’re pretending not to stare.
He takes one slow step into the room, and your heart starts beating like you’ve done something wrong.
He shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not when you’re bare-legged and barefoot, lips glossed like you’d been hoping he’d stop by.
But he doesn’t stop at the door. He keeps coming closer—until he’s standing over you where you’re curled up in bed, phone still in hand, pretending you weren’t waiting for this exact moment.
“I saw the security feed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “What feed?”
He cocks his head, eyes dropping to your bare thighs. “The one that shows you sneaking out of your apartment at midnight. In a tiny little dress. Without me.”
You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he cuts you off with a soft, dangerous sound—half a scoff, half a warning.
“You think this is a game, sweetheart?” His voice is low now, that voice he only uses when he’s talking into his comms, calm and lethal. “You think I get paid to chase you around the city like one of your trust fund toys?”
“I just wanted to have a little fun,” you say, too soft, too smug.
He leans in.
“You wanna have fun?” he murmurs. “Fine. But if you’re gonna act like a brat, don’t expect me to keep pretending I don’t notice.”
You swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how small you look sitting in front of him. His gaze drags down your body, slow and deliberate, until he’s looking at the sliver of pink lace barely visible beneath your top.
“Simon…” you whisper.
And that’s what does it.
The sound of his name—breathless and unsure, like a secret he wasn’t supposed to hear—breaks him.
His hand curls under your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and when he speaks again, his voice is wrecked with restraint.
“Say it again.”
Your breath catches. “Simon…”
He groans, low and rough, and you swear he mutters something like fuckin’ hell before pulling you up into him—big hands dragging across your bare skin like he’s memorizing every inch. His lips are on yours before you can blink, mouth hot and heavy against yours when his hands settle on your hips.
Your hands fly up to his biceps to steady yourself, a whimper slipping past your lips when his hands squeeze your hips before slipping back to cup your ass. He pulls you closer to him and you can feel him—thick and hard and pressed against your stomach now, and it makes your legs shake a little. Makes you cling to him like gravity stopped working.
His breath is ragged when he pulls back, just barely, resting his forehead against yours. His hands are still on you, fingertips digging in like he’s trying to convince himself this is real.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he rasps, voice wrecked and gravelly. “You think this is just some fucked-up fantasy? Some way to get back at your dad?”
“No.” You breathe it out. “It’s not like that.”
You’re not sure if he believes you. But the way his hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt says he doesn’t care.
“I’ve spent years keeping my hands off you,” he growls. “Do you have any idea what that’s cost me?”
You shiver when his knuckles brush against your stomach, when he whispers your name like it’s a prayer. Or a warning.
You nod, wide-eyed. “Yes.”
He lets out a broken little laugh—like you’ve just sealed your own fate.
“I’m not gentle, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and lethal as he backs you toward the bed. “You want me to stop, you better say it now.”
But you don’t say it.
You just fall back onto the pillows, silk clinging to your thighs, lips parted like a plea.
And Simon—your Simon—kneels between your legs like he’s been waiting for this since the day he met you. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, anxiety creeping up your spine as he uses his hands to spread your legs. He places a kiss over your clothed clit before licking a slow, deliberate stripe up the damp fabric, so lightly it almost doesn’t feel real.
Your head tips back against the pillows, a whimper catching in your throat. He doesn’t say a word—just watches you. Watches your hips buck and your breath hitch, like this is what he’s been starving for.
And still—still—he doesn’t move the fabric.
“You like teasing me, yeah?” he mutters, voice dangerously calm. “Bet you didn’t think I’d tease you back.”
You pout a little, choosing not to respond in hopes he gives in to you sooner. He grins, fingers coming up to toy with the hem of your panties. You shiver, shifting slightly.
His eyes flick up to yours.
He finally loops his fingers through your panties, pulling them off and throwing them over his shoulder. He still doesn’t directly touch you—instead, he leans down, knees hitting the floor as he settles face to face with your pussy. He stares for too long, your face is burning, he hums, pleased.
“Pretty.”
“Simon,” You whimper, hands coming up to cover your face as you try to close your legs. He doesn’t let you, but hands gripping your thighs and pushing your legs even further apart.
Your face is burning, thighs trembling, hands still covering your eyes like that might protect you from how exposed you feel—how seen.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs.
His voice is rougher now. Warmer. Like smoke curling under the door of a room already on fire.
