patience was worked through simon. etched, carved into every fiber of his being. he was born with it, the rough military work simply engraving it deeper. it came easy to him, he knew the mistakes when it came to rushing, he knew the risks of impatience, disobedience.
yet patience burned away at his nerve endings, sizzling out the tips of his fingers, his toes. he was never patient with you, all hands and teeth. and here he was, fingers wrapped tight around a beer with you in his lap. his poor cock oozing into you, slathering your soft walls disgustingly.
but the most disgusting part. you weren’t even fucking moving, not an inch, he couldn’t even feel your breaths. just your pretty pussy planted onto him, sucking him in and holding there nice and warm. it was so cruel, had his mind dripping in cruel, poised thoughts. knuckles white at the back of your neck, pressing your tears into the couch cushions as his hips fucked… no. no.
his hips bucked just slightly, subconsciously as want, need, began to consume him. and the slight movement had him whimpering out, had his head rolling back against the wooden framing of the couch. if he could just…. just once more.
“simon.” your tone was berating. you couldn’t even bother him a look over your shoulder, just a demand. a demand that had his balls aching, his poor cock thudding inside of you, milking itself dry without even a fucking release.
he breathed slowly, shallowly. before he smiled gently, free hand resting just gently on your thigh. his motive clear as his thick, rough fingers stretched out. his movements were slow, precise, desperate to not distract you, fingers just ever so slightly brushing across the slick nub of your clit.
slap!
“keep tryin’ it ‘nd you’ll be here all week.” you snapped, chin jutting angrily. he was so damn impatient, always expected to get what he wanted the second he wanted it. he needed to learn obedience, to be a good boy. “and i won’t let you fuckin’ cum once.”
he whined, vocal cords going raw as it pitched into a greedy growl. he was panting, so worked up, so needy. he couldn’t help the roll of his hips despite your threatening words, couldn’t help the shudder, the shaky, desperate thrust of his hips as he came.
“m’sorry, mmph… so sorry, love,” he couldn’t even form a sentence, rocking into you as he worked himself through his own pathetic release. you tried shoving him down, but his hips were stronger, glued to your backside as he shook. “just…. i-i had to…. hurt so bad, baby, don’t you understand? needed to cum so b- hah- bad.”
he was babbling, beer spilling onto the couch cushions, release so heavy his thighs pressed together beneath you. his head lolled back, hips stuttering to a slow halt, his tongue drooling out at his bottom lip as he whimpered out low, heavy breaths. he couldn’t get a grip of himself, especially not with the way his cum began to seep out of you, pooling at the base of his cock.
when he finally blinked, fluttering the blurry haze away from his vision, his heart was stopping next. you were glaring back at him, teeth just ever so slightly bared… and god, he fucked up.
“Remember that little black ashtray you used to have?” Simon calls out from the kitchen, digging around like he’s gonna find something that isn’t his.
You don’t even look up from your laptop. “Ashtray?”
“Yeah,” he says, rattling a drawer. “ You know, black. Square. You always kept your lighters in it.”
You blink. “Simon, I don’t smoke.”
There’s a pause. The kind where you can feel him stopping mid-motion, mentally scrolling through his own memories like an idiot.
And you’re just sitting there, watching it click behind his eyes. That he’s not technically wrong. You did buy a little black dish like that once. Flea market, two bucks, no thought. Tossed your lip balm and keys in it. Forgot it even existed.
You smirk, eyes still on your screen. “Must’ve been your other girlfriend.”
Throwaway line. Joke. Light. Nothing mean. But of course Simon wants a say in it.
“Yeah,” he says. So fast. Like he was waiting to say it. “Could’ve been.”
Silence. Your head tilts slow as hell.
Just your eyes on him like you’re calculating the trajectory of the beer bottle next to him and deciding whether or not prison’s worth it today. “Ha. Ha.”
He freezes. Still holding the drawer like it’s a shield.
“You keep playing with me.” It’s not loud. It’s not even a threat.
But he knows better than anyone—that’s the danger zone. Because your tone doesn’t change. But the air does.
“You make another joke like that,” you nod toward the counter, “and that bottle’s going in your skull. And not the fun way.”
Simon just stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re bluffing.
You’re not. And he knows it.
Because last month, you ruined a man’s entire bloodline for lying to you during a debrief. Did it barefoot, in pajamas, eating chips. Didn’t even pause the show you were watching.
So no, you’re not the one.
He nods once. “Copy.” Smart.
He moves back to the fridge like nothing happened, but the corners of his mouth are doing that thing, barely-there smirk, like he’s impressed. Like he lives to piss you off.
Because this is foreplay for him.
He wants to see how far he can go before you finally snap and kill him in his sleep. And honestly? You let him.
