Simon Ghost Riley Fic - Tumblr Posts

Woops just found my new love language... jar opening.

Ghost rushes to your aid, only this time, it's to help with a pickle jar.

———————————————————————

“C’mere.” He orders, motioning with his hand.

You roll your eyes at him, although a slight grin forms on your lips.

“No!” you retort as you turn your back to him.

He sighs, leans back into the kitchen chair, and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Although he still wears his skull mask, you can imagine a smug expression on his face as he observes your failed attempts at opening that pickle jar.

You wipe your hand on your trousers, then grasp the lid, using your other hand to stabilise the jar. You take a deep breath and hold it in as you squeeze and twist with all your might. But the darn thing doesn’t budge—an oddity since you opened that jar fairly easily yesterday.

“You look like you’re about to fart.”

“Shut up, Ghost.” You snap through gritted teeth.

“What you do clearly doesn’t work,” he states firmly. “Just give me the fucking jar.”

You exhale, relax your grip and shoot him a threatening look.

“No,” you snap again, pointing at him with the jar. “I got this.”

He lifts the fingers that are resting on his bicep and shakes his head.

“It’s too tight, love.”

“It’s not tight,” You reply and knock on the jar’s lid twice. “It’s stuck.”

“Knocking on the bloody lid?” He chuckles softly. “What’s next? Asking the pickles to open up from the inside?”

“Stop making fun of me!”

“I’m not,” he replies softly. “It just needs...”

“-a knife.” You interject.

He follows you with his eyes as you march over to the utensil drawer. You slide it open and pull a knife out.

“That’s a bread knife.” He states.

“So what?” You say, waving the knife, “Bread knives are still knives.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he replies. “There are other ways to open that jar.”

“I’ve tried other ways.”

“You haven’t tried mine.” He murmurs, seemingly unmoved, brushing lint from his thigh.

You roll your eyes again and place the jar on the kitchen counter. Ghost leans further back in his chair to get a better visual of what you’re about to do.

“You’re going to get hurt.” He warns you.

You brush his statement off and focus on the jar. You stabilise it with one hand and put the bread knife between the glass and the lid with the other. You pull on the knife, trying to pry open a small opening. However, the knife loses grip and comes flying dangerously close to your ear.

Ghost pushes the chair with the back of his legs and mutters a sharp “fuckin’ hell” as he rushes towards you.

“You alright?” He asks and grasps your wrist.

“I’m fine,” You reply, defeated.

His hand lets go of your wrist and travels up to your neck. He inspects your ear, making sure you’re not hurt, then grasps your shoulder.

“Why won’t you let me try?” He asks softly.

You sigh, grasp the jar, and slam it on the counter.

“Because you’ll make fun of me just like the others,” you murmur.

“They make fun of you,” He says, pointing at the jar, “for this?”

“For my strength!” You elaborate. “Why do you think this jar is so tight? They’re doing it on purpose, so I ask for their help.”

He chuckles and tightens the grip on your shoulder.

“Nobody is doing that to the lids.” He comforts you. “The refrigerator cools the container and makes the lid shrink.”

You shoot him a threatening side-eye.

“Don’t gaslight me, Lieutenant.”

He throws his head back and sighs.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, “even if they’re purposely tightening the lids, there’s always a better way to unscrew it than hurting yourself.”

“Let me guess,” you sneer, “the solution is to ask you to do it for me instead?”

“No,” he replies, turning the faucet to the hot water. “If you don’t have the muscle—”

“Hey!”

“If you don’t have the grip,” he corrects himself, “you should use your brain instead. As a matter of fact, you should always use your brain first.”

He removes his glove and puts his hand under the faucet. He takes the jar and places the lid under the tap, allowing the water to run on it for a few seconds. Finally, he turns the faucet off, wipes the cap with a towel, and hands it to you.

“Here,” he says, “try now.”

You take the jar and place your hand on the warm lid. You twist it, and it pops right open. You look at the loosened cap and throw it on the counter.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“No need to thank me,” he replies softly. “You did it.”

You study his eyes behind his mask; they’re smiling. You extend that pickle jar to him.

“Want a pickle?” You ask and shrug one of your shoulders.

He shakes his head. “You can have ’em,” he says, gesturing towards the door. “I need to start the induction for the recruits.”

You nod as you watch him gather his belongings. He is one of the most ruthless operators on base, and you’ve experienced the violence he is capable of causing on the battlefield. Yet, here he is, offering gentle guidance, advising you to ‘use your brain’ instead of brute force. Not only that, but once he managed to work his way into the jar—clearly twisting the cap with that towel and loosening it—he praised your ‘efforts’, claiming that ‘you did it.’

You take a pickle from the container and put it in your mouth.

How many times has he assisted you behind the scenes, making things easier for you and rushing to your aid, only to later praise your work and efforts, even though he was the orchestrator behind it all? Is that the reason the other soldiers make fun of you?

You take another pickle from the jar and drive it to your mouth, only to stop midway.

The question you’re trying to answer is not how often he acted chivalrous towards you, but...

“Why?” You shout as he walks towards the door, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He stops and turns to you, gripping the door frame. His eyes still smile, but another emotion is lingering behind them this time. He lifts his hand and points to the side of his head.

“Use your brain,” he replies before returning to the door and leaving the kitchen.

———————————————————————

Patient | Simon Riley x Reader

words: 3992

plot: you bring Simon home from the airport after months of not seeing him. he finds something in your apartment that triggers a discussion about your “situationship”

tags: drug mention, fem!reader

Whatever it is you share with Simon, it’s beyond complicated. So complicated that neither of you talk about the details too much or ask a lot of questions. Not yet.

He’s gone for months at a time. When he is home, you practically move in with him for the time being, moving your toothbrush into his bathroom and your favorite pajamas into his closet. When he’s home, he will hold you and stroke your hair and kiss all over your body and fuck you senseless. He will tell bits and pieces of his time out in the field, but never all of it. And in return, you tell him bits of your life, which always seems so boring and tame by comparison.

The complication arises in the fact that you have never seen Simon’s face. Not fully, anyway. Even off duty, he wears a painted balaclava and usually has a hoodie draped over his head to keep his face in shadows. Even when you sleep together, he typically prefers to keep a long-sleeve thermal on and some sweats. He fucks you by just pulling down his trousers low enough to take his cock out. You asked him about it at first, desperate to feel his bare skin against yours, but slowly you gave up on the idea. Being bare, exposed and vulnerable with all his scars on display, is not something Simon is okay with even after the eight months you’ve been… doing this together.

To complicate things further, the two of you never talk about your feelings. Not towards each other, anyway. He’s never said I love you, and although you’ve let a few things slip from time to time, you’ve never said it either.

There are some nights when he is home that you’re awoken by his body thrashing around under the blanket. Simon will groan and cry out in his sleep, and you’ll gently take his head into your hands and plant kisses all over his face until he calms down. You’ll whisper against his skin, “I love your eyes. I love your hands. I love your voice. I love your heart.”

You never say “I love you”, though, because that’s not something you feel safe telling him. And if Simon ever remembers the things you whisper by the time he wakes up in the morning, he has never mentioned it.

The past month without him was particularly hard. The complications of your relationship were starting to gnaw at you, the lack of commitment and lack of his presence taunting you each time someone asked about your ‘boyfriend’.

“He’s not really my boyfriend,” you’d tell friends, smiling half-heartedly. “He’s not… We’re both not ready for something like that. Especially when he’s gone all the time.”

They would nod like they understood, but their questions always made your chest tighten and your mind spiral. It felt embarrassing having to explain it sometimes. You pretended to shrug it off and act like you were okay with how things were, but the truth was, something in you was crying out for more than what Simon was able to give.

You pick him up from the airport the night he comes back.

You’re waiting in the car, fingers drumming against your thigh, and eyes peeled for any sight of him. When he does come out, it’s not hard to spot him amid the crowd, with his tall frame and broad shoulders and SAS uniform still clinging to his body.

Moisture swells in your eyes the moment you spot him, recalling all the nights alone when you missed being in the warmth and safety of his arms. You never heard from him while he was gone. Radio silence for four long months did things to your mental health, even if the man wasn’t really your boyfriend.

You wipe your eyes once he sees your car.

You get out to help him put his things in the back, even though know he doesn’t need any help. But you’re desperate to see him, to smell him and feel his body against yours after nightmares of him not returning.

