✮ using ghost/simon as your own portable stand, mirror and chair wherever the two of you go.
it's almost routine now whenever the two of you leave the house, as soon as it hits the one hour mark you're opening your camera app and handing it over to him to hold, eyebrows furrowed in slight concentration as you touch up your lip liner and gloss. or when you turn to him and ask if you should fix your hair or clothing. "jus' a bit, love. you look perfect any'ow."
and if you're feet are feeling sore from walking for too long in your heels, simon's immediately finding a place to sit where he can pull you onto his lap instead of letting you sit directly onto the public space and messing up your pretty clothes with dust.
all the while, his eyes are practically gazing at your beauty in awe, not like some uncontrollably lovesick puppy, but there's a softness that only appears when he's admiring your beauty. so long as you give him that sweet smile of gratitude when you're done, he'll gladly let you have your way with him.
biker!simon who desperately needs a distraction after quiting the military. using his bonus for taking his retirement, he decided to buy a brand new bike to keep him distracted from the loneliness.
biker!simon who takes his new loud bike to go to an appointment downtown, very satisfied by his latest purchase.
biker!simon who parks his bike on the sidewalk, engine still running. he's on his phone to check his new doctor's adress again, eyebrows furrowed under his balaclava and helmet.
biker!simon doesn't notice you right away, he does when you are a few meters away from his bike. he looks up, and you're talking to him, he can't hear anything with his helmet but also the loud ass sound of the engine running. he panicks a little, brows furrowing even more, he can't help but notice how beautiful you look, his eyes landing on your phone in your hand. were a woman like you really asking for his number?
after a few seconds that felt like minutes of him looking at you intently, simon decides to turn off his bike to hear you better. he's a bit excited to hear what you are saying to him, he doesn't know what he was expecting but it was definitely not this.
"can you turn down your fucking engine ? you biker guys are insufferable" you spit at him as you walk away with a nasty look.
biker!simon looks at you as you walk off, his mouth is slightly agap and his phone is still sitting in his hand. he's not even mad, he gets up from his bike and walks to his appointment with a big smile on his face, he has no idea why but he definitely liked that.
simon riley is too lazy to change up and take a shower first thing after coming back home from being deployed, not with his head clogged only by thoughts of you, his sweet darling, waiting for him all nice and welcoming in the house, maybe even cooking some meal, knowing he's always hungry when he's back.
but this hunger affects only you, he doesn't needs a warm meal, a long bath, the only thing simon desires after being away from you for so long is sink into your pussy, listen to your breathy keens as he fills you full of his engorged, leaking cock, not even getting rid of his gear, only unzipping his cargos to carve in your waiting, soppy hole.
heavy, coarse balls plapping wet against your puffy, soaked folds, your pussy stretched wide around his spasming, ramming cock, legs dangling uselessly against his shoulders as simon's geared body traps you against the sheets, pressing in with the heaviness and pungent smell of him, grime, sweat, piercing your nose as his fat tip abuses your spongy spot, prodding and slamming when he hears your small, raspy mewls.
you gaze right at him with your glassy, wet eyes, gathering tears that blear the sight of his own, lidded and heavy, opaque in their darkness, the corroding hunger that is punctured by simon's every short, deep thrust, and it's feels like he's only sinking more deep, filling you so full your tummy tenses, twisting at the feeling of something building, pressing, wet cunt clenching down with a loud groan from him.
simon bumps his face against your palm that raises up weak and trembling, holds it steady with his squeezing, gloved hand, dotting wet kisses across your skin, his lips chapped, rough, and it's all him, as he humps your squelchy, slick soaked hole with erratic, needy pounds of his hips, fabric of his pants scraping uncomfortably against your tender, naked body, as he grinds into you, huffing.
slurs how sweet you're being for him, taking him so well, and your legs are numb, shaking against his shoulders in time of his thrusts, his cock following the rhythm of your pulsing, gooey walls, clamping down and gushing, sobbing a crying, pitchy moan as simon almost roars, body weighing onto you, as you feel his thick cum spurt against your cervix.
