You were cursed, clearly there was no other way to explain the constant slipping of your pants, skirts being flipped up, and underwear getting pulled on or tugged to the side whenever you are out in public.
Cursed.
Your friend had given you this shiny new bracelet for your birthday, and ever since, you have been fighting invisible demons of misfortune with your clothes, all kinds just keep slipping down or are messed with, even when you are alone at home, they end up out of place 100% of the time.
You had brought it up with a friend, and they brushed it off, laughing and telling you curses aren't real and to just buy a belt or something, offering to show you the bracelet isn't cursed by wearing it for a day.
They didn't have a single malfunction the whole day, but the moment you slip the bracelet back around your wrist, your pants fell, belt and all, still firmly closed, your friend giggled and joked that you must be cursed after all.
Going home and tossing the godforsaken bracelet into your junk drawer, you enjoy a little bit of comfort and relaxation as you lounge in your bed, blessedly dressed in your comfy clothes, as you drift off in your bed.
Only to wake to the cursed bracelet back on your wrist, a little note tied to it reading 'don't take me off again :((' in scribbled handwriting. Trying to remove the awful thing is met with no luck, tugging, unlatching, trying to cut it off, nothing is making the horrid bangle budge or move; the thing is on your wrist, and it's seemingly not coming off at all.
The incidents with your clothes in public slowly decreased to small tugs and shifts of the waistbands that could be seen as normal happenings, but at home in your little one-bedroom, it was a different situation. Anytime you didn't need to leave the house? Pants missing, skirts pushed to the back of drawers, nothing that was meant to cover your lower half was even available or findable.
You had begrudgingly begun to accept the curse you had been dealt.
But the moment you had grown comfortable with it, whatever entity was tied to the unremovable bracelet began to step it all up again, stealing underwear and tugging them down when you stood still or lay down, soon there were feelings of fingers gripping your thighs and digging into your ass that came with every shift of fabric.
Being teased and groped by an unseen entity wasn't on the cards for the year, but here you are, a cursed bracelet bound to your wrist and being actively bent over your small dining room table as a spectre has made it's ghostly home between your legs, fingers kneading and groping at your ass as the feeling of a mouth working along your sex has you making filth sounds into your empty apartment.
Telling Ghost/König you are too heavy for him to pick up or sit on his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first so you think he just accepted it even if your heart kinda twinged a little in pain because you know you are just not skinny enough-
Only for him to send you a video the next day: in the gym, looking mighty hot in a compression shirt and sweatpants just a touch low on his hips, and lifting a bar with ease. On a closer look? The weighs attached to the bar weigh far more than you do. And he so easily maneuvers and controls and manhandles it…
Between the heat curling in your stomach, face pink and thighs clenched shut, you almost miss the incoming text.
Just thinking about how simon would definitely be the type of man to start cooking ribs, I mean like marinating those things and letting them slow cook for hours, only for him to slip out of the bed at nearly 3am.
You only noticed because his side of the bed got colder and then you woke up to your precious simon riley with a plate of ribs in his big hands, piled high for both of you as he sat down. you wouldn’t care about getting food on the bed this late, and he knew it. He liked cooking for you when on leave, liked providing.
“ribs.”
He mumbled, and you gave a sleepy nod before leaning against him, idly taking a rib and obliging him with a bite of the food. As it turns out, it was pretty damn good, and for another hour or so you both just sat there, silently eating ribs in bed.
Simon didn’t like to hold you. He liked to be held.
At first, you didn’t understand why he’d turn his back to you in bed without saying anything. You thought you’d done something to him, or maybe he was in a bad mood. You couldn’t be any more wrong.
Simon Riley, an absolute brute of a soldier, was silently asking for you to be the big spoon. You nearly didn’t believe it when he finally brought it to your attention.
He was too embarrassed to ask you, so he’d resort to flipping on to his side and wait. And wait. Until he realized you didn’t catch the memo, even after many hopeless attempts.