“Hey… hey now,” he says when you pad up to him, always feeling small in his presence.

Simon has his quirks.

He’s not much of a hugger, never has been. So instead of pulling you in for a normal embrace, he grabs the back of your head and leans down, nuzzling his masked face into the warmth of your neck. That was as much of a “hug” as he would ever give you and it causes flutters to erupt in your stomach.

“Hi,” you whisper, touching his back as he breathes you in. You want to tell him you missed him, but those words feel too intimate, and you’re always worried about scaring him off. So instead, you say, “It’s good to see you, Simon.”

“It’s good to see you, too, pet,” Simon mutters, his voice just as thickly accented and drawled out at you remember.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.”

You try to help him with his backpack but he doesn’t let you. “Just get in the car,” he tells you, and you obey his order.

The drive from the airport is a quiet one. Not uncomfortably so, because you had anticipated him to be silent. He usually was whenever he first came back from duty. How could he not be? You understood better than anyone how difficult the transition was for him. He sits there while you drive, his hooded eyes staring out the window at the town called his “home”, but Simon isn’t sure if it has ever felt like one.

“Do you want to stay at my place for the night?” you ask him after some time.

Finally, Simon makes some acknowledgement of you, your words snapping him out of his heavy daze. His hand reaches over to splay atop your thigh and the simple touch is enough to replace his lack of words.

“Sure,” he nods. “Tomorrow, we’ll get ya into my place, yeah?”

You nod in return, glad for his verbal confirmation that he does still want you moving in with him while he is here. Secretly, you believed that Simon’s greatest fear was being alone, because ever since you’d known him, he’d done everything he could to be in your company.

Even though he loves having you near him, there are still days where Simon seems to be stuck in his own world. You can remember, just before he left four months ago, a day when he hadn’t spoken a word to you even though you were both in the house together. He’d walk past you in the kitchen, glance at you a few times, but then just stalk off into his room and lock the door. You had never asked him why, because you knew he wouldn’t tell you if you did, and because he was back to kissing and touching you the next day like nothing happened.

You often wondered about the things that haunted him when he got like that. Simon’s past was a dark canyon of trauma, that much you knew, and sometimes it hurt to watch him sit in that canyon all by himself and refuse to see the light you offered as a beacon.

Everything was fine until you reached your apartment.

It’s not often that he visits you here since it’s usually you staying with him. But it’s closer to the airport than Simon’s place, and you can only imagine how tired he must be, so you pull up to your flat and quietly guide him up the stairs with your purse slung over your shoulder. You’d only managed to put a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt to go get him, but you know he doesn’t mind it, especially when he grabs at your ass on the way up the stairs.

You flush and tap his hand away.

“I figured you’d be too tired tonight,” you say sweetly, biting your lip as you shuffle through your purse for the keys.

“I’m never too tired,” Simon says simply, and touches your butt again. It’s a possessive yet gentle touch. “You can never find your bloody your keys, babe.”

“No, they’re here,” you mumble, loving the sound of the pet name tumbling from his lips. He is sporadic with his use of affectionate names, sometimes going weeks without calling you babe or baby, so when he does say it, it sends a wave of warmth through your chest.

He lifts the hand off your ass and reaches in the purse for you.

“Here,” Simon says with a roll of his eyes, finding your keys before you can.

“Thanks.”

Despite the quiet car ride, and despite the lack of “I missed you’s”, Simon is quick to let you know just how much he was thinking about you the past four months the moment you open the door.

One minute you’re breathing normally, and the next you feel the wind knocked out your lungs as he tosses his bag to the floor and pushes you up against the door. His balaclava is pulled up within seconds, just enough for him to get his warm mouth on yours as his hands touch everywhere and anywhere.

You’re not sure if you are weak or if he is just all-consuming, but every night spent away from his touch and every worry about your future together suddenly seems so far away now that his body is so close. His lips are rough and feverish and his tongue laps against yours. It takes you a minute to fully respond, bringing your hands up to his chest and feeling the firmness of him underneath his uniform.

“Thought a lot about these lips,” he tells you lowly. His hands cup your bum and give it a squeeze. “Thought a lot about this, too.”

Is this his way of saying he missed you? Your heart takes the words and runs with them, melting into his arms as he keeps your body pressed against the door.

“Simon,” you sigh into the kisses. Relief washes over you and leaves behind a building warmth between your legs. You feel needy, four months of only having your fingers and memories of him to keep you company, and you make sure he is aware of just how needy you are by grabbing his hand and guiding it under the waistband of your sweats.

“You’ve been thinking about me too, then?” he asks, almost unsure of the question. You want to pinch his shoulder and tell him that of course you were thinking about him. You didn’t have it in you to think about much else.

He practically growls when he feels the wetness of your underwear.

“Good to know I’ve still got such an effect ya, pet,” his voice is low.

He’s touching you there now, igniting your veins with a heat that you’ve been desperate to recreate in his absence. You’re not sure you can live without this, this warm touching and eager kissing that you’ve only ever shared with Simon.

It’s almost enough, you think. It’s almost enough to keep you happy despite all of of the flaws and unspoken words and months apart.

Slipping his hand out, he picks you up all of the sudden with such ease that you feel weightless. His hands on your bum and your legs instinctively wrapping around his torso, he breaks away from your lips only so he can see where he’s going. The departure of his warm mouth makes you pout, digging your fingers into his shoulders and instead latching your lips onto his warm neck as a replacement.

The game of pretend you are playing- the one where everything is fine and you’re happy and his touch is enough to replace his love- comes to an abrupt end when Simon suddenly stops.

You don’t even notice at first. Just keep sucking and nibbling at his neck until he lets go of you, your body sliding against his so you’re feet meet the floor.

“What-“ his brows are furrowed and he’s looking at something behind you. “What the fuck is that?”

“What’s what?” you ask, wiping the wetness from your mouth and following the direction of his darkened gaze.

You’re confused, belly still churning with need, and you’re wondering what the hell could have made him take his hands off you.

Then, you see it. The thing he’s staring at so intently. Your racing heart slows down once you see the rolled up joint on your coffee table you that stupidly left out for some reason.

Shit.

“Simon, it’s just… it’s just a little pick-me-up I bought the other day. It’s really not-“

“You’ve been doing drugs?” he questions, voice low and laced with something that sounds like disgust.

“Well, no, not drugs. Just weed. Only a little bit while you-“

“While I was gone?” He almost laughs, uncharacteristically, and shakes his head to himself. “Christ, what else have you been doing while I was gone, huh?”

You swallow. “It’s really not… it’s not a big deal, okay? Let’s go to my room.”

Attempting to wrap your hand around his doesn’t result in the distraction that you hoped for. Instead, Simon seems barely fazed by your touch, still standing in the same spot and breathing fiercely. You wish you could see him under that mask because maybe then you’d have a better understanding of what he’s feeling, and why this seems to bother him so much.

“I’ve disappointed you,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had such strong feelings about it.”

“Well, I do,” he says gruffly, with a voice you’d heard only on a few occasions when his temper was kicking in. Simon could get angry, just like anyone else, and it was something that actually benefited him out in the field when he was yelling commands and knifing people in the neck. But here, with you, his anger is something he works very hard to reign in because he knows from experience how things could get ugly, fast.

“I do have strong feelings about it,” he continues slowly, and you’re certain that his nostrils are flaring under that mask of his. “I hate that shit, Y/N. I don’t want you using it anymore.”

The command, spoken as if you were his subordinate, causes your teeth to sink into your cheek and the next words that fly from your mouth are not words you have any control over.

“It’s not like you’re my boyfriend, Simon. You can’t just order me around. Why should you even care?”

You regret them as they come out, but once they are spoken into the air, you actually feel a weight lift from your shoulders just enough to let you breathe for a moment. The towering man in your living room doesn’t seem to share your relief, because now he is pinching the bridge of his nose and swearing under his breath.

“Fucking hell,” Simon grunts. You’ve clearly stoked the flames of his frustration even further. But did you say anything other than the truth? The gnawing truth that he so conveniently likes to pretend doesn’t share a space between you and him, keeping you from ever truly being close to each other.

“That’s it… I need to- I need to be alone,” he declares, a vein in his neck ticking. “Don’t wanna… don’t wanna argue with you, alright?”