he did not raise his voice, save for those business calls that invariably left him rubbing his temples in sheer frustration, he had never raised a hand at you, not even when you tried to push away as he cornered you against the kitchen table, body pinned as your fingers gripped the spatula you had been using to stir the dinner
hand sliding beneath your undies, fingers, weathered from work, kneading into your skin as they crept to cup your cunt, only to find you dry “’m so tired, baby, just let me” he croons low, pressing heavy, sloppy kisses just beneath your ear, your hands flailing uselessly, eyes fixated on the bubbling pasta sauce.
he lay in a closed coffin, the surrounding cries and whispers reduced to the mere midge buzz in your ears, the dress feeling too tight, squeezing your shoulders, while every sympathetic pat on your spine brought a new suffocating wave, each more stifling than the last, a few tears forcing their way out your careworn eyes, leaving a bitter burn in your throat
one by one, the mourners began to drift away, family members, long not seen friends, women whose faces you didn’t recognize, among them simon, a man who had known your husband from the army, appearing with a visit perhaps once a year, if at all, blonde eyelashes fluttering upward as his gaze found yours from across, umber eyes barely blinking
taking in your mourning attire with a subtle tilt to his head, his balaclava exchanged for a simple cloth mask that now dangled from his ear, thin, nicked lips clamped around a burning cigarette, none recognized him, none could be seen pleased by his unsettling presence, imposing and broad shouldered, heavy combat boots caked in grime, rugged scars with mute signals that broadcast danger.
simon had helped you into his truck to take you home, thoroughly exhausted, drained from the endless questions, the lingering wailing noise, and the looming weight of the paperwork waiting to find its way to you, his palm steady and warm against your back
thick fingers surprisingly deft as he reached over to buckle your seat belt, driving off abruptly the moment your mother in law approached, poised to ask what you planned to do with your late husband's belongings, a man of little patience, and he knew you had endured more than enough today
intent to have your thoughts away from the tragedy, and doing so flawlessly, your tight dress ripped in jagged line at it's hem, panties tucked aside to let him grind into your sopping wet cunt, fluttering restlessly around the gorged girth that stretches your tight hole out, his fingertips as calloused as your husband’s, but much more attentive
counting your ribs with slow wonder, trapping your swollen clit under rough circles, you're dripping all over your trembling thighs and his pants, his cock carving it's place within you, the bite undisguised, voice a husky drawl “he wasn't' even worth a nail from yauh littl' finger” against your tender skin, where he pressed demanding kisses, crooked nose nuzzling into your sternum.
Watching all the lightening strikes of the thunderstorm outside my window and thinking how Sunshine and Simon would be during a thunderstorm…
“Sunshine,” Simon groaned, “Come back to bed.”
“Yeah in a minute oh there’s another one Si!”
You had been stood at the large window with the curtains open for the last hour since you woke up and said “I smell rain.” And Simon had confirmed that there was a thunderstorm rolling in. The pressure had been building all day and of course he had been tracking it with the lightening tracker app on his phone.
Then the first lightening flash had lit up the sky and you were out of bed and at the window in seconds, before the thunder arrives.
He hears you cross the floor. He hears the curtains being pulled back. He does not open his eyes.
The second strike comes and you make a sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, delighted and involuntary.
"Sunshine.”
"Yeah in a minute ooooo, there's another one, Si, did you see that one?"
He has not seen that one. He is lying on his back with one arm over his face in the dark of the bedroom while his wife stands at the window in her pyjamas conducting a private love affair with a thunderstorm.
"Come back to bed."
"In a minute."
He opens one eye.
You are standing at the large window with both hands on the glass, your face turned up to the sky, lit intermittently by the lightning in a way that makes you look angelic.
He opens the other eye.
"Si," you breathe, "look at that one."
He looks. Through the window the sky splits white and enormous, the whole landscape thrown into a second of stark relief — the garden, the lavender, the fields beyond the fence — and then the dark comes back and two seconds later the thunder arrives, a low rolling thing that moves through the glass and into the floor and into his chest.
