-Owner!Ghost x hybrid! Bunny! Reader whos foot keeps thumping on the ground as Ghost continues to get to busy to pet them. Maybe cleaning up their bed because they got stains all over it because they ate sweets in it. (Something they weren’t supposed to do)
-Owner!Ghost who sighs as you continue to sneak unhealthy snacks from the pantry. He finds you burrowed in the warm clean laundry nibbling on chocolate. His once clean pants now stained with chocolate. (;¬_¬)
-Owner! Ghost who gets more annoyed as he finds you sitting under the bed while chewing on the wooden bed post. He shoots a look at the pile of chew toys he got for you! Gah he’s so annoyed at how spoiled you’re getting!
-Owner! Ghost who finally has enough and realizes he has to do his least favorite thing and punish his sweet little bunny! He grips your hips and pulls you out from under the bed. (╥_╥)
-Owner! Ghost plopping you on his lap while pulling your cute little shorts down. Your mouth nibbling and licking his fingers. Cute butt on full display, tail wiggling. He mentally calculates to himself how many times you didn’t listen this week. Ten times in total.
-Owner! Ghost’s hand landing on your ass. You stiffen, letting out a small yelp. Trying to wiggle away, he grips your hips harder. (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
-“You’re going to count- hold still baby- every single spank. Do you know why? Because you were bratty alllll week. Okay?”
-Owner! Ghost who smiles to himself a bit as you start counting. Noticing how you start to leak after the fifth spank. Soft coos telling you how well your doing and how your almost done.
-Owner! Ghost how hugs you and coos as he tells you how well you did. Petting those sweet fluffy ears as you sniffle, your stomach warm with pleasure. （˶′◡‵˶）
saw a post about divorcee!simon riley and wanted to do my own take on it, only to realize there's no way a man like simon would ever let you go.
simon would rather hack his own hand off at the wrist with a machete than sign any divorce paper you slide across the dining table. the same dining table that hosted date nights, supported you when he bent you over them and fucked you mercilessly, sat down and held deep discussions about your future—your wants and needs above his—where your kids had breakfast each morning.
the road to this point hadn't been easy. you and simon had plenty of ups and downs. from him leaving for weeks and months on end for missions, leaving you to worry if you'd ever have anything coming back home for you. each mission, you sent him off with a kiss and accepting it could be your last.
for that, you almost split until simon sat you down at that very dining table, resignation letter already drafted and waiting for your approval before handing it off to price. because he always wanted your blessing before doing what's best for the both of you.
you were in a mud pit now, one you weren't sure you could claw your way back out of. you don't know where you two went wrong, just that you had and now your search history is full of the best divorce lawyers and reverting your name back to its maiden title.
he should've realized how unhappy you had been lately, too worried about taking care of the house and kids to give you time to yourself when all along, you just wanted time with him.
god, when was the last time he ever touched you? not just a quick, passing peck on the lips that felt obligatory as you two turned your backs on each other before bed. real, passionate intimacy with your person. even a smack on the ass to your fleeting frame would've ignited the fire of your marriage again.
but from his end of the line, there was radio silence. now that he sits across from you, hands over his face—because he can't stand the thought of divorcing his person—as he racks his brain for what went wrong. in the end, his refusal to sign the papers frustrates you until he pulls you closer by the edge of your chair and forces you to talk to him.
it comes out with a heap of tears and snot, and simon still thinks you're the prettiest thing. it's a stab to his heart to hear the reality of your unhappiness. his negligence.
in a split second, he's moving. hands wrapped around your thighs as he places you on the table, standing between your knees that he knocks apart with his own.
it's just you two in the house. you didn't want your kids to have to witness this moment, taint their children with their parents' divorce, but it seems you protected their eyes from another thing.
you nudge his chest, "si, stop." the quiver in your voice doesn't escape him as he paws at your waist.
a kiss to your ear before whispering, "shh, lemme make it up t'ya, swee'heart." his voice is a soothing rumble, even as he gropes over your body. "lemme worship what I've been neglectin'."