You blink away the sudden moisture in your eyes and nod, wishing that you could be back in his arms. But by the way he’s looking anywhere but you, you get the feeling that Simon would like to be very far away from you.

“Okay,” you mouth, nails clenching into the palms of your hands. Why couldn’t he just tell you what was wrong? Why was that so hard?

He had a habit of doing this when he was pissed off. Though it’s only been a few times, you can recall Simon shutting down before his anger ever rose to its full potential. He hated arguing. He’d usually stalk off to his room or go take a long shower, but right now, you watch him walk back to the front door.

Your heart flutters. “You’re leaving?”

“For a walk,” is all he says, leaving you confused and hurt and feeling like your relationship was somehow even more complicated than it was while he was gone.

____

By the time you hear the front door open, you’ve almost dozed off to sleep. You’re propped on the couch, legs tucked against your stomach, and your eyelids red and heavy from all the crying you’ve done.

You felt like you had a right to anger, too. Out of nowhere, he’d demanded that you quit a recreational habit as if he was someone who deserved a say over your life. He could tell you to stop smoking weed but he couldn’t tell you he cared about you?

But you’d read somewhere in a book once that all traces of anger lead back to hurt. You were hurt more than anything, having felt the shame and disappointment roll off him in waves when he’d seen the joint on the table. Simon made you feel like you’d done something horribly wrong, but couldn’t even explain why. Even after a year, he didn’t trust you enough to be vulnerable about whatever thoughts or memories were surfacing in his mind.

He opens the door and your eyes flutter from the sound of it. You’re quick to your feet.

“Hi,” you say, swallowing the hoarseness away.

There’s a red tinge lining your puffy eyes that he would be blind not to notice.

Simon mutters a quiet, “Hey.”

Then, he nods over to the couch behind you. “Sit down, yeah?”

Obliging, you’re now sitting at the edge of the couch with your knee bouncing gently and your fingers laced together. He sits down beside you. The joint on the table is long gone. You’d tossed it the moment he left.

You’re ready to go first, start off with how confused you are, but he beats you to it.

“My brother was a drug addict,” Simon states, his eyes round and dark and wounded. “I realize I never told you that before.”

Oh.

“He’s dead now,” he continues, watching your face carefully as he shares this information with you. A piece of himself that he’d never shared before. “Not because of the drugs, but that doesn’t matter. It was really… it was not fun watching him go through that, yeah?”

You nod, your throat now dry and new tears threatening your eyes.

“There was a time,” Simon rubs at his eyes as he gathers his words. He hasn’t said this much all at once ever in his life and it’s foreign and weird and uncomfortable, but after his walk, he realized that it was necessary. “There was a time when I had problems with it, too.”

He leaves it at that, not willing to say more. He gauges your reaction with a haunted stare and you simply nod again, accepting what he’s told you, but not offering any judgement of the past. He’d played the words over and over in his head during his walk. Kept changing his mind on whether or not to tell you. Would you hate him for it? Would your eyes fill with pity and disgust?

Simon knew that the words were out now, a little bit of his darkness out in the open for you to see. He hates sharing things like this because, well, saying them aloud makes them feel more real. Less distant.

But for right now, with how you are looking so tenderly at him, Simon thinks to himself that it didn’t feel nearly as terrible as he thought. Your hand finally reaches out to find his, a gentle thumb brushing over his knuckles as if to let him know you are here, with him.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” you whisper when there’s been a stretch of silence. “I know that was hard for you, opening up about that. But I… I have to open up with you about something, too.”

His hand stiffens under yours. “What?”

You wonder if it’s the right time. Maybe you should just draw him in and kiss him and swallow your feelings down into your stomach where they’ve been staying for some time now.

But if there was ever a right time, it had to be now.

“While you were gone,” you begin, clearing your throat. “I realized that I-I need more than this, Simon.”

Those wounded eyes are now curious and unreadable, glazing over your the sight of your touching hands. “What do you mean by more?”

“I mean that,” you lick your damp lips, “I mean that I can’t keep pretending I don’t care about you. I know you don’t feel the same, but it’s killing me to keep holding back. To keep feeling like… you’re always hiding yourself from me. I didn’t even know you had a brother until just now.”

You think maybe he will get up and walk away again, or tell you you’re off your rocker. This is the most intimate conversation you’ve ever shared, so you’ve no idea how he’s feeling about it. For you, it’s equally as scary as it is everything you knew you needed to say.

To your surprise, Simon leans over and does that thing of his where he nuzzles his covered face into your neck. Your body tenses from the shock of such a gesture.

“Of course I care about you,” are the words he decides to breathe into your neck, resting his head fully on your shoulder. It’s got to be an uncomfortable position for someone his stature, to lean across the couch like that, but he keeps his head there anyway and you happily melt against him. “I missed you like crazy, you know that?”

“You did?” you whisper, in a daze, and your fingers settling at the nape of his neck. You can’t believe it.

“Fuckin’ hell, I did,” he rasps. “I missed you… s’much.”

You hold him. Arms wrapping around the breadth of his shoulders, you feel his wound-up muscles underneath your touch and you sigh into him. It feels unreal, to hear him say those words after a year of him hesitating to even call you ‘babe’.

“Be patient with me, pet,” Simon mumbles, his hand finding yours as you sit together like that for some comfortable minutes. “I know you deserve more from me.”

Patient. If there was one word to describe you, it’d have to be that.

You kiss the top of his head over his mask. Tonight, he trusted you with a dark part of himself, and he told you he cares.

For now, that would be enough.

can we see more of dad ghost ♥︎ im obsessedLMAO

“soft around the edges”

aka when ghost’s son runs up to him in front of the team (a little part 2 to this fic. part 3 here.)

Soap doesn't share the Lieutenant's secret with the rest of the force.

Things go back to normal after that brief, bizarre encounter with you. When their break is over, Ghost carries on the typical dry humor and sharp orders, pretending that Soap never had dinner at his cozy home and met his pregnant wife.

Though, MacTavish does notice little differences in his stoic superior turned new dad. Ghost is shockingly, and ever-so-slightly, nicer. His language is still foul. But he's a little less rough around the edges: compliments Soap a bit more, tells him to shut the fuck up a little bit less.

It's not something that any of the others notice, of course, which is why they are all so baffled when they finally do figure out about Ghost's secret family.

It's two years later when they are disbanding at a base in the UK that you accidentally reveal yourself.

It's truly an accident.

Whenever you pick him up from the military base, Simon instructs you to wait outside. Says he doesn't want to put you at any risk. But you have a knack for not listening to him. You missed him so much during the past four months, and the two-year-old in your arms was old enough to start asking where his dad was, so you figured you could wait for him inside this time, hidden away in a corner.

Your plan might have worked if it weren't for the swell of your belly making it difficult for you to hold the squirming toddler.

He recognizes his dad even with the skull mask on.

Immediately starts to yelp for him, kicking his little feet around, and giving you no choice but to set the toddler down for a second. But your son is growing so much, and he's got his father's determination.

It's definitely riveting for Soap and the team to witness the whole thing unfold.

At first sight, the waddling two-year-old boy doesn't faze them. There were usually family members and little ones waiting at the gate. Gaz and Price are saying their goodbyes when they both notice that the toddler running around is coming in their direction. Or more specifically, in Ghost's direction.

Soap knows right away what's happening.

Watches with raised brows.

For the rest of the team, this is the first time they witness Ghost's demeanor shift to something so soft and peculiar. His mannerisms give everything away before the kid even reaches him: a typically-unfazed Ghost looks around frantically, probably wondering how the hell his son even got here, until he spots you waddling sheepishly after him.

Oh, fuckin' hell.

You give your husband an apologetic look that says I'm sorry and help me at the same time.

“Can’t believe what I’m seeing," Gaz mutters, watching as Ghost bends down to pick up the small child.

Tell me 'bout it, Soap wants to say. But he's already gone through the initial disbelief two years ago, so now, he simply watches with knowing eyes.

He can't say he didn't spend some time the past two years wondering what kind of parents you and Ghost had become. He knew bits and pieces of his past and hesitantly wondered if Ghost had carried on that behavior.

But now he witnesses the Lieutenant scoop the toddler in his arms, making him look so small against his broad chest. “I’ve got ya, kid.” And he is tucking the boy's head underneath his chin and pressing his masked nose to the top of his hair.

