─ .✦ while simon is away on a mission, boredom leads you to try on his ghost mask and mess with his guns.
cw: suggestive content, non-explicit smut, gun use. (1.6k)
The entire house was empty, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, except you were bored out of your mind. With Simon gone on deployment for the past few weeks, the silence felt heavier than usual, pressing in on every corner.
You found yourself flipping through channels aimlessly, scrolling through your phone for the fifth time, and counting down the days until you could hear his voice again, rare as those moments were during missions.
And yet, your boredom was doing something it rarely did: it was pushing you into forbidden territory. That’s how you ended up rifling through Simon Ghost Riley’s closet. His private stuff. The one place he had explicitly told you not to touch.
At first, it had seemed daunting—a warning more than an invitation—but curiosity, as always, won. What you found was… staggering.
Weapons carefully lined up in padded cases, belts and holsters stacked neatly, various tactical pouches and gloves laid out with precision, and, tucked away at the back, a small arsenal of firearms.
You didn’t intend to touch any of them; after all, you had no idea how they all worked, and honestly, some part of you respected the deadly precision in which Simon kept them.
Still, your attention wasn’t on the guns. Your eyes wandered over the tactical vests, straps, and helmets. The sheer amount of gear was enough to make your head spin. Knives tucked in hidden sheaths, belts lined with unidentifiable gadgets—you could feel a small thrill creeping up your spine at the thought of the meticulous care this man put into his equipment.
And then, tucked beneath a folded tactical vest, your fingers brushed against something soft. You pulled it out and froze for a second: two balaclavas with a skull print, and beside them, what you assumed was one of his extra masks.
Extra balaclavas? Extra mask? Somehow you had assumed he’d been using the same one for years. That was… kind of stupid, in hindsight.
Your lips curved into a smirk, because let’s be honest: the man looks fucking incredible in that mask. All stoic, intimidating, untouchable. And now, here it was, in your hands, begging to be… tested. Your brain rationalized it immediately: boredom is deadly, and this is perfectly entertaining.
You tossed aside your own sweater, ignoring the way the weapons and gear lay scattered across the floor, and tugged on one of the balaclavas first. The fabric slid over your head, obscuring your face and leaving only your eyes visible.
You blink at your reflection in the full-length mirror, raising an eyebrow. Okay… slightly terrifying. Slightly hot, you think, tugging on the straps of a tactical vest over your body.
You grabbed the helmet next, sliding it over your head with a grunt. Your vision was limited, and you nearly tripped over one of the pouches that had fallen onto the floor. “Yep. Definitely not Ghost Riley.” You laughed, a quiet, breathy sound, spinning in place to see your reflection from every angle.
The skull-printed balaclava shifted slightly under the helmet, and you adjusted it, finally settling into a pose that felt… vaguely threatening.
You crouched slightly, mimicking some sort of tactical stance, and giggled at how tiny and awkward you looked. His vest practically swallowed your torso, the helmet sliding down over your eyes just enough to make you bump into the dresser.
You straightened, hoisting a ridiculously heavy rifle in your hands as if it weighed nothing, the oversized weapon almost dragging against your shoulder.
You planted your feet wide, crossed your arms over the barrel, and leaned slightly forward, tilting your head just like he did when assessing a target. Okay, deep husky Ghost voice… you think, and your giggles threaten to give you away.
“You don’t see me,” you murmur, trying to sound menacing, voice low and clipped, “but I see everything. Don’t move, don’t breathe… or you won’t make it out alive.”
You can’t help it—a little snort escapes as you mimic his serious glare in the mirror, and suddenly you’re laughing at how absurdly intense you look, holding a gun twice your weight.
Your shoulders start to ache under the weight of the gun, the M4A1 digging into your collarbones. You huff and grunt, wiggling, trying to lift it off properly. But your arms give out, and with a thud, the weapon hits the floor, echoing against the hardwood.
You wince. Yeah, probably shouldn’t have been handling a lethal weapon like a toy. But in this moment, the discomfort doesn’t matter.
You freeze mid-laugh, balaclava half-off, and feel a cold, electric prickle run down your spine. Every instinct screams that someone is there. You don’t have to turn, your body knows.
Fuck.
Slowly, carefully, you pivot, heart hammering, only to find the bedroom door framed by the silhouette of Ghost. Standing there like he just materialized from the shadows themselves, arms crossed over a chest that seems carved from steel, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the doorway. His presence presses down on you in a way that is both terrifying and mesmerizing.
His eyes sweep over the chaos you’ve created: the closet flung open, weapons strewn about like toys, the M4A1 lying on the floor, and the balaclava dangling limply from your fingers.
And then, finally, his gaze lands on you. Wide-eyed, stiff, a deer caught in headlights would have been lucky compared to your posture, half-draped in his gear, pretending to be the deadliest man alive while failing spectacularly.