In his mind, he thought being the big spoon would somehow convince you he wasn’t manly enough, as if his title in the service or his pure stature wasn’t proof enough of his masculinity.
To him, being held was a blanket of security. Where he’d always have to watch his back out on the field, both literally and metaphorically, he didn’t have to keep an eye out at all times with you. It was a chance for him to find solace in a person, and when he explained this to you, he was surprised to find you so willing.
And oh, when it happened, Simon nearly kicked himself for holding back on verbalizing it for so long.
The warmth of your arms when they wrapped around him from behind, your face buried between his shoulder blades, legs tangled in his, he thought that this was what inner peace felt like.
He was silly to think you’d ever be the one to judge him for what most deemed ‘unmasculine’. In all of his broad glory, he felt safe the moment you held him, like a child does when they feel a mother’s embrace except it was from someone he loved dearest to his heart.
And you? You found that being the big spoon was rather enjoyable when the man you’re holding was so damn comfortable to snuggle up to. It was a win-win for you both.
You just wished he wasn’t an idiot that left you wondering all those hopeless nights until the truth came out.
You take out your little tin of Vaseline, taking a small amount on your finger and bringing it to your lips. You feel Simon Riley’s large presence walk up to you. He leans one hand against the wall. He’s standing so close you could almost see his pupils expand a little when you looked up into them.
Your heart racing, you hold his gaze and rub your finger over your lips. Dip into the tin, back onto your lips. You rub your lips together.
“Can I have some?” Ghost’s gruff voice rumbles from beneath his mask.
“You want lip balm?” You ask, somewhat incredulous. He didn’t seem like the type.
He merely nods, never talking his eyes off yours.
“Okay.” You say, the word sounding more like a question. He lifts his mask just above his mouth. You go to hand over the tin. His hand comes out but instead of taking the tin, they find your chin, gently gripping you and pulling you closer. His lips land on yours, firm but a lot gentler than you were expecting.
He pulls back, rubbing his lips together. You blush furiously.
“Thanks, love.” He mumbles, pulling his mask back down. He walks away then as if nothing just happened.
not developed idea at all but thinking about Ghost torturing some crime lord or other and he’s using the man’s wife as leverage. Gun to her head as she cries and shakes, tied up on the floor of the concrete room, begging her husband to help her.
Ghost gives the man a choice; his life, or hers. His lip curls beneath the mask when the man chooses his own life.
“Shouldn’t treat y’wife that way.” He says coldly. “Bad for you, yeah? Happy wife, and all that.”
The bullet lands exactly where he means it to go; between the bloke’s eyes. Blood trickles down his forehead, body slackens in the restraints holding him. The pretty thing on the floor screams. Thrashes and thumps her tied wrists off his legs while she curses him out.
“Thank you wouldn’t hurt,” he rumbles dryly. “Would’ve been you if your man had his way. Up you get, c’mon.”
He pulls her to her feet, brushes her down with lingering hands. Smooths over her hair and thumbs away the tears. The mask shifts, like he’s frowning.
“Calm down, y’fine. Not going to shoot you.” He doesn’t trust her to walk alongside him nicely, so he lifts her over his shoulder with a pat to her arse. “Alright, ‘bout time we get you home. Spare rooms a tip so we’ll be sharing the bed, mind.”
Simon Riley x f!reader || Masterlist || Ghost playlist
drabble ♡ implied ptsd
You wake up to the bed feeling way too empty. You reach out on instinct, but your hand meets only the cold sheet where Simon’s warm body should be.
You find him in the kitchen, standing barefoot by the counter in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants. The dim light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the shadows setting under his eyes.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask.
He doesn’t look up right away. Just keeps his hands braced on the counter, shoulders tight as if they’ve forgotten how to let go. When he finally answers, his voice comes out rough, yet quiet, like gravel dragged over stone.