Then, the toddler reaches a small hand to his mask and pats it, perhaps harder than he realizes, but Ghost simply shakes his head and patiently wraps his much larger hand around the curious little one’s.

Ghost is soft and gentle and anything but angry, even though you worried that he might have been.

Everything seems to sink in for the team when they see you finally reach your husband. Your mouth moving to rush out apologies:

"I'm sorry, Simon, I know you said to wait outside. We just really wanted to see you and I tried to hold him and-"

And Ghost might have been frustrated on another day. But on this day, he’s just relieved to see you again. It's apparent to all of the eyes watching that this brooding man, with his deadpan eyes and a trademark mask, is utterly and unabashedly in love with you and the little family you have gifted him. Finally able to fully relax as he wraps an arm around your waist and nuzzles your neck, something you could never imagine him doing in public like this a few years ago.

“S’okay, love,” he tells you. “Can’t be mad, can I? Not when I get to see you two.”

You’re carrying his second child and he hasn't seen you in months and he simply doesn't give a fuck at the moment.

To his team watching, the Lieutenant seems like another person.

They're watching Simon, not Ghost.

"That's his girl, then?" Alejandro finally asks, as they have been frozen in place. Watching in curiosity and bewilderment.

“Wife seems like,” Gaz says. Shooting Soap a curious look, he adds, “Did you know anything about this?”

“Hell,” Soap shrugs to feign innocence. “Didn’t know a thing-“

But, of course, you’re soon waving over at him and smiling before your husband can stop you. “Hi, Johnny!”

Guilty and caught, Soap offers a small wave in return before shaking his head. “Christ, alright. May have ran into them awhile back.”

“And you didn’t tell us, MacTavish?” Gaz scoffs.

“Not my secret to tell,” Soap shrugs again and watches as Ghost caresses your pregnant stomach. He leans down to whisper something in your ear and you smile coyly at him, planting a little kiss to the cheek of his hard mask. Ghost is somehow able to hold you and your son firmly against his chest and still have more room. Must be what had the two of you realizing that a fourth family member was needed.

Soap hears the snide remarks as your family leaves and is out of earshot.

Looks like Ghost keeps himself busy on leave.

You think he helps with the diapers?

The kid’s even got his eyes.

Reckon he takes the mask off during sex?

Finally, Soap groans out, “Haud yer wheesht. That’s enough.”

“Sergeant’s right,” Price, whose own surprise has faded into something more stern, quiets the members of the team who are still lingering. “That’s your superior you’re gosspin’ about. Show some respect and bugger off.”

But once the Captain is gone, Soap allows himself this one quip (because, he’d been so good at not sharing what he’d seen for two years).

It’s a quiet one that he mentions only to Kyle.

“He takes her shopping an’ carries all the bags. Saw it myself.”

I don’t know if your taking request, but if you’re not please ignore me.! But my request is Simon kid got a tantrum and Simon is comforting them🥺 (Please excuse my English. It’s not my native language </3)

oh honey you are totally fine! and I love this request so I had to do it right away <3

simon comforts his son during a tantrum

very brief abuse mention

“What do we need the cranberries for, love?”

Simon’s pushing the grocery cart with your son in it. Meanwhile, you drag your feet behind him, your infant daughter asleep in a carrier against your chest. It seems, recently, she prefers sleeping during the day. The evidence of this is clear in the slackness under yours eyes.

Simon was used to preforming on little sleep. It’s easy to say he’s handling the week of regression much better than you are.

“Salad,” you answer numbly. One hand rubs at your eyes, as if that will make them feel any less heavy, and the other hand rests on your daughter’s back. “We’re having that salad I like tonight, remember?”

“Well, gonna have to find something else.” He raises a brow and juts a finger towards the shelf. “All out. Bloody hell, who’s buying cranberries this time o’ year besides you?”

You don’t even have it in you to remind him to watch his language. Sighing, you chew at your lip and offer a small, lazy smile. Having him here, not just to help but to keep you sane, is something you cherish. Even through your lack of your sleep, you savor the moment; grocery shopping with your family.

With Simon’s bare face on display.

In public.

Something you were surprisingly used to now.

It’s funny; you had sex with him, loved him, before you ever saw his face. And now it’s a face that you get to watch bury in your children’s tummies to blow raspberries in the mornings.

“What do you think, bug?” Simon asks the toddler in the cart, touching his little chin. “Maybe salad isn’t the right call for tonight, huh?”

“Don’t get him on your side,” you huff. “You never want my salad.”

“I’d just prefer to eat a real meal,” Simon shrugs, glancing over the shelves as you walk through the aisle. You should’ve known he had already been thinking about hijacking the dinner tonight.

And in this moment that Simon is distracted, looking for stuff to make a real meal, the toddler in the cart leans over to grab something.

It’s a glass jar.

Manages to get both little hands on it and bring it to his lap in the cart.

“What are ya-“

Simon frowns and looks down at him.

“What do you have there?” he says and your eyes widen when you see your son hold up the jar precariously with his chubby hands. “Nuh-uh, kid. Not gonna happen.”

Simon tuts at him and easily takes the jar away, but the action must feel like the end of the world to your two-year-old, because he immediately begins to cry.

Like screaming crying.

You should be used to it.

And you are.

How many nights had you dealt with your toddler’s tantrums all by yourself, his father miles away?

But today you’re tired, and your ears are ringing, and frankly you feel like crying yourself when your son starts flailing his arms around, trying to get the jar back.

“No, kid, you can’t have-“

“Simon,” you sigh and shift the baby against your chest, whose starting to wake up. “I’ll take them both outside. You finish getting everything.”

Shaking his head, Simon is already lifting the crying toddler from the cart and firmly telling you, “No, I’ve got it. You just… pick out whatever you want, yeah? Salad is fine.”

You don’t protest.

It’s much easier for Simon to restrain the boy, simply grabbing both of his wrists in one hand so he can’t hit. And holds him against his hip as he makes his way outside.

Seven years with Simon and he’s grown (emotionally) before your eyes. He had to learn how to safely express love, and it took time, but now he knows exactly how to love you, your kids. Shows it in patient words and gentle fingertips and constant acts of service.

Sure, there are moments where he gets frustrated (particularly when the boy tries to hit his little sister).

But Simon knows how to just be quiet and calm and let his son feel what he needs to feel. Because had anyone ever let him do that as a kid? Had anyone ever taken him outside during a tantrum, sit on a bench and hold him close, rubbing his back?

“It’s okay to feel angry,” Simon murmurs to his son. His cheeks red and puffy. “I’ve got ya. I’m here.”

The boy slurs out babble that Simon’s trained ears recognize as “want it”.

“Right,” his father sighs low. “I know what you mean, kid. Get proper mad when I don't get what I want," and he brushes a thumb to his cheek, "But we've got to find something that helps us stay calm, yeah?"

Simon doesn’t scold your son. Doesn’t tell him it’s okay, because he understands that it might not feel that way. Doesn’t even give a shit that the crying is drawing attention from people. Simon just sits on the bench with him and lets the tantrum happen.

And as your son’s tantrum fades into sniffles and little hands twisting around in his father’s shirt, Simon can’t help but think about his own memories. Most of them faded or blacked out now, he still manages to recall a time when he cried like this and his father had pushed his face in the dirt for it.

“I’ll give you something to fucking cry about.”

The words burn in his mind. Catch in his throat and force him to swallow. He used to shut those memories out, keep them buried somewhere underneath gunfire and blood and a mask. But now he welcomes them whenever they surface, learns from them. Reminds himself that he didn’t deserve that treatment and neither do his own kids.

Simon holds the toddler even closer.

Hands splaying over his back and a small kiss to his forehead.

“Look at ya,” Simon mutters out a piece of praise. “Feeling calm, bug? Wanna go back to your mum?”

But the toddler shakes his head no and instead, they sit out there until you’re done with the shopping. When you finally walk out, you see that Simon is smirking in amusement, watching your son sit in his lap and draw his little finger over the skulls inked on his arm. A relaxing activity, perhaps, and the sight of it makes your heart spill over.

could you write something about simon cuddling a stuffed animal for his kid? like the kid leaves the room and doesn’t take the stuffie and gives it to him so it doesn’t get lonely and absolutely refuses to let him set the stuffie on the couch

“you have to hold him, daddy. he’ll be sad if you don’t”

i love the idea of big tough men holding small stuffed animals (bonus points if it’s a dog or a bear) -tea 🍵

ghost + your son's teddy bear

When Simon is home, he's always the one to put the kids to bed.