You feel him lean in again, breath fanning against you, the heat of his mouth so close you’re practically vibrating with anticipation—and then—
He spits.
Right on your cunt.
A slick, obscene sound breaks in the silence as his thumb comes up to drag it through your folds, and your whole body jolts.
“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Dripping already. Knew you’d be sweet for me.”
Your hands drop from your face just in time to catch the look on his. Reverent. Starved. Possessed.
Then he’s burying his face in you—tongue hot and wide and hungry. He licks you like he’s been fantasizing about this for years, like it’s not enough to taste you, he has to consume you. His nose nudges your clit, mouth sealed to your pussy as his tongue fucks into you.
You cry out, hips lifting off the bed, but his hands are already there—gripping your thighs, holding you open.
“Stay still,” he growls against you, voice muffled by wet heat. “Take it.”
And you do.
You let him ruin you with his mouth. Let him groan into you like this is his release, too. You’ve never been touched like this—devoured like this. You’re not even sure you’re breathing anymore, head tipped back and fingers fisting the sheets as he eats you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
It doesn’t take long—he’s too good, too focused, too determined to make you feel it. You cum with a gasp, high and keening, your thighs trying to close around his head, but he holds you open until you’ve wrung yourself dry.
You’re still twitching when he finally pulls back, chin glistening, lips red.
He drags his mouth over your inner thigh before kissing your clit once more, just to be cruel. Then he’s standing—tugging his shirt over his head, grey sweats already tenting with how hard he is.
Your eyes trail down his body—inked, scarred, massive. He catches you staring and smirks, pulling the waistband of his sweats down slow.
“Eyes on me,” he says softly, almost too soft, as his cock springs free.
And then he’s crawling over you, mouth catching yours in a messy, consuming kiss as he lines himself up between your legs. You’re still wet, still aching, and when he slides the tip through your folds, you moan right into his mouth.
“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he reminds you again, voice shaking now, even as he presses his forehead to yours. “You still want this?”
You nod, wrapping your legs around him, breathless.
“I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
He pushes in slow, and it hurts—just a little, from the stretch, from how thick he is—but it’s perfect. Full. Overwhelming. He groans, deep and guttural, as he sinks in all the way, his hands braced on either side of your head like he might collapse if he’s not careful.
You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only feel.
“You’re mine now,” he growls into your neck. “You understand that?”
You nod, nails digging into his back.
“Say it,” he demands, fucking into you hard enough to knock the words loose from your chest.
“I’m yours,” you gasp, high and ruined. “I’ve always been yours.”
And that, that makes him snap.
He starts fucking you for real—hard and filthy, the headboard slamming, your legs up around his waist as he mutters curses and praises into your skin. You’re both loud now—moaning, panting, breaking apart with every thrust. It’s overwhelming. Consuming. Like something that’s been building for years and finally, finally, burst.
And when he cums it’s with your name in his mouth, like a confession.
just read the wedding dress au and I couldn't help but think what if bodyguard simon is actually at mafia price's wedding lol, making price the "groom that doesn't deserve you”
loved the other au’s too! gaz and soap 💜
Oh, you're cooking, anon. referring to this post
Mafia!Price about to enter into an arranged marriage with you, but you've been having a long-standing secret affair with bodyguard!Ghost. You break it off with Ghost to remain loyal to your new husband. While you hate Price, the sex is stunningly angry and indulgent. But Ghost is your personal bodyguard, and he makes it clear that you should belong to him, and your heart yearns for him.
Back-and-forth you go, bouncing between the two men like a pinball. It's a tangled web of love and lust and loathing. Duty tells you Price. Love tells you Ghost. And while both men are aware of the other, threatening each other with promises of violence, they both fear hurting you, and only draw a bit of blood.