“No…” His eyes stay fixed on some invisible point on the countertop, fingers flexing, whitening at the knuckles. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
For a moment, it feels like something else lingers in the room, heavy and unspoken. But when he exhales, slow and shaky, the feeling goes away, all there is left in its place is the soft pull towards him.
The coldness of the kitchen tiles is nipping at your bare feet, but you move closer anyway, until your fingers brush against his.
His hand twitches—just once, small and quick—before he lets you lace your fingers through his. Warm, calloused and human.
“Si, I don’t mind. You can always wake me up if you need to,” you whisper.
And though he doesn’t say anything back, his hand tightens around yours like a thank you, letting the words he can’t quite get out be known through his touch.
“Come back to bed?” you murmur after a little while, tilting your head so he has to feel the softness in your voice.
For a long moment, he just stands there, the silence stretching between you. Then his fingers tighten around yours again. It’s wordless and weary, but willing, and you know he’ll follow you back. He lets you tug him gently away from the counter. Back down the hall, back beneath the blankets, back where the night is warmer with the two of you pressed close.
Sleep doesn’t come quickly, far from it, in fact, but with your hand still in his, he doesn’t fight it quite as hard.
anyways, as i was saying about older bf!simon and his willingness to please learn
pt 2 to this
“you ever heard of a nut video with sound on?”
obviously, he hasn’t- far as he’s concerned, if you haven’t told him about it then it doesn’t exist to him.
no skin off your nose, you’d spend the rest of your life teaching him about the ‘latest trends’ if it meant he kept sending those filthy fucking videos to your phone.
(your favourites on tiktok were purely filled with ideas)
he’s holed up in a remote location, killing time till he can be home and actually do something to you rather than send you a bloody video about it.
your instructions come through clear and concise, just how he likes:
“it’s what’s written on the can, si- you can pick the setup but i just want to see you cum and, most importantly, i want to hear it”
you’re lucky simon is such a practical guy and maybe you could thank price one day for making him so good at following orders.
when he’s got his alone time he’s setting his phone up to record on the edge of the window sill, moonlight fighting through the curtain to illuminate him.
he’s lost the bulkiest of his gear, down to his tactical trousers and a compression t-shirt. the images in his tattoo sleeve almost move when the light catches them right.
balaclava on (the one that just shows his eyes above the painted image of a skull) and he’s standing up to undo his belt (that you think looks like an airplane seatbelt).
you can hear his boots against the floorboard as he steps back to give you the full view of him undoing his trousers, taking his sweet time because he knows it drives you fucking batty.
he’s so big that the phone is working overtime to get all of him in the frame but you see exactly what you need to- thick thighs at your eye line and massive hands drawing down his fly.
on (you assume) the other side of the globe, you’re at home in your shared bed and you’re propped up right in the middle with the smell of simon engulfing you as you watch the video play out before you.
(if you’d thought about it you should’ve cast it to the bedroom tv, hoping the neighbours didn’t mind)
simon sits back down with his legs spread wide, one hand gripping his thigh as the other rubs himself over his boxers. his eye contact with the camera was fucking intense, like you’d hoped, just like when he’s on top of you.
he’s dressed in all black and the moonlight is obscured but you can still see him firming up in his pants. his eyes flutter, an infinitesimal amount but you’ve been tuned into his every move since you met him.
your thumb leans hard on the volume up button and you can hear the diegetic sound of the building expanding and that usual technical hum that comes with a video. but at this pitch, you could hear him.
his breathing was chopped, chest expanding visibly as he pulled his cock out into clear view. jeeeeesus christ, it was never something you just got used to.
long, reasonably straight, fucking thick. even his hand struggled to make it look smaller as he wrapped around it, giving one dry tug.
as he closed his palm over the tip, you saw him make a swipe before he brought his hand back down considerably smoother than before. you’d had your hands down his pants enough times, man leaked like a fucking faucet.
simon’s head tipped back as he started to pull himself off, balaclava raising just enough to expose some of his throat. if you were there you would be perched in his lap, letting him do the work but running your tongue under the lip of the fabric.
one of the best things about the videos simon sent was, he didn’t really understand how sexy he was. he didn’t think any of the videos particularly watchable so he’d just send them on first take. if you liked them, you liked them- yours was the only opinion that mattered.
what that meant was, you never got b-roll. everything he sent you was unbridled perfection. captured exactly as it happens with no faffing about.
always whatever you’ve asked for, whenever you ask.