It's the most one-on-one time he gets with them.

First, your daughter. She's nearly two now. He will sit with her in a chair and just hold her for a bit until her squirming fades, her little cheek turning slack against his chest. "Look at you, dove. Ready for your bed." A kiss to her little hand, a kiss to her cheek. And he'll carefully transfer her into the crib.

Then, your son. You witness some of their nightly routine. Simon will lean against the bathroom door to watch him brush his teeth. "Don't forget to rinse, kid." He will let him pick out the night's attire, supervising as he practices dressing by himself (offers help where needed).

That's all you see of it. Once your son's in bed, you give them their alone time.

But one night, you're tidying up in the living room when you hear quiet murmurs. The door to your son's bedroom left ajar.

"Daddy, my bear gets sad when you leave." Soft, sleepy.

And then a gruff, "Does he now?"

"Mm. He misses your stories."

"Got to tell him your own stories fo' me, bug."

You don't mean to listen, but it's hard not to, a soft smile touching your lips. Curiously, you drift closer to the door.

"Daddy, you're big like a bear."

"Am I?"

A hum, a little giggle. "You're the dad bear. My teddy is the baby."

"Another one now, huh? Can barely handle you and your sister."

More sleepy giggles, but then there's the gentlest of yawns.

"Alright, kid. Time to close your eyes."

And what you don't see is the firm kiss planted on your son's forehead. All you hear: a quiet whine.

"Wait. You have to kiss teddy, too."

"Right,” Simon mumbles. “Give him 'ere."

You peak in just when the bear makes it to Simon’s hands. The behemoth of a man dips his head to give a kiss to the stuffed animal, just as he did to your son. Your heart flutters.

A languid pause.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"You've got to take my bear with you when you leave," your son whispers. "Or else he will get really, really sad."

Your heart clenches. Teeth grazing your cheek.

You hear your husband's low voice, "Want me to?"

"Yeah, he's your baby now, 'member? You have to tell him stories," your son demands in a sleepy daze. "And give him hugs. Like you do with me, okay?"

"Alright, bug, I'll take 'im."

And the next time Simon is deployed, weeks later, you notice the stuffed bear tucked in his bag. What you won't see, and what Simon wouldn't admit to even you, is how the bear finds home on the cot in his dorm. Simon- Ghost when he's in the uniform- holds this bear every night he can.

He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 14

An: Well, it only took 36,000 words to get here, but here we are! It's a long one and I had so much fun writing this part, so I hope you like it!

*Edit: I will be putting this series on a short pause for a few weeks so I have time to catch up on school. Thanks for understanding :)

Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 6100

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: 18+, Smut, nsfw, angst, military setting, explicit language, graphic depictions of violence, use of guns.

Image credit: @ave661 (they're amazing!!)

I’ve never shot a gun before, but as I hold Ghost’s in my hand, I try to imagine what it will feel like.

The weapon is like solid lead in my hands. I weigh my options as I click the safety on and off. I feel like a broken scale and I’m indecisive at heart. Tonight is no different.

I twist the weapon around to get a better look at the black coating. It’s well taken care of. Everything Ghost does is so meticulous and thought out. So, to see him leave the cabin in such a haste is cause for concern on its own. Did my words really affect him that much? Or was that all his own doing?

Part of me wonders if he’s watching through the window. Does he think I’d risk attempting to shoot him? I could turn the gun around in my hand. He wouldn’t expect that. None of them would. But then neither of us would get what we want. I’d never see my family again. There’s no satisfaction in the thought.

I also know I couldn’t kill anyone else either. No matter the harm they’ve done. There’s already so much pain in the world. Who am I to add to it? Who am I to decide who gets to live or die? I’m no God.

Yet, I can’t help but wonder if the world would be better off without men like him.

So, I set the gun back down on the table. And then I pick it up again. I slide the magazine out and take each bullet. I slip them into my pillowcase. This is as much power as I take back tonight. Whatever Ghost does if or when he returns is all on him. I am staying as far from this game as possible. I never wanted any part. There are enough men dead because of me.

I sleep with the sound of bullets quietly rubbing and clinking against each other beneath my skull. When I feel his hand cold against my skin, I swear I see Death himself.

The ragged gasp for air feels like my first breath. My heart is racing. I feel the hot, meaty muscle as it climbs its way up my throat and suffocates me as it beats against my windpipe. Thump, thump, thump. My eyes immediately lock on the ominous shadow.

Ghost slowly retracts his hand. He smells like sweat and the outdoors. The cold scent lingers on his clothes and mixes with the smell of burning wood present in the cabin.

Moonlight filters in through the window and mixes with the warm glow of the fire. Between the two, I can just make out the watchful eyes behind the balaclava. He sits on the edge of the bed with both hands now resting on his thighs. I didn’t even feel the dip.

I sit up and pull my knees to my chest and away from him.

“How long were you there?” I don’t expect much of a response. I don’t know if I want one. Once I open this door, there are only so many places it can lead.

“A while,” Ghost’s voice is quiet and strained. He says he’s been here a while, yet his hands are still cold. Or maybe I just imagined they were cold. None of this feels real anymore, only my drumming heart demanding resolve. “Where are the bullets for my handgun?” his question catches me off guard. I didn’t think he’d notice so soon. Maybe he has been here a while? Maybe he already knows. I glance at the table to see the shadows of the weapons in the same spot as before, visibly untouched.

“I hid them,” I say without making eye contact. If I do, he’ll know for certain where they are. There’s something about him that’s almost angelic in the way he reads people. It’s utterly terrifying.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure anymore,”

“Y/n, you know I’m not going to shoot you,” It almost comes out like a question. I know, in theory at least. He can’t shoot me because he needs me, but does that mean he won’t?

Part of me knows he won’t because there are better ways to kill a person. Cleaner ways. More personal ways. They could make it look like an accident. 141 could erase me from existence - make it look like I was never born - if they haven’t already.

“Why are we doing this?” my voice is barely audible. His actions over the last day have left me feeling more confused than ever. First, he says it was all a part of his plan and now he’s saying it wasn’t. Deciphering the truth has become more frustrating than ever. 

“Could you recognize the men who did this to you?” I hear the strain in his voice again, like he’s holding back.

“I was blindfolded,”

“Their voices?”

I shake my head. “They all blend together,” A pent-up breath escapes my chest. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does,” he lowly urges. “Y/n, I need you to know what happened to you was unacceptable. That was never the plan. You were to be kept on a low dose of drugs for a limited amount of time, just enough to disorient you. What they did – those marks on your skin – should have never happened. Never,” He insists. I wrap my arms around my knees as he shifts closer. An anxious feeling creeps up the back of my neck. “I can’t punish them if I don’t know who they are.”

“I don’t want more people getting hurt because of me,” I finally look at him. He leans toward me with one hand resting on the bed. There’s a nervousness in the air. 

“Not because of you. Actions have consequences,” he says. “Their behaviour will be corrected.”

“Please don’t,” I quietly beg as I shift onto my knees. I take a risk and gingerly grab onto his forearm. “It’s not worth it,” I’m livid it happened in the first place, but their punishment is just spreading the pain around in my name. I don’t want that. I want it to end.

“If I don’t, it’ll happen again,” Ghost says as he looks down at my hand. His words are resolute. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. His strong arm is tense under the henley, but I don’t pull away.

“What about the man behind this one?” I reach to pull my shirt over my shoulder. His soulful eyes latch onto the bruised skin. Ghost’s chest heaves with a deep sigh. He knew this was coming.

“He needs more than just correction,” Ghost’s eyes are glued to the marks.

“Like what?” I risk the question. It’d be so easy for him to shut me out. To turn around and leave. But I need to know. What kind of a person is he? How does he perceive his own cruelty? I silently pray he stays. 

“Only Hell can help him,” Simon finally looks up. His eyes are filled to the brim with so many emotions, they’re hard to discern. But what stands out the most is how much pain is evident behind that mask.

“I don’t believe that,” I grip his arm tighter. Part of me is afraid of his answer. I don’t know the truth behind his words. I only have a small idea of the violence he’s capable of. I’ve only glanced through a crack in the window of pain he’s caused and even that was significant.