Because who else is gonna carry the groceries and make you tea and know exactly where your shoulder blades like to be kissed?
pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader
summary: fuck the space! you need your husband back
part 2!
part 1, definitely doing more harm to you
masterlist!
a/n: requests are open!! been having bad writer’s block :(((
“soap m’ tellin ya,” simon begins, taking a sip of his beer, “never seen ‘er so upset.”
the british brute decided to call his mate when you kicked him out, asking him to meet at their local bar. “be there soon, ghost.” johnny didn’t miss the troubled tone in his lieutenant’s voice, so he knew something serious was going on.
both of the muscular men were two beers deep, now working on their third— just teetering on the brim of tipsy. it sucked being so big sometimes.
“she’s been in ‘tis rut for multiple days. m’ tried and tried to help ‘er out, but nothin’,” simon continues, eyeing his wedding band. he brought his right hand to fidget with the jewelry, “it got so bad tonigh’…”
a pause— silence consuming them, becoming a part of the conversation. simon struggled to resume, still in disbelief himself about what happened just a few hours ago. he took another sip of his beer, maybe more of a long gulp, then, a deep breath, “she started hittin’ m’. thought m’ sweet lass was gonna hurt ‘erself.”
johnny, sharing his lieutenant’s disbelief, couldn’t stop it from showing on his face. the scottish man’s eyes widened and his mouth fell agape, “hit ya? y/n hit ya?” you wouldn’t even hurt a fly, how could you hit your husband?
the man nodded, confirming, “couldn’ believe it either soap, but tha’s not tha point. we both know she didn’t cause any pain.”
finishing the last drops of his beer, simon slammed the empty glass on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. the thud from the glass caused stares from onlookers nearby, but a scary, threatening glare from the brit made them turn away.
“tha point ‘s that she got so stressed out, it lead to ‘er havin’ a total breakdown. m’ didn’ know how to help ‘er, johnny. m’ sweet wife…” the larger man started to trail off, his rambling quieting.
the scott hated seeing his mate upset, never seeing his lieutenant in such a perturbed state.
johnny let a few seconds pass before trying, “ya gave ‘er what she asked for. tha’s all ya can do, LT,” finishing his beer now, “ya did everythin’ right.”
ring. ring. ring.
simon’s phone started vibrating, the ringtone barely audible over the bustling crowd and music at the bar.
both men glanced down at his phone on the table, your caller id flashing across the screen, “m’ told ‘er to call when she needed m’.”
johnny smiled at his mate, patting his back, “go help yer wife. i’ll cover us.” “thank ya, johnny. for everythin’.”
the military men gave a final head nod to each other, your husband answering your call on his way out, “hello? luvie’?”
simon was frantic, long strides getting him to his truck, “are ya there? m’ comin’ home to ya.” the brit waited for a response, turning his radio all the way down to hear.
he almost missed it, the subtle sounds of your sobs, “can hear ya, hon. shhh, it’s alrigh’. yer husband’s comin’,” he coos, trying to console you.
“s-si!” he heard you hiccup out. “yes, sweet’eart. m’ ‘ere.”
“i’m s-so, so sorry,” more wailing left you, “i can’t believe i hit you, kicked you out— oh my gosh, si, i’m sorry.”
simon imagined what his wife looked like, body curled into itself, hands tugging at your poor hair. he knew you would have the worst headache after all this crying.
“sweetie, it’s alrigh’. know ya been strugglin’ lately. jus’ wanna help ya-” “exactly, simon! all you’ve tried to do is just help me and i keep p-pushing you away! i’ve been a terrible wife to you,” you interrupted him, voice trembling when it raised, “you’re such a caring husband, a-and i treat you like shit.”
“luvie’, please. m’ almost home,” he took a left turn. only two right turns before he makes it to you, “let m’ take care of ya.” you cried out to your husband, “si.”
when he entered the front door, he saw you in the same spot he left you— right in the entrance way, though, you were sitting on the floor now, back against the wall.
he frowned at the revelation, “oh, m’ sweet fawn,” stepping towards you, the familiar creak of the hardwood under his size 13 boot. he scooped you into his strong arms, guiding your legs to wrap around his built torso, something you’ve done hundreds of times before. encircling your arms around his neck, you placed your head onto his chest, “s-simon. i’m sorry.”
you felt him slither his hands along your spine, the deep shhh’s rumbling from his chest encouraging your cries to assuage. “yer husband’s gotcha, sweet’eart. m’ ‘ere.”
he walked you both to your shared bedroom, sitting on the bed with you still in his hold. he let you rest in his arms, still gliding his hands up and down your back. he would let you start when you were ready.
a couple minutes passed, then, “i don’t really know what’s wrong with me.”
you leaned away, hand fiddling with your wedding band, a fidget you and simon apparently shared. your husband’s hands moved to either side of your hips when you leaned back, a soft squeeze and “go on,” encouraging you to proceed.