You turn to look at him with a smile, eyes bright and glassy.
"Come look," you say.
He should say no. He should say “it's two in the morning, sunshine, come back to bed.” He should say a great number of sensible things and none of them are going to make any difference whatsoever.
He gets up.
He crosses the room and he stands behind you, settling back against his chest, his arms coming around you, your hands covering his on the windowsill now.
Outside, the lightning is coming in intervals now, the thunder close enough that you feel it as much as hear it. The rain arrives properly, sheeting against the window, and you make that sound again, the delighted involuntary one.
"There," you say softly, as another strike splits the sky. “It’s so pretty Si.” You sigh, a happy lilt in your voice.
Simon always said to call him whenever you needed anything. When a knock and suspicious sounds make you wary to be alone, naturally you call Simon for comfort. Only instead of getting your sweet Simon, it's Ghost who comes to your rescue.
It started with a knock on your door. Too soft to be the delivery guy, too irregular to be a needy neighbor. You didn’t think too hard about it, dismissing the knock as possibly kids just being kids. That is, until you overheard sounds of rustling in the bushes beneath the front window in your living room. The sounds were quick and sharp, definitely not like an animal moving through the area.
Your hand trembles as you reach for your phone, your heartbeat thudding in your chest and the pounding of your own blood within your ears is deafening as you felt the anxiety and panic rising within you. You didn’t think twice before dialing his number.
You bite at your bottom lip nervously as you wait for him to pick up, your eyes staying on the window, as if whatever–or, whoever–was outside would pop up any moment.
You hear the line pickup. “Simon?” you whisper, voice cracking in the quiet of your apartment, your ears straining to listen for the intruding sounds of someone on your property.
A beat of silence. Then his voice, low and taut. “What happened?”
You explain your fears in clipped, trembling phrases–the knock, the sounds outside, how you swear it’s a person and not just a wild animal. His end of the line goes quiet again, except for the sounds of movement, keys jingling. A door slamming. The ignition of a truck.
✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚
By the time you dared to peek through the curtains and blinds of your living room windows, headlights flashed across your yard. A truck pulling into your driveway. His truck. Relief floods through your chest–then curdles in a mix of excitement and awe when he steps out of the truck.
Not Simon.
Ghost.
The skull mask catches the light, hollow eyes locked on the front of your house. He moves with lethal certainty, shoulders squared, every inch of him a predator set loose. He stares at you when you open the door, his frame filling the threshold like a shadow made flesh. He didn’t say a word, a heavy hand on your hip as he pushes you back into safety as he enters your home. He’s already scanning the entire living space.
“Stay inside,” he orders, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. The voice he uses on missions. The one that doesn’t tolerate hesitation. The lieutenant.
You open your mouth, the wrong name on your tongue–Simon–but your words wither under his stare. His eyes weren’t soft like usual, weren’t the ones that crinkled when you tease him. Now his eyes were sharp, cold, and focused. The Simon you know replaced with the tactical man most others knew him as. The man that drew fear and dread from his enemies, and respect from those who work alongside him.
He tore through the rooms of your home with frightening efficiency. Yanking open doors, checking windows, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. Moving about like a deadly fog throughout the space. You followed without thinking, at least until he spun and the bared teeth of his mask filled your vision.
He stalked towards you, forcing you backwards until you were back in the living room and falling onto your couch. “Sit down, stay put, and don’t follow me.” His voice was a command that rooted you to the spot.
You obeyed, pulse racing, your eyes tracking him as he vanished down the hall. Every sound–the creak of doors, the slam of window latches–set your nerves on edge. The distant give of your patio door closing as he checks the perimeter.
When he returns, relief sags through your body, but before you could speak, his hand cups your face. His slightly calloused thumb brushing your skin a little too hard, more rough, possessive than gentle and soothing. “Whoever it was is gone,” he says finally.
You look at him with those sweet, trusting eyes he loves so much.
“You call me again,” he orders, voice low enough to vibrate against your bones. “Every time. Don't wait, don’t hesitate.”