“You don’t know half the things I’ve done, y/n,” his hands tighten into fists. 

“I’ve cut, burned, fucking butchered people without a second thought. I kill men. It brings me so much pleasure to watch those animals die, y/n. I’m not someone who can live without violence,” Ghost starts to tremor. ”There are only so many places for a man like me.”

I shake my head. “I don’t…I don-”

“Believe it,” Ghost cuts me off. “Look at what I did to you,” he moves closer as his other hand reaches up to my exposed arm. Ghost’s fingers lightly trace the bruises. His hands are hot, different from how I remembered them moments ago. There’s a warmth to him, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Part of me wants to make excuses for him: that it was the heat of the moment, or because I knowingly withheld information that put us all at risk. That doesn’t make it okay. None of this is okay. My moral lines have become so blurred within the last several weeks, it’s hard to know when they’ve been crossed.

I don’t know what to say to him. I focus on the feeling of his gentle fingers on my arm.

“It was the only thing that fixed my father,” His voice deepens. I’m not prepared for where this conversation is about to go. I feel my heart racing in my chest, ready to break free. “I used to hate him for the things he did, how he’d hurt my brother and mum. Fuck, would he hurt her. He hated her and took every ounce of hate out on that woman. He left her beaten and bruised for years,” Ghost wraps his hand around my arm, under the dark bruise. “And look at me now. Look what I’ve done to you. You don’t deserve this.”

My throat tightens and I feel tears prick at my eyes. I tilt my head back and force them down. I feel his careful gaze follow down my neck, across my collarbones, then land on the damning marks above his fingers.

“You’re better than he is, Simon,” it’s barely a whisper.

“You don’t know me,” Ghost’s voice cracks.

“Maybe not. But you’re here right now. And that tells me all I need to know,” our eyes lock together. I see the distress behind his mask. How he so badly wants to believe me. “Simon, I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t. You don’t know how this ends, y/n,” he murmurs. I shift closer to him again so that our legs rest against each other. His breathing deepens at our proximity. His hand leaves my arm to wrap around a strand of hair. He examines it quietly, his thumb slowly tracing the length.

I feel the heat and tension radiating from his body, yet find myself strangely at ease in his presence. He cares. He won’t dare say it, but I can feel it in his gentle touches, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. He had my back when his men were making crude jokes in the van. I think of his concern for me when we were at the last safehouse and I didn’t have shoes. How he lingered to make sure I was okay. How he gave me an extra blanket and touched my shoulders when everyone else was sleeping. I remember when he immediately noticed something was off after the prisoner confronted me. The first thing he did was make sure I was okay. He’s always cared.

My heart still races, but not because I’m scared. My fear has morphed into a more dangerous emotion. One I can’t say out loud. One that would put both of our lives in danger.

When I look into his dark eyes, I see them mirroring my own. Shadowy pools of desire lap at his irises.

“Y/n,” he warns as I look up at him. His eyes flicker down to my bottom lip brawn between my teeth.

“Can I lift your mask?” his head starts to shake even before I’ve finished speaking. “Just a little,” my voice is barely audible. The warm glow of the fire bounces off the walls. Ghost is tinted red. He tilts his head down, searching my eyes. Part of him is still reluctant to trust me. There have been so many people in his life who’ve betrayed him, who’s to say I won’t do the same?

“Ok,” he whispers, dropping the strand of hair.

My hands meet the hem of the balaclava, resting just above his sternum. I slowly roll the fabric up, leaving time for him to stop me. This is the first time he’s ever allowed another person to do this. I feel his vulnerability with each shaky breath. The backs of my fingers trace along his neck as I move the fabric. The scruff that lines his neck and jaw brush against my hands. His adam’s apple bobs as he forces down a nervous swallow. “Just a little more.”

I move the mask just above his jaw. Like the rest of him, it’s sharp and strong. Dark hairs fill in the space after missing his daily shave. Ghost’s hands move to my outer thighs and his thumbs rub along my skin with a reassuring pressure. I bring the mask over his lips and rest the excess material over his nose. Ghost presses his full, slightly chapped lips together as he watches my eyes roam his face.

Part of me wonders why hasn’t he stopped me. Does he yearn for the same type of connection? Does he think about me in the dead of night with wandering hands? Is this something we’ll use against each other in the future? Will there be a future? All of this is a bad idea. But I can’t help the longing. The yearning. How badly I want to feel his hands on my bare skin. Tangled in my hair. Reaching the darkest parts of me.

When I look up, his eyes are so incredibly intense, it’s impossible to look away. A large hand cups my cheek and wraps around the back of my head. Neither of us dares to move any further. We stay frozen in a state of almost vulnerability. It’s not too late to turn back.

It’s hard to see where his irises end and pupils begin, they’re so dark. His eyes hold every word he’s too afraid to say. Words are dangerous. They confirm every want and desire. I’m no braver than he is, not by a mile. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.

Ghost leans down and rests his masked forehead against mine. The soft fabric presses into my face. His nose tenderly brushes against my own.

“Y/n,” he murmurs as his thumb tenderly traces along my skin. “You have no idea the things you do to me,” I feel goosebumps run down my back at his low, sultry voice. Simon’s cool breath fans against the nape of my neck.

The air between us is charged with tension. I feel a heat start to burn low in my stomach.

Ghost doesn’t move any closer. He has aired his desires. Now it’s my turn. How far do I want this to go? How far am I willing to take it? Nothing happens unless I initiate.

I run my hand along his strong jaw as I lean forward. I hesitantly brush against his lips, providing one last opportunity for us to turn back. Simon ghosts his lips above my own. My muscles tense in anticipation and my breathing is fast and shallow. I loop a finger through his belt loop and pull him closer. 

Ghost takes this as permission and gently presses his lips onto mine. The kiss is soft and fearful and longing. After a breath, I pull away ever so slightly to read his eyes. They open slowly and linger on my lips for a moment longer. Ghost swallows thickly before looking up. There’s an insatiable hunger swimming in those dark pools of desire.

I long for those hot August days spent on the poolside almost as much as I long for him to drag me under the surface. I feel Ghost’s calloused hands moving up the side of my body like waves. Shivers run along my spine. My senses feel heightened. My lungs burn as icy water floods every cavity. I want him to hold me under until every breath of air is stolen from my lips.

Ghost shifts onto his knees and slowly stalks above me. His moves are calculated and predatory. There is only one thing he is on the hunt for. Only one thing that can fully satisfy his appetite.

I lean back as he moves closer until I’m fully pressed against the bed. Ghost leans down on his elbows as his knee urges my legs apart. A dull pulse throbs in my lower stomach. A large hand brushes the hair out of my face as he leans closer.

The kiss is harder this time, needier. Simon’s breath is hot against my mouth. My lungs smoulder with each breath, threatening to burst into flames. I run my hand under the back of his mask into his hair. I want more of him.

“Sweetheart,” my heart skips at the name. “How far can I take this?” his hands cup the side of my face. There’s a different type of seriousness in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.

“All the way,” I watch as he licks his lips in anticipation. “I want all of you.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I have to be gentle with you,” but I don’t want him to be gentle. I want every pent-up emotion branded into my skin with an iron rod. He’s held back so much from me. I want everything out in the open.

“All of you,” I repeat, brushing my thumb against his jaw.

“Y/n,” he warns as his lips brush against my ear. There’s an exciting sharpness to his tone.

“Don’t hide from me,” I whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he holds his head up to search my face. There’s genuine fear behind his eyes, but as they flicker down at my lips again there’s an even stronger desire. Once he starts, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. Every part of his life is so disciplined, that once he relinquishes control, all self-restraint is gone.

“I trust you,” I trace my thumb above his full lips, pausing in the center. His brows furrow, waiting for me to take my words back, change my mind, tell him I don’t mean it. But I do. “I trust you, Simon.”

He uses the last of his restraint to search my eyes one last time. There’s no uncertainty, no fear or hesitancy. I want all of him. Need all of him. Desire burns within my core and he is the only one who can satisfy it. 

His lips are hot and fervorous. Ghost’s eager fingertips drag across my pliable flesh as his hands skim under the hem of my shirt. I want to feel his touch everywhere, my lips, my neck, arms, and chest. I need him everywhere. I want to be consumed by him.