and you let him. with his sweet words and dirty hands, he kisses all over your body to leave no area untraced. he said he wanted to worship you, and so he does. relearns your body for a second time while ignoring the aching erection under his jeans.
he doesn't undress you. doesn't need to expose your body to make you feel wanted, just enough to give you pleasure without the idea you need to return it.
after kissing and touching you enough to get you to squirm under his palm, he sinks to his knees with his fingers hooked into your panties. sliding them off in one fell swoop, he grunts at the glistening of your pussy. arousal coating the sensitive skin all because of him.
unable to help himself, he drags a thumb down the center, marveling at how sensitive you've become without being stimulated for so long. between taking care of the house and the kids, you've neglected yourself too. how long had it been since you've had an orgasm? too long.
clenching around nothing at the mere touch of his thumb to your clit was embarrassing enough, soft moans spilling past your lips as your head tipped back. he knew you like the back of his hand and what buttons to press to make you crumble underneath his touch. you were doomed from the beginning.
separation was never going to happen with the way he dove between your legs, lips wrapped around the sensitive bundle of nerves. tongue lapping at your pussy and drinking in your arousal. he had missed the taste of you, dopamine rushing through his body as he rehatched an addiction he unwillingly quit.
you were divine. a sweaty, teary mess on that dining room table as you clutched whatever was nearest to keep you steady. simon's hair, the edge of the table, his broad shoulders. your hands were everywhere, pushing and pulling as you fought desperation.
this was simultaneously the worst and best idea. you had just handed him divorce papers, and now you're on the brink of an orgasm right on top of them! you keened when simon slipped a finger inside you, then two before curling them against that delicious spot on your spongy walls.
your vision was coated with white as the strongest release you've have in months sent you spiralling into a place of no return, and he still didn't relent. not until the papers beneath you were soaked, and you had forgotten why you even brought it up to begin with.
so, no. there's no escaping simon. he made a promise when he slipped that ring on your finger, and he is not breaking it. til death do you part.
simon riley thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. he wants to worship you, get on his knees for you, kiss every part of you like he means it. he’d like to rest his face between your honeyed thighs for the rest of his life, he thinks.
simon riley loves the way you talk to him, like he’s precious. like he’s someone worth softening for, like he’s someone worth anything. he didn’t think he was made for much before he met you. he was just going through life’s motions, slipping through death’s fingers again and again, not knowing why. but now he knows; he knows he was made to love you.
simon riley loves the feeling of you between his arms, how your body is made to fit in his. he’d always felt like a stray dog — no home, person, or feeling to call his own. it was like being lost at sea his whole life. then he found you, he found the way his heart did a little jump when you kissed him so sweetly. you became his home, your lips his altar.
simon riley never dared to take his mask off. not for anyone. he was scared, though he’d never admit it. scared of what they’d find, of what they’d think. scared that they would leave him. but something deep between his ribs told him he could trust you, and so he did. he’ll never forget the feeling of that night, you pressing your lips to each scar and holding him like he was holy, your eyes ghosting over each of his flaws with so much love. he thought that maybe he was dreaming, or dead. maybe he’d reached heaven. but he woke up the next morning with your fingers still curled around his.
simon riley hates being away from you, dreads going on missions because it means he has to leave you. he misses you like an ache somewhere soft in his chest, he misses your sweet giggles and the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you smile. he swears sometimes he can almost feel your hand in his, but he turns around and you’re not there. and so he stares at your picture till late, the small, tattered one he keeps in his wallet, until his eyelids start to flutter shut. even then he dreams of you.
simon riley thinks you were an angel sent from above, just for him. you healed things in him he didn’t know were broken, you made him feel like maybe he deserved nice things. not you, he definitely didn’t deserve you. you were too kind, too good for him. but sometimes he feels like he deserves your soft touches and your gentle love, sometimes you make him feel like he deserves to be okay.