But this constant shift of need and want is taking a toll. Price and Ghost see it, how you're wearing thin trying to balance the two of them. They meet in secret, calling a truce. They'll share you, even take you to bed together.
someone asked for it but the ask got deleted so here it is again :)
bodyguard!simon x popstar!reader
absolutely hated you in the beginning. only tolerated you because price had given him this responsibility and because the pay was decent. otherwise he was just a shadow with one worded responses and grunts towards whatever you said.
used to manhandle you whenever you used to walk slow, pulling you along with a tut and a roll of his eyes. you couldn't really see his face since he still wore his balaclava but his face was definitely screwed up behind it
the loud cheering becomes jarring to him the first few times, he's not used to this environment and there's been a few times where his hands have sprung to his gun ready to unload hell onto a poor excited fan who wanted a signature
but the more time he spends with you, the more he warms up around you. he even knew time brought you on base for when he needed to grab something quickly and you ended up meeting his team members
gaz and soap are basically #1 fans fr. the fact that you're friends with their favourite musicians makes them fanboy, your life is so exciting and they always want to know the latest gossip.
simon watches on unamused but secretly feeling a certain way when he sees you speaking happily with his friends
the dances you have with your backup dancers make simon so jealous ‼️‼️ the way your hips sway with theirs, the way their hands are across your waist, the tight outfits, god he has to physically restrain himself from ravishing you
he watches on with his jaw clenched, body rigid as his eyes feast upon your body like treasure. even through the thousands and thousands of people there, you'll always feel the burning of his eyes on you
and when your eyes meet him on a special part of a song, he's literally entranced by you. his breath held and he feels vulnerable, despite the millions of people there. when you're singing to him, it's to him
his praise to you is usually a nod of his head and a "good" but the more you both grow closer, the more you notice how touchy he can become and the more praise that falls from his lips (though it still can sound a little cold only because he feels awkward and doesn't think you need his reassurance that you're doing a good job)
"wear this pretty number f'me" when you both become super close, he likes it when you wear his favourite outfits. he'll hand them to you offering no explanation, only that it looks really good on you. secretly admiring you on stage when it glimmers and shimmers against the light because you look so beautiful
secretly has a few pictures on you on stage where you look so beautiful, he can't help but flick through them at the dead of night when he's alone.
will also secretly heart and save the videos on a private account of all the fan edits of you and him (a cliche but i like them 🤭)
will definitely notice the little skulls you have dangling from your outfit/jewellery and he smiles to himself, it's like an easter egg no one could guess
begged him to make an insta and after much reluctance and pleading he finally did.
he gained followers very quickly, his dm's full of people wanting to thirst over him to his workout routine
but you're the only one he follows <3
yes, he's also fallen victim to stalking your page and looking at old boyfriend with a smug and annoyed look
you got papped one time with the initials SR♡ on your necklace and it went crazy popular. everyone trying to figure who the mystery person was.
but simon looks on in pride, he might be called ghost to everyone else but between you both he'll always be your simon riley. a secret no one could know <3
cue soap and gaz screeching at the paparazzi pictures, having called on the whole thing when ghost was assigned to you in the first place
I Never Missed You 1/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)
Word count: 3.5 k
Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)
Summary: 1/3 You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.
A/N: A three part fic based on this request. The first chapter features banter and pining. If you're here for smut, stay tuned. There is an entire chapter of it coming right up.
Your lawyer says it would be a good idea. He even dares to look at you from under his brow like you're a child who doesn't know what's good for her.
And you don't.
Because that's exactly how you feel like: a grown woman who's stunted to a kid, now being supervised by adults.
The bodyguard they assigned you - the one you accepted because he was your lawyer's first choice - is exactly the broad, brooding type you have always imagined bodyguards to be like.
But he's not wearing sunglasses, and he's not wearing a suit. He says the point of a bodyguard is that they don't look like a bodyguard.
The first thing you actually pay attention to is the milky-white eyelashes. Only days after you hear that this man rarely shows his face. You were given a file on him, but you never peeked inside it because you were pissed that such drastic measures had to be taken in the first place. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Now you pry it from the pile of papers you buried it into, open it, and the first - and only - photo you see is a perfect portrayal of what Death looks like.
He's the Reaper himself when adorned with that human skull. Keen but emotionless eyes stare from the pits of the sockets to somewhere in the distance, but that look is a stare into the past. The photo raises thousands of questions, and not only the need to know why this man prefers to wear human bones when he's shooting people.
Because apparently, that’s what he used to do before he became a bodyguard. He's buff, that you already know. But in that picture, he looks even more packed, with what you suppose is a bullet vest beneath that blouse. He’s holding an ugly-looking gun – not a pistol, but a rifle of some sort. The gear on him no doubt weighs something close to 60 pounds. His sleeves are rolled up and expose the crisscross veins on his forearms along with war-ugly, crude tattoos, and you swallow.
Were you really looking at a picture of a barbaric soldier like it was some peculiar soft porn now?