His sweet tongue slips between my lips. It’s a natural motion I welcome with my own. He’s gentle at first, cautious even. But then the hunger grabs a hold of him. His teeth latch onto my bottom lip and pull. Dark eyes test the waters as he gauges my reaction. How far can he really go? A small gasp escapes my chest and I almost miss the corner of his mouth twitching into a devious grin. 

“When I tell you to do something, say yes sir,” his husky voice whispers into my ear as a large hand lightly wraps around my throat.

“Okay,” I respond. He’s not the only one testing the waters. I feel the strong hand tighten ever so slightly. I can’t help a sly smile at his reaction. “Yes sir,” the words noticeably arouse him. Ghost draws in a deep breath as he drags his bottom lip between his teeth. I think of all the times I offhandedly called him that the last several weeks. I wish I knew what a hold it had on him. “Is that better, sir?” I tease.

“You’re trouble,” his tone is suggestive. I love the feeling of his hot breath hitting my neck. I want to feel it drift even lower.

Ghost’s hands are back at the hem of my shirt. He gently tugs at the fabric and I take the signal to sit up and slide it off. I toss it to the side as his eyes take in my figure. I notice how they falter on some of the larger bruises, but in another instant, they’re back on me.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmurs.

His rough hands travel up my torso - taking care to avoid the bruised areas - as his lips find my neck. He starts off slow, deeply kissing me behind the ear, before moving towards the nape as he begins to suck on my tender skin. One hand begins to tenderly massage my breasts. I feel my eyes flutter shut with pleasure, but then a small part of me remembers I don’t want marks left above the hem of my shirt, especially these kinds of marks.

“Your turn,” I tug on the bottom of his henley.

“That’s not how you ask,” he mumbles as his teeth rake against my skin.

“Please, sir?” he thoughtfully hums against my neck.

Ghost sits up as he straddles me to pull his shirt off with one hand. My breathing hitches. He is stunning. Years of relentless work have shaped him into the machine he is today. Ghost is built like a predator. Strong, sturdy, and sharp. Scars from past challengers and victims litter his chest like medals. His tattoo wraps around the entire length of his arm, around his shoulder, and spanning across half his chest. I’m left speechless as he leans down to meet me again.

My hands unapologetically travel across his vast chest. His muscles flex under the pads of my fingers and I’m reminded of just how strong he is. But I don’t get far, Ghost grabs both wrists with one hand and pins them above my head. He enjoys looking down at me, completely under his power. There’s something about our size difference that is thrilling. He is in complete control. He can do whatever he wants.

Ghost’s lips return where they left off, slowly moving down my delicate body. Past my neck, down my sternum, and right to the spot he is looking forward to the most. His other hand wraps around my back, finding the clasp to my bra. His eyes peer up through his mask, looking to me for permission to keep going. I give him a small nod and immediately I feel the release of the band. He slides the bra up my arms, letting go of my wrists only to free us of it once and for all before grabbing them again. Ghost’s other hand returns to my back, urging me to arch my chest to his lips.

Sharp teeth nip at my soft breasts between deep kisses that are certain to leave more bruises. Ghost adds more pressure to my back as he pushes me closer. He takes his tantalizing time teasing me with his tongue as it swirls around my nipple before the abrupt feeling of his teeth pulling on my skin takes over. I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips. I press my lips together to hide my heavy breathing, but it doesn’t get past him.

“Let me hear you, sweetheart,” he tastes the tender skin. “No one around for miles.”

Both his hands wrap around my waist as he pulls me flush against his chest. I take the opportunity to run a hand along the waistband of his pants, slipping a finger just under the edge of the fabric. Ghost pauses as his chest heaves from the movement. I grab his jaw and guide his lips to mine again, mimicking his previous movements by tugging on his lower lip with my teeth. I can’t help the growing smile on my face.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart,” his hand trails down my stomach, slipping between my pants and underwear. Two thick fingers circle around me above the thin piece of fabric with growing pressure. My head sinks back into the pillow as my breathing becomes more jagged. Sparks fill my vision from the intense pressure. 

“Oh fuck,” I whimper from his touch. His eyes are intent on my face as they watch the pleasure wash over me.

“That’s a good girl,” he says eagerly. “Wet for me already?”

My thoughts are too twisted to come up with a smart response. I press harder against him for more traction. If only he knew how much I’ve thought about his hands and all the things his fingers can do.

While slipping a hand under the fabric, he leans down letting his lips press against my neck. Our bare chests brush against each other and his other hand winders through my hair. Ghost fists the strands against the back of my head and slowly pulls back, further exposing my neck for better access. I feel the edge of his teeth take my tender flesh between them. I imagine the marks that will litter down my neck leading across my chest.

A thick finger slips into me while his thumb focuses on my clit. The feeling is so intense I can’t help the moans escaping from deep within my throat. Ghost pulls harder on my hair. A deep chuckle reverberates through his chest. He’s enjoying this. 

I wrap a hand around his belt, pushing the leather through the loop, ready to pull it off, but then a large hand clasps over mine.

“So soon?” Ghost teases. The intense pressure of his other hand leaves between my legs as he slides his belt off. The buckle jingles as he twists the leather into itself. When I look down, I realize what he’s created.

There are two spaces for a set of hands to slide through while the belt acts as a pair of handcuffs.

“Simon,” his name is breathy on my tongue.

“Arms up,” he orders.

I raise my hands above my head and feel the leather restraints slip over my fists. “Not tight,” I tell him. His eyes glance down at me and he seems to understand. He pulls the leather band, leaving just enough space that I could escape if I really needed to, before looping the leather back through the buckle.

“Okay?” he whispers and I nod my head in response. “Atta girl,” the side of his mouth quirks up.

I watch Simon trail his thoughtful lips down my torso. He pauses at each bruise, pressing a tender kiss lightly on top of each one. Butterflies swarm inside my stomach. I never thought I’d see such a man be so gentle.

Simon’s thumbs rub in circles over the corner of my hips as he makes his way even lower. There’s a growing anticipation between my legs as I wrap one around his back, pulling him closer.

The black mask lowers between my legs. Swollen lips kiss the inside of my thighs. The edge of his teeth grazes the tender flesh. I draw in a sharp gasp as he bites down. Hard. A full pain throbs along my inner thighs. His previous gentleness slips away. This will leave a bruise lasting for days.

“These are the only marks I want to see on your skin,” his passionate eyes look up from between my legs. The black balaclava covers the rest of his face aside from his lips. How I’d love to run my hands through his hair.

Simon’s arms wrap around my legs to hold me down by my hips. I grasp the belt with whitened knuckles as he moves up, leaving another mark, but not before pressing an apologetic kiss to the area. Small whimpers escape my tight throat as he switches legs and leaves a growing trail of marks closer and closer to the hem of my underwear. I want him to make me feel good again.

“Please Simon,” I feel his lips humorously twitch against my skin.

He pulls away and all of his delicious warmth leaves with him. Simon rests on his knees, his eyes hungrily taking in the sight before him. All I can think about is the heat of his hands as they travel over my skin. Fuck, I need him. I need him everywhere. In the darkest parts of my body and soul.

A rough thumb traces over my lips. “You still want this?” there’s doubt in his voice, like he’s expecting me to change my mind.

“So, fucking bad,” my lips move against his thumb. I take him in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the thick digit, lightly starting to suck on him.

“Fuck, y/n,” he mutters under his breath. His other hand slides beneath his jeans as I press my mouth further down on his thumb. But I don’t let him relish in the feeling.

“I need you, Simon,” I murmur. “Please, sir,” my voice is breathy and desperate.

I can feel the need pooling between my thighs. I ache for his touch.

His hands light my skin on fire as he slips my underwear off, pulling them down my legs. Simon wastes no time stepping out of his jeans, his large erection straining against his boxers.

“Of all thing things I’ve wanted to do to you,” he cups himself over the fabric. I wait for him to expand on his thoughts, but he doesn’t, simply leaving them to hang in the thick air.

Simon grasps himself over his boxes, slowly stroking as he watches me. My eyes never leave his. I feel the growing heat of the fire burning within me. With every stroke, he stokes the flames.

He leans down, lips hovering above mine. One hand gently holds my cheek while the other wraps around his tip. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathes into my mouth before tenderly meeting my lips. A small vein of nervousness is present at the back of my mind, but I channel all of my attention into my growing desire.