(simon’s nothing if not inexplicably obedient)
he brings his hand under his chin to spit into the wide span of his palm, wrapping back around his cock and tugging. his foreskin moved over the head, rolling back down and thick veins bulging under his grasp.
you’d almost forgotten the conditions of your request, totally fucking enamoured by the sight in front of you when it caught you off guard.
a guttural moan ripped out of simon’s chest as he twisted his wrist.
his free hand moved to cup his balls, big and heavy, he rolled them in his palm as another groan sounded out of him. what you wouldn’t give to be knelt between his thighs with the whole lot in your mouth.
you knew how much of an ask this was, you really had to work him up to making noise when it was just you two in bed. these days? you couldn’t shut the man up when he was balls deep and his face was buried in the crook of your neck.
but this was another step, this was him on his own with his crew just through the walls. he’d be a plain liar if he said there wasn’t that rumbling trepidation in his chest. he’d put it to bed though.
all he had to think of was you, one hand gripping your phone and the other between your thighs as you watched him through with a hazy smile- that kept him going.
with the thought still heavy on his mind, you didn’t have to strain to hear your name drift off his lips. his hips bucked into his hand as he did, speeding up the motion of his strokes.
you were going to black out, his tattoos flexing and his chest expanding with every stuttered breath. simon looked like a god among men and he fucking sounded like one too.
“fuck, sweetheart- you’re so fucking filthy giving me orders like this”
your cheeks were burning, he wasn’t wrong but you weren’t expecting him to call you out quite like this.
“what does that make me? always so fucking eager to do what you say? make a dirty old man, yeah?”
wheeeeeew that’ll do it, your thighs snapped together around your hand as your eyes nearly rolled back in your head. whenever you thought you couldn’t take any more, he was always there to do you one better.
“only for you, pet- you can always get whatever you fucking want from me”
and you knew he was serious, that’s what made it all the more debilitating. simon was unshakeable, you’d seen him go out of his way to defy orders if he didn’t think the person worth his time.
when it came to you? you could tell him to kill and he would.
(he probably had)
simon’s hips were twitching, back arching in a way he’d rather die than have anyone else know about. his mouth was hanging open beneath the balaclava, your name and a string of expletives falling off his tongue.
so quick you nearly missed it, the hand that was cradling his balls moved to grip the fabric of his shirt and push it up his toned front. you couldn’t call his abs cut and defined, there was aged layer to them, but they were undeniably there.
you’d rested your head on them, pressed your palms against them, even ridden them enough times to know they were there. regardless, he looked fucking perfect under the moon glow as he stroked himself hard and long.
eyes locked onto the camera, broken moans on his lips, you saw his hips lift one last time as thick spurts of cum began to paint his stomach and chest.
scars illuminated under the night sky, mirrored by shiny patches of hot cum splattered across the same stretch of skin. the hairs on his chest were matted with sweat and were now being splashed with how far he was shooting.
you could only watch with your mouth hung open as he tugged himself through his orgasm. soon it was only the sound of his laboured breathing, chest rising and falling as he tucked his soft cock back into his pants.
just when you thought that was it, you found one of his hands lifting up the edge of his balaclava till his lips were exposed. two fingers of his other hand swiped up some of his spend before he lay them on his tongue.
knuckles in your mouth, biting down to suppress a scream, simon readjusted his clothes as he stood and took a heavy step towards the camera.
one hand braced on the window sill, the other gently gripping himself through his trousers- his voice was so fucking gravely it could’ve reverberated round your room.