You flip the file closed and toss it on the table, rather disgusted with yourself.
The next time you see him, you look into those brown eyes a moment longer. That stoic stare is the only thing you recognize as that of the man in the picture. That, along with his size, although photos really can't convey how this brooding grunt makes you feel: small and insignificant. Nor do they illustrate how the man looks like he’s the most graceful bull in a china shop when moving inside your house.
You suppose he grew up poor, the way he looks at your furniture, your half-a-mile bookshelf, and the latest art piece you got last month in your living room. He's judging you.
You're posh. And clueless. And a child.
And this brute lives with you, for now. He's placed downstairs until the target is neutralized. And he's not just a bodyguard: he's hunting the hunter while you're the bait.
It should give you a thrill; your friend giggles when you two gossip about him over a lunch while he's standing only a few feet away. But this situation does not give you a thrill. It just makes you pissed.
And it's not just the situation, it's this... Simon Riley who makes you pissed.
Couldn't they teach manners, some conversation skills at the bodyguard school or wherever the hell this pale, emotionless Hulk came from?
You recheck his file and snoop some more details about his past. He didn't go to bodyguard school (of course he didn't); he used to work for some PMC. The brute's a cold-blooded, cold-hearted mercenary. To put it more eloquently, he's an elite soldier of some tactical unit. But all of that is classified, as is almost every other detail about him. The only thing you are left with is that he's British through and through, but you can already tell that by his accent - the thick Mancunian that makes your stomach and heart flip.
It's gruff – of course it's gruff – and sometimes chafes your ears like they were being grated with the softest grater. You find yourself thinking about him while you're in the shower, when your fingers start to drift and wander.
And for the love of god, you are not thinking about that accent and those eyes while you're masturbating. You're not going to mourn the fact that he never rolls his sleeves when he's with you. When he's at work.
"I saw your file," you start to chitchat over breakfast one day.
"I reckon."
He won't even touch the coffee you poured him but proceeds to drink almost all the tea. The delicate china looks miniature in his hands as he pours the Earl Grey into his cup. The cups are dainty, too – this savage would prefer a large, black mug, perhaps, from which to gulp his tea.
"So. What made you become a soldier?"
"Joined the SAS when I was 17."
And another thing he won't do is look at you when you speak. No manners at all in this man, only rough, sharp edges. He sits as far from you as he can, at the other end of the table, as if you were in a meeting. Or a war council.
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
You roll your eyes. Conversation skills, god. Just give this man at least some charm…
"I'm going to do some shopping," you declare. "You can stay here."
Finally, he raises his stare. It's full of tired distaste.
"Nah. That's not how this works."
You rise from the table, gracefully and with a neutral face, indicating that you are an adult and won't be needing a babysitter at a store.
"Lady."
The command is dark and stops you before you have taken one step from the table. It's a slur, almost.
He rises from the table too, and you almost feel sorry, noticing he hasn't yet finished his toast.
"You hired me. And I'm gonna do my job."
He looks big and broad, like a beautiful storm, with that piercing stare and the most alluring lashes you have ever seen on a man. Your voice turns into a meek, pitched attempt to reason with a giant.
"...I'm just going shopping."
His head tilts with a mock: you're only a child in his eyes.
"Then let's go shopping."
…......…......
Sitting next to this giant in a taxi must be a hilarious-looking scene. A charming, vibrant lady and a sullen, intimidating Theseus – what a pair.
You've also never been this close to him. The man always sits with a wide spread. One heavy thigh almost touches your knees, which you have turned towards him for some unfathomable reason. You were taught to sit with knees closely set together, and that’s what you’re trying to do now: make yourself as small and feminine as possible. It only accentuates this man's size compared to yours. There's a pile of shopping bags between you two, and your gaze is directed outside the window, but you can feel his presence like there's a thrumming monolith beside you.
And he's always dressed in black. You kind of enjoyed how you two looked at the store: you in your heels and a pearl white suit, he in black, tactical ripstop and boots. You wouldn't define the man well-dressed… but he is sharply dressed in his own field, that's for sure. Even a commoner like you could see that.
He had complained about your clothes. White draws too much attention and makes for a bigger target. You had brushed him off with a scoff. You’re not going to change the way you dress because of this.
"You're from Manchester, right?"