Simon adjusts his position as the boxers slide down. The anticipation is too much. He bites his bottom lip as the head of his cock traces my entrance. My heart is pounding. My hands grasp at the belt.

“Relax,” he glances up at me. “You’re tense.”

A gentle hand massages my inner thighs along the bite marks he left. The length of his shaft glides across my clit, sending tingles up my spine.

“Simon-”

“Look at me y/n. I want to see your face when I stretch you out,” my breathing falters at his words. I dare to look him in the eyes just as he pushes in for the first time. Fucking hell.  The feeling is completely unmatched. My breathing is heavy. Simon’s thumbs rub reassuring circles along my inner thighs to ease the sensation between my legs.

“Oh God,” I whimper, tensing around his thick tip. His eyes hungrily watch my expression, burning it to memory. The amount of pleasure he gets from watching is almost equal to that of participating. Simon’s fingers circle my clit with a heavy pressure. I feel the throbbing intensify as he begins to push deeper. I hold back a whimper as he pushes deeper, stretching my tight walls around him.

“Fuck, y/n,” he growls. “You’re doing so good.”

Simon gently moves back before thrusting further in. My walls pulse around his thick cock as he picks up pace. My legs are wrapped around his broad back. One of his hands roughly kneads a breast as he bows his head into the nape of my neck. The metal dog tags hanging around his throat swing in the space between us, bouncing against my skin.

Simon’s breath is hot as it travels down my neck and across my chest. With every clench around him, I’m rewarded with soft needy moans into my ear as he nips at my lobes.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” his breathy voice rumbles against my neck. I feel the tightness in my stomach begin to build as he thrusts harder and his hands press into my clit. The world around me blurs. I’ve never been fucked this hard before. He feels so damn good; it’s like he was made just for me.

His hand drags across my breast, up to my neck as he wraps his strong fingers around the vulnerable area. I should’ve known he wants complete control. For so long he had none, now it rules every aspect of his life.

“You take me so well, y/n,” my name drips sweetly off his tongue like honey. I want to hear him say it over and over again. y/n. y/n. y/n. Fuck, does that sound good.

Every muscle in my body begins to tighten. My breathing quickens. My heart is racing. Every sense feels incredibly heightened. A lucid feeling begins to take over as Ghost’s grip around my throat tightens.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” his hand moves to my jaw.

“I’m close,” I gasp as the blood rushes back to my face. My cheeks feel hot under his intense gaze. “Simon I-” his name rolls off my tongue, but I lose track of my thoughts. With every thrust, I feel him deeper in my soul. All of the pain. All of the tortures of our diverged pasts are melding together. Right now, I have all of him.

Simon keeps his pace but thrusts his throbbing cock even harder. The sound of skin hitting skin overtakes the crackling fire. The heat is almost too much. Like a flame under a tank of propane. Pressure builds under the heat, ready to combust.

“I, I-” fuck, I can’t think. It’s too much. His hands are tightly woven into my skin. My fingers are white against the leather. My heartbeat is so damn loud. My face twists towards the covers as my body writhes under his touch.

“Don’t look away now sweetheart,” his voice is so incredibly thick with need. “I’ll stop if you look away,”

His dark eyes are a whirlpool pulling me in. Suddenly I forget how to swim. Simon drags me under as his thick fingers wrap around the sensitive bundle of nerves. I gasp as my lungs breathe in water. His lips are heavy against my own. My vision darkens and no other pleasure in the world can match the burning sensations coursing through my veins. My orgasm is the sun’s light from the bottom of the ocean.

I break the surface as Simon’s hot lips hastily press against my forehead. His movements quicken and his grunts deepen. His hands roughly grab onto my waist as he thrusts into me with uneven, jarring movements.

“Fuck, Simon,” the whimper is soft against his skin and the cause of his undoing. His hard cock throbs against my walls once more as he collapses against me from pleasure and exhaustion. Simon’s heavy body lays limp on top of mine. The weight is comforting and safe. No one else in the world can touch me. Only him.

Simon reaches up to undo the belt and free my hands which find their way to his broad back. I trace invisible pictures across the vast space, skimming across old scars and the edge of his tattoo. His hand gently runs down the length of my hair, petting the top of my head. I feel my eyes begin to droop as sleep creeps up from behind me. I want him to hold me forever.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, arms caging me in as his dark eyes peer down at me. The emotions behind Simon’s eyes are too conflicted to decipher. A cautious thumb brushes along the side of my face. For a moment, he simply stares at me, trying to memorize everything that’s just happened and the gravity of it.

“Y/n, I need you to listen very closely,” he murmurs, pulling the balaclava back over his jaw. I feel my brows furrow as a different type of tension takes over.

“Okay,” my voice is barely audible.

“No one can ever know about this,” Ghost’s tone is soft, but I don’t miss the significance that is present. I pause to think about his words. Really think about them. What are the consequences of what we’ve just done? Our actions have just irreversibly complicated 141’s entire mission. Possibly even damaged it.

“What happens if they find out?”

Simon doesn’t respond. I feel a growing, hollow, cavity within me as I consider what happens to the people who interfere with their missions.

This was a mistake. A consequential mistake.

Tonight, Tonight, Tonight | Simon “Ghost” Riley x Wife!F!Reader

a/n: hi. this is based off of the song “there goes my life” a little. THIS IS THE ALTERNATE ENDING TO SUNDAY MORNING. featuring a very special character that i love very very very much

warnings: AFAB!Reader, mention of babies, mentions of nicu, mentions of death

summary: It was a long deployment, Ghost wanted nothing more than to come home and be Simon again.

The last time Ghost had arrived at the airport near his home, his wife was right there with a smile and a happy, “You’re home!”

But for the first time since he married her, the tarmac was empty and the drive home in his car was more than quiet - it was so painfully silent that it sucked out the excitement he had of coming home. His right hand was settled on the steering wheel, the warm streetlights passed quickly over the car - his eyes were heavy with sleep, but he needed to get home. He didn’t know how her not greeting him felt so alarming, it was 3 in the morning. It was hard for him to recognize that the immense excitement he had in finally kissing his wife after a long and difficult ten month deployment had now vaporized, and was replaced with intense words about her safety.

Ghost was always confident in his ability to perform his duty well - he was a perfect soldier, made for battle and to serve Her Majesty. But he was rarely confident in his ability to be a perfect husband - he was almost never home, almost never able to call his beautiful wife, but he was always certain in how much he loved her. The one who never complained about his career, was happy to see him even if they had fought the night before.

He was ten minutes from home now and he wished that his phone would begin to vibrate, her beautiful name appear on his screen and he would hear her voice again. It’s been months since he was able to even contact her, the guilt eating him alive but he had to get over it. He hasn’t heard her voice in months, haven’t been able to tell her more than that he loved her and that he’d be home soon. And by God, he felt like something was wrong.

Weiterlesen

⇝ MÉNAGE .

Simon makes the mistake of spending the night before one of the longest missions of his career in the arms of a woman he met at a pub, unaware of the consequences it would have on his life moving forward.

CW: Unplanned pregnancy, angst, smut, fluff, dad!Simon.

STATUS: ongoing!

Also on Ao3!

If you want to be tagged on future works, please follow and activate notifications on this account! — @lilynottaken !

— CHAPTERS:

‍‍‍‍‍‍‍

I ; Midnight ; [ 10.1k words ]

II ; Shadow ; [ 10k words ]

III ; Together ; [ 9.2k words ]

IV ; Refuge ; [ 11.2k words ]

V ; Resolution ; [ 8.4k words ]

‍‍‍‍‍‍‍

— BLURBS + BRAINROT:

Brainrot tag !

How Simon would act if reader and Tommy got sick. ; [ Set after chapter 4! ]

How Simon would react to reader getting a text from her ex. ; [ Set after chapter 4! ]

How Simon would react to reader getting a boyfriend. ; [ Set after chapter 4! ]

‍‍‍‍‍‍‍

— EXTRA:

Tommy's age across the chapters!

Trouble In Paradise [Simon Riley]

dried paint and shrivelled hearts

acts of torture, unnoticed

a fool for a king

fluttering rumours

paper hearts

trap door

banners by @saradika and @vase-of-lilies offer a coin to the picklejar [Main Masterlist]

do not like, comment, reblog or follow— in fact, do not interact with this blog if you're a minor or if you have no age in your bio. read the [ground rules]. you have no excuses if you get blocked.