You disappeared half way through the work christmas party—a few days later and the team is trying to figure out who you left with..
Reader afab.
—————————
The mystery fractures three days after the Christmas party.
Which, honestly, is surprising. You’d been certain you’d made it out clean- woken the next morning without so much as a sideways glance thrown your way; no raised brows, no knowing smirks aimed at your thoroughly fucked-out hair or the pathetically obvious limp you were nursing. Soap didn’t so much as blink twice in your direction more than he needed to, and no one else said a word.
You’d thought you were in the clear.
Sunday morning finds you in the rec room, still warm from a run, tugging at the collar of your shirt as you wait for the coffee to finish brewing. The place is scattered with the remnants of the weekend: half-drawn curtains, low lights, bodies strewn wherever they’d landed. Soap is slouched sideways in one of the armchairs, Gaz has his boots kicked up on the table, eyes half-lidded. Price is standing over the kettle and Simon is on the couch, coffee in hand, hood up, mask on—unmoving.
You keep your head down, humming quietly to yourself. It’s harmless. Entirely innocent. Absolutely not guilty.
It takes all of thirty seconds before Soap squints at you.
“You,” he says, sitting up.
Not casually. Not jokingly. Predatory.
You don’t turn around, but you can feel his stare digging into your spine. “Dangerous way to start a sentence.”
Gaz hums thoughtfully, then chimes in. “Yeah. She did disappear.”
You lift the mug and take a slow, deliberate sip, then begrudgingly turn to face them. “People are allowed to leave rooms, Johnny.”
“Aye,” Soap says, leaning forward now, elbows braced on his knees. “But ye didnae leave just the room. Ye left the party.”
Price looks up, now, interest sparking as he peers at you over the rim of his mug. “Did she?”
“Oh, she did,” Gaz says with a little too much enthusiasm. “One minute she was arguing with Soap about whether die hard is a Christmas movie—”
“It is,” Soap cuts in.
“—and the next,” Gaz continues, “she’s gone. Took her coat and everything. I finished her drinks.”
Your gaze flicks between them but you school your expression carefully, even as warmth creeps up your neck, settles hot and undeniable behind your knees. It’s hard to keep secrets from men who’re built to break them apart, tenfold when the dissection is taking place in unison.
Being the object of their ire is not something you’d expected when waking up this morning.
“Wow,” you say lightly. “You lot ever consider careers in surveillance?”
Soap’s mouth curls into a grin - you already knew he’d dismiss that.
“So. Who was it?”
You choke, just a little, on your coffee. “Who was what?”
His grin sharpens. “Donnae play dumb.”
Price studies you now. He’s standing a mere arms length away so it isn’t hard to notice the way his eyes track up and down the length of you, the kind of look that sees more than it should.
God help you. Of course your Captain has to be involved in this.
“Mm.” Price quips, taking a sip of tea. “You aren’t exactly subtle, Sarg.”
You still. “I’m not?”
“No,” Gaz says, squinting up to the ceiling as if recalling the last few days. “You’ve been…glowy.”
“Kyle.” You stare at him. “That’s not a real word.”
“It absolutely is,” Gaz says, unbothered. “Next morning you were smiling. During breakfast.”
You huff. “I smile all the time.”
Soap snorts. “No, ye don’t.”
You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”
“Ye smile politely,” he corrects. “Customer-service smile. This was different.”
“Johnny.” You pause, slowly lower the mug. “What does that even mean?”
Soap rocks back in his chair, eyes alight with vindication. “It means you had that look. The one that says you know something we don’t.”
“And you’re much more patient.” Price hums thoughtfully. “Less attitude too.”
“Okay.” You grimace. “This is wildly invasive for a Sunday morning.”
“And yet,” Gaz nods with a shrug, “accurate.”
You glance, briefly, instinctively, across the room.
Simon hasn’t moved.