You're only trying to make the journey home more enjoyable, but feel like you're snooping again, this time from the man himself. The less you know about Simon Riley, the more you want to learn who he is. It is only natural to get a little curious when his file barely had two paragraphs and a photo. You suppose even that single picture was taken and given forward with reluctance.
And the only thing you learn is that small talk is a completely foreign concept to this man.
"You're quite the Sherlock," he mutters with that fat accent that gave him away the minute you two shook hands. You Sherlock about some more, look at the left hand that rests on his thigh.
There's no ring. Not even a tan line. He must be lonely: no relationship could stand working hours like these.
"Do you still live there?"
"...No."
"Do you miss the place?"
"No."
The short answers are guttural and spoken from the back of his throat. You don't know if he's doing it on purpose, or if this Simon is like this with everyone. He's not annoyed, though, not the way you're beginning to be.
"Aren't you a chatty one…" you mumble while watching cloudy London pass by. You figured he might hear it, and perhaps that was your purpose, even if your voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm not here to talk. Ma'am."
…......…......
You are told to stay away from the windows. The dinner table is moved so no one can aim at your head through a glass. And even then, most curtains must be closed at all times.
He goes through doors first, and advises against going out at all. You get a list of things you should take into consideration if you do go out.
And you’re not going to give in to fear.
You simply take different routes to your friends and family, have lunches at different restaurants than usual. He says you should get an armored car, but you don’t have a license. Of course your brooding bodyguard could drive, but what will you do with some armored tank after you're finally through this thing?
What's far more interesting is that it turns out this Simon Riley is a smoker.
Disgusting, you think at first, then think about him all sweaty and grimy after some gunfight, reaching for a cig, curling those thick fingers around a pure-white coffin nail. No, wait – he had gloves in that picture; he wouldn't bother to take them off before he smoked, he would just lean on his gun and on some crumbling wall and sigh from the joy of being alive, of being bloodied and dirty and victorious before taking a long drag from his cigarette.
Ugh.
Reluctantly you agree that perhaps there is an odd charm to this man after all. Either that, or then you are in need of some serious therapy.
Breakfasts are torturingly quiet with Simon, and you can hear the slow roll of eyes every time you make plans to go to a party or an art gallery.
Once, a zipper gets stuck and you have to ask him for help. It’s mortifying, and he doesn’t say a word, only mocks you with his eyes as you turn around for him to place a warm hand on your hip and another on your back to pull up the zipper you had fought to reach and drag up by yourself for at least 10 minutes.
A week passes, and he’s buried in work, not only because he’s guarding your body 24/7, but because he’s trying to locate the hitman. The fact that Simon Riley is technically speaking a hitman too - to think that you have hired a killer - is something you don’t have the mental strength to delve into right now.
"Found the one who's hunting you."
Another file is dropped before you at the end of the week. The man marches into your office like there's no door there at all. Doesn't even bother to knock.
This isn't what you meant when you politely told him to make himself home…
You roll the glass of water on your temple and sigh. The file reveals another photo, this time of a man who looks like an executioner.
"Goes by the name König," he says and clasps his hands over his crotch while taking a wide stance in front of your desk. "Austrian war criminal. Skilled with knives… Likes to torture people first."
Nice. More brutes.
"Why are you telling me this?"
You're tired, there's a headache approaching, and you really don't care to go over some details about a professional lunatic killer right now. But Simon Riley - codenamed Ghost, you’ve lately learned - looks down at you like a storm cloud over a carefree meadow.
"Because you clearly don't understand the danger you're in."
He adds "Ma'am" as a footnote. Purposely forgotten...
And you wish he would forget that silly, overly courteous term.
"Well–" you sigh your frustration in the air between you two, then realize that perhaps you're being treated like a child because you behave like one. "What are you going to do about this man...?"
"Gonna kill him," he simply shrugs, the eternal, distant look in those eyes gaining a smug tone to them.
He enjoys this. Enjoys killing, but what's even worse, enjoys seeing how his ruthlessness makes you shift uncomfortably in your chair. Or perhaps he just likes shocking you with that file with an image of a lyncher in it. You know perfectly well that you're in trouble and under threat. That's what you've tried to forget, but no one lets you forget.
Simon takes a deep breath before placing his humble petition before you.
"Ma’am. I'm gonna need your help."
And nothing in this man is humble. Even though he rarely speaks and never shows his talents, not to talk of showing off, he reeks of pride and testosterone.