Your lips part. “Simon…”
His jaw flexes beneath the mask, but he doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t soften either. The man in front of you wasn’t Simon–not really.
He was Ghost.
The one who didn’t cook breakfast with you in the mornings, didn’t laugh until you both were snorting, didn’t rub your head while you cuddled up to him during movie nights.
The one who killed, who hunted, who protected you like it was instinct carved into his bones.
The other side of the coin that is your sweet Simon.
His voice was quieter, but no softer. “You don’t open the door at night. Ever. Doesn’t matter who you think it is. You don’t answer, you don’t look. You call me. Always.”
You swallow, nodding along to his demands. “Okay.”
“Say it.” A command wrapped in something almost like care.
Your breath hitches. “...I’ll call you.” You felt a flip in your stomach, something inside you aching. You weren’t sure if you missed your usual Simon, or if part of you liked how dangerous Ghost felt when he was this close, when he was overly protective. Overly intense. All for you.
Satisfied, he settles onto the couch, positioning you so you’re sat between his legs as he spreads out longways along the couch. A cage disguised as comfort. One you allowed yourself to settle into, making yourself at home within the confines of his arms around you, holding onto your waist to keep you centered.
For a long minute you let yourself lean into the shape of him there, the scent of leather and cologne clinging to the air. It should’ve felt suffocating. Instead, a strange, guilty comfort slid through you. As you drifted to sleep on him, you realized that calling him in situations like these would always bring Ghost before Simon. And as wrong as that felt sometimes, you found you couldn’t quite bring yourself to regret it.
you’ve always seen simon riley, but not ghost. not the ghost that dominated the missions, the one with lethal stealth that could kill his enemies in silence, no. you only knew simon. the man who kissed your shoulders in the morning, giving you a massage before preparing your breakfast, making you your favourite coffee even though he is a tea person. simon riley.
though your curiosity piped when simon came back from his mission late at night. you never knew when he was going to return, where you would roll to the other side of the bed and then realise that he was finally back.
except, that night he returned you couldn’t sleep awake as you sipped on your herbal tea, when you went down to the kitchen after hearing the door open, only to find simon walking into your house with his balaclava and gear. his pants fitted tightly around his large thighs with straps that seemed to only emphasise them even more, his shirt straining against his chest with a large vest.
simon knew you were a light sleeper, hence why he never turned the lights on when he returned.
despite your sleepiness your mind couldn’t help but to wonder to the foulest of thoughts.
him chasing you with his balaclava and taking you.
the next day you suggested the idea, despite his initial hesitation, you didn’t miss the way his eyes seemed to darken ever so slightly, his gaze calculating as if he was imagining it.
and now here you were running up the stairs, where simon, now ghost was chasing you in his uniform and balaclava.
you couldn’t help but to giggle as you hurried up the stairs, your breaths coming out in small pants as you ran down the hallway, ghost’s heavy boots following you.
he wasn’t even running and was only a few steps away.
he tried his best to give you the performance you wanted, a cat and mouse game, but with the current strain against his pants around his crotch area, his resolve was slowly crumbling.
before you could turn down the hallway, he lifted you up effortlessly, placing you in his shoulders as he turned to your shared bedroom.
“and where do you think yer doin’ pretty girl?” his accent thick as he threw you onto the mattress, admiring the way you stared at him with the most loving eyes despite never seeing ‘ghost’
“you know i don’t like trouble,” his large calloused hands pulling you to the edge of the bed with ease. “and i don’t like brats.”
his gaze lingered in between your legs, specifically your glistening cunt. no panties.
“runnin’ away from me when yer wet like that?” his hands trailing around your legs, heading towards your inner thighs.
“thought you like a good chase mr riley.”
his eyes sparkled, “it’s ghost for you.”
his thumb gently rubbed against your clit, your arousal dribbling down his fingers before seeping into the fabric of his fingerless gloves. “so messy,” he cooed before shoving his fingers into your mouth. “clean up yer mess.”
usually, simon would take his time, gently kissing you and praising you as you slowly took him, but he wasn’t simon anymore.
hastily, he unzipped his pants, before fisting his cock in between his hands when he tugged his boxers down. he shoved your dress to where it was bunched up around your stomach, before slapping his tip against your clit.