He’s still on the couch, one boot hooked over the other, coffee cradled loosely in his hand. His hood shadows his eyes and the mask hides everything else yet he looks exactly like he always does; detached, only half-present, like this conversation is happening three rooms away.
Which is why it doesn’t register as suspicious.
Soap shakes his finger at you. “Ye left with someone. And since I personally struck out with the blonde from logistics—”
“You were never in the running, mate.” Gaz mutters.
“—we’re tryin’ tae work out who beat me tae it.”
The room falls silent, after that.
You stare at him for a long second, which you’re sure isn’t helping the situation at all- then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s…really where we’re going with this?”
Soap shrugs, unapologetic. “It’s a valid question.”
Gaz snorts into his mug. “It’s haunting him.”
“It’s not haunting me,” Soap says immediately, then scowls when both you and Gaz look at him. “Alrigh’ fine. It’s a bit haunting me.”
You drag a hand down your face, and try to turn away toward the door in hopes he’ll just drop it. “This is ridiculous.”
He doesn’t.
“Is it?” Soap asks. He’s fully upright now, elbows on his knees again, all sharp attention. “Because from where I’m sittin’, ye vanished mid-argument, came back the next mornin’ looken like you’d slept better than ye have in weeks, and now you’re actin’ like this is none of our business.”
“It is none of your business.”
“That’s never stopped us before,” Gaz points out.
Price’s gaze stays on you, thoughtful, quiet. He doesn’t pile on. Doesn’t need to. He’s always been the one who waits, lets people talk themselves into corners.
“You weren’t sneaky about it,” he says instead. “That’s what’s got them stuck.”
Your pulse gives a small, traitorous jump. You think he knows. If anyone would know, it’d be him.
Soap snaps his fingers. “Exactly. Ye didn’t look guilty. Ye looked…comfortable.”
Heat intensifies on the back on your knees again. It crawls up your back and reaches for your neck, where the Ghost of Ghost’s fingers are still dancing. He’s getting close.
“You’re reaching.” You manage.
“Maybe,” Soap says. “But humour me.”
He starts ticking names off on his fingers—
“Not Gaz.”
“Tragically,” Gaz says, lifting his mug in salute.
“Not Price.”
Price snorts. “I’d remember.”
“And not me,” Soap finishes, nodding decisively to himself.
You don’t bother hiding the look you give him. “How devastating.”
“So that leaves…” he trails off, eyes sweeping the room.
You feel it then—the stillness.
Simon hasn’t moved. Not since this started. Same posture. Same loose grip on his coffee. Same unreadable calm, like he’s carved from the furniture instead of sitting on it. You can feel your awareness tug toward him, but you force yourself not to stare.
Professional to the bone.
“Could’ve been someone outside the team,” Gaz offers, tilting his head.
Soap shakes his head immediately. “Nah. She wouldn’t risk that.”
You lift a brow. “You say that like you know me.”
“I do,” Soap says. “That’s the whole problem, lass.”
Gaz cuts in again. “Whoever it was, you trusted them.”
Your breath catches for half a second. You take another sip of coffee you don’t need.
Soap’s eyes light up. “See? That. That pause right there.”
You glare at him. “I paused because you’re annoying.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Someone you’ve worked with a while,” Gaz adds, nodding like the theory is solidifying.
Your eyes flick to Simon again, who remains silent.
Which is, infuriatingly, normal. He never chimes in on this kind of thing. Never speculates. Half the time he looks like he’s not listening at all—like his mind’s already somewhere else entirely. So no one notices that he hasn’t shifted, hasn’t reacted, hasn’t given them a single thing to latch onto.
Soap squints at you harder. “Was it someone senior?”
You wrinkle your nose. “Ew.”
“Junior?”
“Absolutely not.”
Gaz tilts his head, studying you again. “Then who?”
You shrug, aiming for careless. “Maybe it was a ghost.”
The room groans in unison.
“Don’t,” Soap says.
“That was painful,” Gaz adds.
Price rubs at his temple. “Christ.”