You set the glass on the table and straighten the file to align with the leather pad on your desk. Your fingers are not trembling. Yet.
"What do you mean?"
He gives a hoarse laugh. The sound drills straight to your core and starts to bloom there. You realize you have never seen him smile before. And he's not smiling now: the short laugh is just a dark chuckle that mainly stays inside his chest; it only makes those stocky shoulders rise and fall.
"Not like that," he looks down at you with a tad of mercy. "You're gonna serve as bait."
"Isn't… that what I've been the whole time?"
"Yeah. But this time, we're gonna lure him in."
The way he talks makes your thighs rub together without your consent. You wonder what it would feel like if you were trapped between that solid chest and a wall, what it would be like if those hands woke you up with a calloused caress of a thigh.
You don't quite understand the difference between bait and a lure but find yourself willing to do whatever you can to help him. Help Simon…
"Sure... I'll help you," you say as if this man wasn't on your payroll.
"That's the least you could do."
That barely hidden bite in his dry retort doesn't escape you. This man's audacity buries whatever odd want you have started to feel for him and replaces it with searing, womanly fury.
He could be a little more sensitive.
You're the one who has a target on their back. You're the one who fears going to sleep at night and feels lucky they're alive come dawn. If he wasn't so crude and uncaring, you would've asked him to sleep in the same room with you from the start. But he has to be a brute, has to follow and mock you with those ink blot eyes at every turn.
You rise from the chair when he turns and walks toward the door. It's almost a snappy jump, an attempt to reclaim your power. You're sore and thoroughly peeved.
"I never wanted this," you tell him with an annoying timbre in your tone. He stops right before the door but doesn't turn.
"Neither did I."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Could be somewhere warmer with no damsels giving me their cheek."
The BDU blouse you saw in that picture was yellow, burnt yellow. Desert wear… He wants to be in a hot desert with a cold gun in his hand. Dropped straight from some plane, working alone, in a place where damsels aren't giving him their cheek. Where there are no damsels at all.
You're relatively sure there is no Mrs. Riley. No woman could stand this man.
"Then go somewhere warmer," you snap, almost stomp your heel on the soft carpet. This man is simply intolerable. The way he never reacts to anything makes you want to throw things at him.
He must be trained to be so calm, but you're not. You're used to making men a little stupid and flustered. You're used to men eating out of your hand. He's not behaving at all like he's supposed to. Simon Riley is just a mountain without emotion.
He turns with that eternal, downgrading look in his eyes. There's a flash of amusement there, too.
Soddy bastard…
"Nah. Not until I've done my job."
His voice is warm now; the gruff and gravel make way to a smoothness that goes directly to your knees. Your lips part, and his eyes fall on your mouth just before he lifts his chin a hair of an inch.
"Your job…" you breathe, too furious to even rage or shout.
Your fucking job.
Why did you even want this job if it's so–
"Yeah. My job. Some people got one."
You have to take support from the table with your fingertips.
"Excuse me?"
There's the tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth before he takes his leave.
"Good night, ma'am."
…......…......
The next day, you start the breakfast by apologizing.
You barely slept that night, first because of this man's utter nerve, then because your wrath eventually cooled down into a bleeding consciousness of how you must look in his eyes.
He has accepted this job, something different from what he usually does, for reasons unknown to you. He might not be on some faraway battlefield where bullets fly past, but this is no less risky. The picture he showed you, the file on König, haunted your restless sleep last night – when you finally did get some sleep.
You have been running around like everything’s normal when it’s not. The man’s just trying to do his job.
And you're the one who hired him. Not your lawyer.
"I want to make peace," you coo while spreading some jam on toast. You expect Simon to finally melt a little. You might even get a smile. You secretly hope your reward is that this brute turns into a tamed lap dog you can feed some treats every now and then.
The situation is thrilling: the beefiest man you have ever seen is going to kill someone for you. Even if he's being paid to do so, he is prepared to die for you. There's something incredibly sexy about that.
But there is silence at the other end of the table. Only the crunchy sounds of toast getting sugar on top can be heard.
"That so?"
He doesn't sound like he's melting. He doesn't sound at all domesticated. He only sounds more and more amused.
"Yes. I'm happy that you're here," you put the toast down and turn to look at him with angel eyes.
He laughs. When he stops, he looks you up and down, then laughs some more, a silent, shoulder-shaking chuckle.