You open your mouth, a million excuses spilling out at once. “I—I—”
“I can explain—”
“It was just… bored, and I—”
And to your fucking shock, instead of screaming at you or lecturing you, he just… laughs. A loud, low chuckle that rumbles through the room, catching you completely off guard.
Your jaw drops. He’s laughing at you. At this mess. At you pretending to be him. You can only gape, completely dumbfounded.
“I… I wasn’t doing anything! I—”
Before you can finish, Simon steps closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He takes the balaclava from your hands and presses it against your chest for a second before leaning down, his voice low and smooth, almost dangerous.
“You rifled through my closet, played dress-up,” he drawls, circling you slowly, each step measured, deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. “And stood here pretending to be me?”
You cross your arms defensively, trying to regain some composure. “I—It’s not like I—”
“Mhm,” he hums, the sound full of amusement and mock judgment, dragging the word out as he stops behind you. “Did you like it?”
“What?” you whisper, confused, heat creeping up your neck.
“Did you, dove?” His hands hover near your waist, fingers brushing lightly against your hips as if testing your reaction. “Did you like holding the guns, feeling… powerful?”
You freeze, caught between embarrassment and excitement. Your throat goes dry, pulse spiking as you realize just how close he is. For a long beat, you don’t answer, your shyness betraying you, letting him watch every flicker of reaction.
He steps closer, the press of his chest against your back making it impossible to ignore him. One hand slides hard along your waist, anchoring you, while the other dips just below your ear, tracing the line of your pulse with the back of his fingers. You feel the heat of his breath, low and deliberate, ghosting against your skin.
“Come on,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet growl, “tell me… did ya feel the power? Felt the control?”
Your knees threaten to buckle. You nod quickly, almost too breathless to speak. “Y-yes… I felt powerful.”
Simon finally pulls back just enough for you to meet his gaze. Through the mask, you can see the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, sharp and knowing. “Does that mean,” he says, his tone teasing and dangerous all at once, “I should submit to you?”
You feel a flush sweep over your face, heat pooling low in your belly at just how close he is, at how impossibly present he is.
He leans in again, close enough that you can feel his body, close enough that you can smell him, and every instinct screams that you’re completely at his mercy—yet it’s intoxicating, thrilling, and maddening all at once.
“You—don’t—ever,” he says softly, brushing his thumbs along your cheek, lingering on your jawline, “get to act like that without me knowing, got it?”
You shiver under the intensity of him, caught somewhere between guilt and excitement. “Yes,” you whisper, barely audible.
You freeze, staring at the rifle lying on the floor, heart hammering in your chest. Simon’s eyes snap onto yours, sharp and commanding, and suddenly you feel like the entire room has shrunk down to just the two of you.
“Come on,” he says, voice low, just above a growl. “Hold the gun. You wanna feel powerful, don’t ya?”
You swallow, hands trembling as you reach down and pick it up, the weight unfamiliar in your arms. “Simon… what?” you whisper, uncertain.
“Hold it,” he hisses, stepping closer, his presence pressing down on you. Shakily, you lift the rifle, aligning it with his instructions, feeling the raw heft settle into your arms.
Then he drops to his fucking knees.
His eyes lock on yours with that intense, unreadable focus, and for a moment it’s just you and him, the weight of the rifle in your hands and the unspoken electricity vibrating between you.
A shiver runs down your spine as he adjusts his position, his hands brushing against your thighs to steady you, his gaze intense, reading every reaction. You can’t help the small whimper that escapes as your pulse races under his attention.
“Steady, dove,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, almost purring. “Feel the power, feel the control. Don’t let it scare you.”
He reaches up, pulling you even closer to him to where his face is facing your slick heat, and leans in closer looking at you up through his mask. “Look at me. You’re in charge here. I’m under your control. You fucking control me.”
Your legs go weak under the pressure of his gaze, the teasing dominance of his stance, the way he kneels like he’s completely devoted to you while letting you hold all the authority.
You nod, words failing you, heart thundering in your chest.
Simon smirks beneath his mask, thumbs lightly brushing your thighs, and then he pulls your pants down and slides your soaked panties to the side. “That’s it,” he says softly, voice dark and amused. “Atta girl, already wet.”
You whimper, the gun slipping in your hands, wobbling uncontrollably.
Simon's eyes snap onto yours, sharp and commanding.
"I said hold the fucking gun," says, voice low, unwavering.
He steps closer, still on his knees, takes the rifle from your hands, and slowly, deliberately points it at himself.
Kneeling there, his gaze locks with yours, and the moment hangs, electric and charged, raw with unspoken intensity. “If I don’t make you cum, you shoot me.’’
And then he’s diving straight in, devouring you, leaving you a moaning mess against the wall, still holding a gun pointed at none other than Ghost's head.
a/n: first simon fic!! ahh this was so fun to write. i have a bunch more fics planned for this man, and i can't wait to share them. this felt like a little test run on writing him <3