Across the room, Simon exhales—slow, controlled—through his nose. It’s barely audible. Barely there. But you hear it anyway. You always do.
Soap throws his hands up. “This is doen’ my head in.”
You straighten, setting your now-empty mug down with a soft clink. “Maybe you should all focus on your own lives.”
Soap watches you, suspicion etched into every line of his face. “One day we’re gonna’ figure ye out.”
You smile over your shoulder as you turn toward the door. “I look forward to it.”
On your way out, you pass the couch. Simon doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word until you’re just past him; close enough that your leg nearly brushes his knee—and then he whispers, lowly grumble meant only for you.
“Shoulda stayed quiet.”
Your step falters for half a heartbeat until you collect yourself and keep walking.
Behind you, Soap’s already winding himself up again. “I’m tellen’ ye, it’s someone we’re not even considerin’—”
You don’t turn around.
And Simon Riley- silent, unreadable, the safest secret in the room; goes right back to saying absolutely nothing.
Autistic wifey met John Price shortly after her and Simon started dating.
Price came to Simon’s house to deliver something he’d forgotten at base and wifey (then girlfriend of Simon) opened the door. She was half asleep, dressed in one of Simon’s shirts and a pair of his boxers.
“Oh- hello,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is Gho- Simon here?”
She nodded. “He’s in the bathroom. Wanna sit in here and wait?”
Price sat down on the couch and wifey curled up in a chair.
“Is Simon your friend?” Wifey asked, rubbing her sleepy eyes.
“Mhm, work and casual.” John answered. “And you are…?”
“His girlfriend.” Wifey answered. She seemed quite proud of that title. She’d earned it. “Do you like whales?”
John nodded. “They’re- uh- yeah. They’re great.” He stammered. “You?”
Wifey then launched into a ten minute yap sesh about whales and their migration patterns until she was rudely interrupted by a hand on the back of her neck.
Simon leaned down and kissed her cheek. “See you’ve met my boss,” he chuckled. “Talkin’ about whales already?”
She nodded. “He’s listening, see?”
John was, in fact, listening. “She likes whales,” John told Simon.
“That she does, cap.”
From then on, Price became a mutual friend for wifey and Simon. Wifey would even venture to visit a bar with them occasionally, as long as she was sat safely between her husband and his boss.
lt!simon ghost riley who’s always seen you around as the bases nurse but never actually seen you until you had to tend for him after a particularly difficult mission
lt!simon ghost riley who’s grateful for the mask that he believes covers his intense gaze as he stares at you, gazing at the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life
lt!simon ghost riley who comes a lot more to the infirmary - and insists that the injuries he’s accumulated has absoloutely nothing to do with you attending to him every time
lt!simon ghost riley who earns a sigh from his friends, price and soap, every time he opens his mouth because they just knows it’s about you
lt!simon ghost riley who does not stop thinking about you and your gentle hands
lt!simon ghost riley who finally musters up the courage to speak to you the next time you’re bandaging up his arm and says, “wha’s yer name?” and when you tell him, you’d think he’s just won the lottery
lt!simon ghost riley who has no idea how he manages to keep the conversation going, praising himself for how collected he’s been
lt!simon ghost riley who accidentally blurts out, “yer a goddess, yer know that?” and finds your blush to match his own as he realises what he just said
lt!simon ghost riley who, at the end of the session, somehow manages up with your number in his phone and won’t stop telling price and soap about the interaction for the millionth time in a day
lt!simon ghost riley who leaves flowers for you with a “hope you like em, someone told me theyre your favourite” and awaits your response
Simon knew you. You were never the jealous type, not least because you trusted Simon completely. The man would kiss the ground you walked on if you asked him. There was no reason for you to be distrustful of him.
In fact, it was never implied that you were in a relationship with Simon, but just by looking at the two of you together, it was obvious that Simon couldn't hide his feelings.
Well, it was clear to almost everyone.