"I'm… I'm serious," you hurry to add. "I mean it. I haven't been treating you the way I should–"
"That's for sure."
You see more warmth in those eyes. But it's not because of your humble apology.
His eyes are trekking down the neckline of your blouse, and to your horror, you notice – feel – how one of the top buttons has opened, revealing much more than just some skin. You're pretty sure he gets an ample view of the fuchsia bra you're wearing underneath.
If you reach for that button now, you underline that he's not supposed to look, even if it's your mistake that you're so obscenely exposed. If you close it now, you tell him he's not allowed to look. And that's not entirely true.
"Will you forgive me?"
You feel like you're offering peace, or at least a truce, with more than just that peepy question. Because your breasts swell inside that blouse. They rise and fall with your breaths, your nipples grow hard from that look that stays down a bit longer before drifting back up.
"There's nothing to forgive," he says, voice dropping a note or two.
"Good," you swallow. The following sentence comes out so weakly that it's almost a whisper. "After all, I hired you."
"Ain't that the truth."
The dim glint in those eyes still holds you as a prisoner, and his tea is growing cold.
"Are we going shopping today?"
"No," you utter, dreading the next inevitable question.
Bodyguard!Ghost who begrudgingly takes you to another nail appointment, knowing he’ll just have to stand there with his arms crossed while the nail techs and other customers all gawk and whisper about him, how big he is, how scary he looks.
Bodyguard!Ghost who nearly chokes on air when he notices you got a little ‘S’ painted onto your ring finger during your appointment.
Bodyguard!Ghost who holds your hand the whole drive home, glancing down at his initial on your pretty, manicured finger every chance he gets.
You, who has to think of what else ‘S’ could stand for in case your boyfriend asks.
Shooting Star — Bodyguard!Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x Popstar!Reader
Being a bodyguard for a 20-something year old pop star was the last thing Simon had in mind. Simon, the same man who had an uniform adorned by chest candy, the same man who was known as a Ghost, the same man who was a highly accomplished SAS soldier, forced to sit on your pink bed while you did your makeup on the floor.
The image was almost comical, the man in a black suit for the first time in forever, a bulletproof vest concealed underneath his white dressing shirt. It felt uncomfortable despite everything being the right size, tailored specifically for him upon your very extra request.
''Are you done? Bloody hell.'' You've been getting ready extremely slow just to spite him for making you wake up at 5am sharp, claiming it was protocol. Protocol my ass.
''I liked you better when you were quiet.'' You try to control the way the corners of your lips lift up when you hear the overdramatic sigh muffled by his black balaclava.
''Too bad.'' He gets up from bed, warm hands sneaking under your armpits.
''Up.'' He doesn't even give you the chance to stand up, simply pulling you up and smoothing out your skirt, hands treating the fabric delicately until the wrinkles you caused by sitting on the floor are gone.
''Don't manhandle me.'' There's something especially fun about annoying him, seeing him resist the urge to roll his eyes or take a sharp breath to calm down his witty tongue.
''I didn't manhandle you, brat. I lifted you up.'' He corrects, gently pushing you towards the door.
''Put this on and always make sure I can see you, yeah?'' He hands you a black surgical mask, meant to conceal your identity as much as possible to avoid being recognized by fans on your day off.
''Yup-yup.'' You put the mask on, adjusting the straps before leaving the house, Ghost following close behind, eyes quickly scanning the area before getting in the car, driving you to the fair you begged him to let you go to. It took 3 full days of begging before he relented, purely out of annoyance.
''Don't talk to anyone, don't look at anyone— don't even breathe at anyone. I'm not dealing with your bloody fans.'' He warns.
''Yes, dad.'' You roll your eyes, head leaning against the car window, the vibrations making a slushy out of your brain— probably.
''And don't take any pictures. If anyone recognizes you... punch them dead in the windpipe.'' You stifle a laugh as you hear him, knowing that no matter how blunt he is, he was joking... maybe.
''Go to jail forever if someone asks for a picture, got it.'' You jokingly plant your hand on his thigh and he slaps it away, side-eyeing you before he keeps driving, hoping you ignore the red lights he's speeding through.
"Do you have to keep bending the rules", he asks from the doorway to your room. You scoff at the question.
"This is hardly bending the rules. The skirt is just above knee length", you answer, glaring at the balaclava clad man stood before you.