“i feel so useless, si. i haven’t been able to get out of bed, help around the house— i- i haven’t had the energy to do anything! all my projects are forgotten! my days are wasting away! i’m w-wasting myself away,” you were getting worked up again, your husband frowning when he watched you pull at your strands of hair.
promptly grabbing your hands to stop your actions, he brought you back into his hold. “the world f-feels like it’s eating me, simon. l-like i’m sinking and can’t swim up.”
“luv’, didn’ know ya were feelin’ like tha” he kisses your forehead, “we’re gonna get ya help. m’ promise.”
over the next few days, that’s what your husband did— he spent time researching for a high-rated therapist that would accept your insurance, scrubbing your body clean in your shared showers, cooking you meal after meal, cuddling with you. your husband even drove you to your therapy appointments, “m’ so proud of ya, luvie’,” when you’d return, littering kisses all over your face.
he monitored your medicine, assuring you consumed it at the correct hour every day, picking up your refill prescription when it ran out.
simon vowed to take care of his wife, to honor and sustain you, in sickness and in health, and that he was going to do, no matter what it took.
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.
overprotective!simon who is always super hyper-vigilant of you guys surroundings when you are out together. his eyes are always scanning the room tracking your every movement. especially in big crowds he will lead the way and walk in front of you while holding your hand.
overprotective!simon who gently maneuvers you around when in public. he’ll slightly shift you by your waist or gives you light thigh taps to make sure your being alert.
overprotective!simon who abides by the side walk rule at all times. even at home he makes you sleep furthest away from the door. in any situation whatever side is least dangerous is the side you’ll be on.
overprotective!simon who always picks you up after a night out. he hates the idea of you being intoxicated wandering the streets by yourself trying to get home to him.
overprotective!simon who wants to drive you everywhere. even though you both have working vehicles, he refuses to let you drive your car when he’s around.
Reader who is Simon's partner on the field, always at his back, genuinely laughing at his jokes, and Simon is always looking at you with such admiration in his eyes. Reader, who is more than just Simon's on field partner but also Simon's fiance, the only one he trusts to hold his heart, sees him behind all the masks. Simon would do anything to see that pretty smile on your face.
Simon even loves them enough to jump in front of a bullet for them without a second thought. Reader who they have to pry of Simon's dead body because bullets are still flying and they're refusing to leave him. Reader who holds on tightly until they are both dragged to safety, Simons already gone and they know it. Reader who still clings to Simon's body hours later, ready and wanting to die with him.
Something something Alpha!Ghost gets captured during a mission and dosed with rut inducers, then tossed in a cell with Omega!Reader. He claims and breeds her, just like his overwhelming instincts demand. And when they're rescued, they're stuck with each other. There's no breaking the bond once it's been made--no matter how badly Ghost wants to.
His pack has to pick up the slack when he fails to be a good Alpha, avoiding his Omega out of guilt for hurting her during his rut and claiming her without her consent, as well as fear of being attached to someone so vulnerable, so easy to kill. He's convinced that if he just doesn't let himself get close to her, it won't hurt as much if she dies.
The rest of the 141, in the meantime, become smitten with their new, sweet little Omega quite quickly.
When you bring cookies to base, a misunderstanding sends your pregnancy emotions into overdrive, dragging Soap into the chaos before Simon steps in to calm everything down.
___
You weren’t supposed to be at base today.
In fact, your husband — Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley — specifically told you, “Stay home and rest, love. No lifting, no sneaking in, and no climbing counters.”
So obviously, you showed up with a container of homemade cookies like an excited golden retriever.
You waddled down the hallway with determination and pregnancy anger simmering inside you because someone had taken the good Tupperware and you were convinced it was Soap.
When you reached the training room, you spotted Simon immediately.
Tall. Broad. Mask on. Very husband.
…but then you saw her.
A new female recruit, standing a bit too close, smiling at your man like she just discovered sunlight.
And worst of all—
Simon was showing her how to adjust her vest straps.
She touched his arm.
You stopped breathing.
Your pregnancy hormones stood up like angry little gremlins and screamed, BETRAYAL!
You whispered to yourself,
“Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t—”
Your eyes flooded instantly.
Simon didn’t even notice you yet.
The new recruit laughed at something he said.
You gasped loudly like the world ended.
Then you turned around and POWER-waddled away so quickly you almost slipped on your own emotional turmoil.
In your head:
I’m his wife. HIS WIFE. I made him cookies from scratch despite my swollen ankles and back pain and he’s out here BEING NICE?! HOW DARE HE.
You went looking for Soap because he was the only one emotionally prepared for your hormonal breakdowns at this point.
You spun around so fast you nearly frisbee-launched the cookies into the wall.
You speed-waddled down the hallway, dramatic sniffles growing into full emotional earthquakes.
That’s when Soap appeared from absolutely nowhere like he was summoned by your heartbreak.
“SOAP!” you wailed.
“Oh God, no—” he muttered, already standing up to run.
Too late.
You grabbed his sleeve with a surprisingly strong hormonal grip.