Every now and then recruits arrived at the base, and Simon was one of those responsible for training them, everything always went well, however this time a certain recruit thought it was a good idea to flirt with the Lieutenant.
Simon obviously didn't reciprocate in any way. He was loyal to the person he loved. But even so, it seemed that this particular recruit still didn't understand Simon's cues.
You were obviously upset, even a little jealous, and Simon couldn't leave it at that, could he? So what better idea than to give you a ring?
You were already engaged. Why not get married right away?
He couldn't let his little bird get upset over a silly thing like that. So he quickly bought an expensive ring, with a big diamond in the middle, and it was as shiny as you. Simon didn't think twice before marrying you.
You deserved nothing less, and Simon was going to make it clear that you were his and he was yours. He didn't refrain from buying himself a ring either. His hands that were always covered with gloves were now bare, and he made sure to show off to display the wedding band on his finger.
And you think it was just the ring he gave you? Oh no, he also gave you a round belly that swelled more with each passing month, Simon couldn't have been prouder. What's better than having you married with him and full with his kid?
Now, every time you walk by the recruit, the signs are more obvious than anything Simon could say. And he knew you were doing it on purpose, putting your ring hand on your belly and caressing it. And to add fuel to the fire, Simon always stroked your belly when he was next to you, making it clear that he was very committed.
Since then, you haven't heard a single comment from the recruit. Apparently, Simon had made the situation very clear this time.
You were his pretty little thing, and it's going to stay that way.
to me it’s an inherent truth that ghost is socially “ugly”
scars that are uneven and pucker skin because he had hastily sewn lacerations together. burn scars on his back and hands, with skin that wrinkles like haphazard gills across his abdomen. blonde hair gene that makes his eyelashes and eyebrows near invisible. a crooked, broken nose that hardly works unless he brings whatever smells right to his nostrils.
and it wasn’t a sob story. he’s wasn’t insecure because to him it really isn’t all that important. at the end of the day the body he’s been put in sleeps, eats, and kills. fucks good, if it feels like it. that’s all he’s ever needed.
it’s not until you come into the picture, domestically enough, that he does start to care.
starts small, like checking if there was anything in his teeth, or smoothing out that one hair that likes to plant itself over his forehead.
the trivial, small details that furrow in between his ironed apathy.
then, insecurity blooms. found where one scar begins and the next ends. he stops lingering at the mirror, and wears thicker clothes because “london’s fuckin’ freezin”. keeps his eyes trained ahead when you shop downtown, so he doesn’t catch a glimpse of himself next to you in the store windows.
doesn’t realize how bad it had gotten until you, who had picked up on his lack of subtly and libido, asked him to take a bath.
with you.
and suddenly he’s rendered a quiet, awkward bastard in your flat bathroom, that is much too small for him.
you run the water to a boil and put relaxing salts in while he strips. he sits down with his mouth in a firm line because what the fuck is he supposed to say when his bird massages shampoo into his hair and hums a song that isn’t his favorite but becomes one when she kisses his cheek while at the chorus.
watches with wavering interest as bubbles form from the soap and the water begins to cool. hasn’t said a word since you started the strange routine that makes him feel raw and vulnerable in a way that he characterizes as childish.
“you’re so handsome, si.”
you’re swiping lotion onto his face. he hadn’t even realized you’d been staring.
“what?”
you laugh and swipe a thumb under his crooked nose, over the cleft lip. fingers trace the scar that runs up his cheek.
you hold his ugly in your hands. and you find him…handsome. he’s seen a liar and you can’t be one for the life of you. it disturbs him, that whatever comes from you lips isn’t just a compliment, but an observation.
what a foreign thing, to be given someone’s truth so easily.
the room gets quiet aside from the foam whispers and sputter of water when his legs shift.
“I said,” you kiss him gently, “I think you’re handsome.”
the apathy to his appearance never returns. however, the harshness is retired for however long you continue to hold him.
he will be whatever you want him to, and if that means he’s handsome, then a good place to start is believing you when you tell him so.