“gotta be quick, i don’t have much time when im in the field.”
he didn’t fuck like simon, no, he fucked like ghost.
he didn’t give you kisses or words of reassurance when he slammed his full length into you, instead he gripped your hips tight enough to where it made small little red crescent marks.
a small hiss escaped his lips, “fuckin’ hell, so tight.”
his thrusts were fast and powerful, your body bouncing against him as the bed shook, him manhandling you with ease.
“such a pretty little thing aren’t yer? letting me corrupt you.”
his cock made a small bulge in your stomach, his large hands now moving up to squeeze around the area. “see how deep i’m in you swee’heart? yer lettin’ me use you like this?”
you sobbed from pleasure, his fat tip nudging against your sensitive spot as your gummy walls clenched around him. “who knew you were this fucking easy?”
he was in fact not fast, but took his time corrupting every part of your body, making you lay on the bed all sweaty and breathless with his cum dribbling out of your puffy cunt.
thinking about how it must be such a good bonding experience between you and simon to have him let someone else fuck you. especially when he’s already in there.
contains: dp, threesome, tiniest tiny bit of ddlg but not really
word count { 581 }
mdni - dead dove maybe ?
kind of inspired p!link
.ೃ࿔*:· — he’s laying back against the headboard with his cock already shoved eight inches deep inside you. you’re panting, soaked with sweat from the nerves already. his hands always make sure you’re fucked out for things like this.
your face is pressed right onto the side of his, a little bit of drool already sliding off your tongue from just not being able to close your mouth.
the hot bare skin of his chest pressing against yours. the solid mass of his arm caging around your back, making sure you don’t move. his other arm is so sweetly petting your hair and face. continuing to brush the messy strands away from your eyes while he mumbles things to you the whole time.
“my pretty baby.” “such a sweet girl for letting daddy share.” “promise it’ll feel good.”
he pats your bum once, angling his hips a little deeper and further up, a soft whine coming from your lips when his cock buries itself even more. it’s then you feel another set of hands on your ass. followed by a hot glob of spit. it makes you jump a little when it lands on your unused hole, a nervous whine making its way out when you feel a finger prodding in to the space simon isn’t taking up.
“just one more, baby. you can do that for me, yeah? helping daddy out so much.” he purrs into your ear.
the whimpers coming out of you are full of pure adrenaline, desire, and nerves. he can tell how worked up you really are about all of this. so when he hears the harsh mewl leaving you the second his buddy starts to shove his thick cock into your ass, he’s quick to praise.
the arm around your back tightens to keep you in place, his hand on your head buries its fingers into your scalp, trying to pet away the painful stretch. “good girl, sugar. such a good girl for me. so good at sharing, so good.” his mouth is right against your temple while he speaks.
his own groans fill alongside, he can feel the way you’re tightening and struggling to take two cocks at once. there’s a second of grace when he stills his, only to let his friend slip in and out of your ass.
it’s gotta feel soooo comforting to know simon is right there with you, holding you, stuffing you full in the most precious spot. his lips kissing at the side of your head while trying to get a glance at the sight of another man fucking into your ass.
“‘m right here, baby. not goin’ nowhere.”
there's nothing left in your head. just trying to grasp the concept of simons thick girth shoved into your cunt, leaking and getting his pelvis all sticky between the two of you. and its hard to block out the noises his best mate is letting out. its obvious hes excited too, the way he had zero mercy for shoving straight into your ass and continuing to piston in and out even when your boyfriend is staying still.
simon grabs your face by the jaw and gets your eyes to look at him. youre completely fucked out, lips covered in drool, eyes half lidded, your entire body is a ragdoll.
he wants you to look right at him when he starts moving too. each of you panting and whining, looking so lovingly at one another.