"Not sure I agree with that, your highness", his cold eyes scanning your figure. You groan and shove him out the door. What's the matter with him anyway, you think to yourself.
You walk over to your wardrobe and stare at the skirts. Apparently the light blue one you had on was "inappropriate". You pick out a white, patterned one instead and hope that it is acceptable. You roll your eyes. The bodyguard you had before him, before Ghost, wouldn't have batted an eye at that skirt. But at the same time he was off fucking a maid in some linen closet, while Marshall ambushed you in that corridor that night and kissed you. The memory makes goosebumps spread over your body, and not the good kind.
Marshall seems to think that he is entitled to you. Just because your parents didn't say an outright no when his parents talked to them about marriage. He is disgusting, at least in your opinion.
You tried to tell your father that you didn't want the kiss and that Marshall kissed you without your consent but he wouldn't have it. "Think about how this could reflect on your mothers reputation. Sneaking off, kissing boys." That's what he had to say about the matter. Speaking about you as if you were a young, rebellious teenager. You are, in fact, an adult. You have been for a good while now, half a year at least. You went through your teen years without any major scandals. The same can't be said for your cousins.
You open the door and are faced with arms crossed over a broad chest clad by a black t-shirt, tight enough to reveal strong shoulders and muscular arms, and cold eyes staring down at you from the gap in his balaclava.
"Better", you ask, glaring up at Ghost.
"Much", he replies and steps aside.
Ghost opens the door to the dining hall for you and you nod a thank you to him. Your father is sat near the end of the table, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. He looks up at you as you enter.
"Good morning, Dad. Good morning, Gaz", you say to the dark-skinned man stood behind him.
"Important day today", your father replies, not bothering with pleasantries.
"I'm aware", you sit down at the chair opposite his and scoop a spoonful of scrambled eggs and another of bacon down on to your plate.
"Make sure to behave. We don't need the President or the American press to get the wrong impression", he reminds you for what feels like the hundredth time this week.
"I know", you acknowledge, eyes fixed on your plate. Fork moving the eggs around aimlessly.
"Good. We can't afford a scandal", your father adds and rises from his chair. Hand nudging your shoulder as he walks past you and out of the door. Gaz a few steps behind him. The door shuts with a dull thud. You drop your fork on to your plate with a clink and put your head in your hands. Why does he always always talk about me like I'm an accident waiting to happen? You feel Ghosts eyes burning in to your back.
"You don't have to just stand there, you know. You can sit down", you turn your head to look at him. His brown eyes meeting yours before walking over slowly towards the chair next to yours. Pulling it out and turning it so that he faces you. He sits down. Arms crossed over his chest and one of his legs resting on his knee. You pour some water in to your glass and do the same to his. Ghosts eyes still boring in to yours. You sigh.
"Whats the matter", you ask him. Something clearly occupying his mind.
"Do you have a drinking problem or something, your highness", he questions you.
"What? No", you shriek. How could he think such a thing? Well, your cousins are not exactly angels.
"A guy just kissed me at the last event and my dad thinks that I'm going to go into a late teenage rebellion. Besides, you would have noticed if I had a drinking problem by now", you continue rambling, shaking your head.
"Guess you're right", he replies. His voice having an unreadable tone. Your eyes move towards the grandfather clock at the other end of the room. It reads half past ten. Shit. You stand up and the chair almost tips behind you. Ghost rises, eyes darting around the room to find the source of your sudden movement.
"I'm gonna be late", you clarify and hurry out the door. Ghost a few steps behind you.
You make it to the front door with less than a minute to spare. Your parents are stood talking and turn around when you approach with quick steps. You come to a halt behind them. Smiling at your mother. She smiles back and turns towards the men beside the door. Gaz and Price are on either side of the door. Ready to follow their queens order. Your mother nods to them and the doors open. You face the light erupting from the gap and put on a smile that you hope looks natural. The forgotten breakfast on your plate makes itself reminded as your stomach churns. You feel Ghosts eyes burn into the back of your head and you step outside into the light
Next chapter
Authors note:
Hey, I'm back! It's been a while since I posted fanfiction here. But after have read a bunch my inspiration has come back. I am thinking of posting more than just this, like one-shots e.c.t. If there is interest in this I'd love to hear it! I am more than up for taking requests! There may be errors in this and you are more than welcome to correct me. Hope you have enjoyed this! //Polt 🌻
