simons-simp

[simons-simp]

Q! In ur stories, are there any characteristics that u alway stick to with ur characters - ghost, soap & price, or do u write them differently for each one depending on the fic ur writing? Like is there a description of each for u that u just stick to or no?❤️

i think there are consistent baseline traits that i stick with for all four, but they manifest differently depending on the universe i stick them in, or the backstory/circumstances i give them (which typically deviate from canon, but not always)

e.g., i imagine price as being innately pragmatic, authoritative, and competent. in houndtooth this manifests as him being an ends-justify-the-means sociopath in his pursuit of makarov, in iron tide he's a hyper-competent (if callous) caregiver type, in wild cherries he's a reclusive disciplinarian. but in all three, he's the same 'leader of the pack' kinda guy who knows exactly what he's doing.

same goes for the others; gaz i always imagine as extremely empathetic, intelligent, playful, vaguely frat-boyish but truly kind. johnny as bull-headed, cocksure, and extremely unserious, with the sexual appetite of an unneutered hound. simon as a few-words, short-fused, knows-what-he-wants brute who is unhesitant in hurting who needs hurting and protecting who needs protecting.

but those traits vary in intensity between fics, i guess, is what i'm trying to say. <33

[simons-simp]

Hook, Line & Sinker - Masterlist

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Tired of life, you find a volunteering position by the ocean - looking after horses in exchange for living in a caravan. Your days are filled with solitude and walks to the beach - until you meet a large man by the sea - who will do whatever he can to reel you in.

This fic is ongoing

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[simons-simp]

Hook, Line & Sinker | Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Fisherman!Ghost, slowburn, afab reader

Part 4 | Previous

The rain splattered heavily against the window panes of the pub. You were sitting towards the back, where it felt almost like nighttime, in a corner only illuminated by a small antique lamp that was probably there since the pub's establishment, and didn't do a very good job at providing much light. It only served to make the features on his face harsher. His mask was pulled down beneath his chin as he brought a pint of dark lager to his mouth. You noticed the curve of his upper lip marred by a scar, bring pulled up as if by an invisible hook.

You looked up and you realised he was looking at you. He had definitely noticed you staring. The rain hit the window panes behind him harder, the light coming in only silhouetting rather than illuminating him. The rain had started when you had reached the thatched roof pub, little pitter patters hitting the ground around you as he pushed the heavy door over your head and silently, letting you in before him.

You had ordered the fish and chips and a soda, and you were surprised to see the older barman automatically start pouring him a pint, without him even saying a word. You realised, you didn't even know his name. You couldn't think of any other time you had accepted to have lunch with someone who's name you didn't even know.

You pondered this as you dug into your battered fish when it arrived. Was it too late to ask now? It was a bit awkward wasn't it? Didn't he want to know your name? You kept eating quietly, as he kept watching you, almost expectantly. You put your knife down as you grabbed your soda and took a sip, the bubbles washing over your tongue.

“It's good.” You say, an attempt at trying to fill in the silence. He gives you an appreciative “mhmp” in response, and leans back, arms crossing over his -now- bare arms. You look at the crisscross of tattoos and scars covering them. There's so many, it's hard to tell when the scars start and the tattoos end.

You look back into his eyes that are still boring themselves into you. Has he looked anywhere else but you since you've sat down?

“S’mine. I'm the supplier.” He says. Oh. That explains why he wanted to take you here then. You nod slowly, chewing on another piece.

“Well… It's good. Fresh.” You say as you keep chewing. “I don't even usually like fish.” you tack on, and at that he snorts, surprising you. It's not a sound you've heard him make before and until now, you thought him maybe incapable of finding anything other than his crude humour amusing.

“Not big on fish but you're still bitin’”.

At that you falter. You have no idea how to respond to that, or really what he even means by that.

“Ever been on a fishing boat?” He suddenly asks out of nowhere. You look at him as you keep chewing slowly chewin. It looks like he hasn’t moved a muscle since you both sat down except to occasionally pick his pint up.

“No…” you finally reply. You wonder where this is going. Is this man, who’s name you don’t even know, about to invite you onto his boat?

“What’s your name?” Is all you can think of finally asking him when he says nothing.

“Simon”. He replies curtly. “But round here everyone calls me Ghost.”

“Ghost? That’s a strange name for a fisherman.” you say before you can stop yourself. He chuckles again and your eyes meet his.

“Wasn’ always a fisherman.” is all he answers.

“Oh.” The word falls from your mouth. Now you feel stupid. Embarrassed. You’re unsure if his answer is giving you space to ask more, to keep prying. You decide to test the waters.

“What were you doing before this then?” you say as you make a move to grab your soda, trying to at least, on the surface, appear level headed. Cool. Like the ice that clinks around when you lift the glass. He takes a while to respond.

“A different kind of fishing.” Is what he finally answers. Your eyes go back to the scars marring his arm, the strange but alluring scar pulling at his lip. You don't know how to answer that. “Aren’t you gonna ask me my name?” You say, and you make sure to drench your words with some bite. Maybe you can tease something more out of him than what he’s been giving you. You can see him smiling as he picks up his glass and takes a swig.

“Don’t need to. You can’t stay one day in this town without everyone already knowing who you are.”

You feel yourself start to violently blush. What does he mean? How many people have been speaking about you? Who told him about your name? How much does he know? All these questions begin to flood your mind as you grip the soda, your hands wet from the condensation on the glass.

“Who told you my name?”

“The baker the other morning’. New faces stick out ‘round here.” At that you’re silent. It feels like whatever move you try and pull on him, he’s always one step ahead on the chess piece. It’s then you realise, how much of a game is this to him?

“What brought you to town?” He asks. It feels like the first genuine question he’s asked you since you met him that day at the beach.

“Well, I’m looking after those horses. There’s six of them you know, so the owner, she doesn’t have time to look after them all.”

His eyes are still on you as he takes in the information.

“Sweetheart I know you’re volunteering on that land, living in that little caravan. She has volunteers coming in every other month. But why’dya come all the way here for?”

His replies begin to irritate you. The battered fish sits, half eaten, on your plate.

“Was looking for some peace and quiet I guess.”

“Did you find it?” He asks, almost too quickly. You shrug and look off to the side biting the inside of your cheek.

“Dunno.” You cross your left arm over your chest and bring your right hand up to bite at a loose cuticle, almost unconsciously. “Guess I was, then this fisherman started harassin’ me.” At that he laughs, louder than you’ve ever heard him laugh before. It’s hearty and full, and suddenly you realise you could lose yourself in that sound. Something stirs itself inside you, almost distracting you from the public embarrassment you start to feel when eyes around the pub look towards your table.

“Meet me on the pier tomorrow. At 8.” He finally says as he takes the last swig out of his glass, the dark liquid disappearing down past his pink lips. Your eyes linger on them before going back up and you know he’s caught you staring again.

“What? No, I’ve got to feed the horses and, and-” you start but he cuts you off.

“Wasn’t askin’ love.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Who does he think he is, telling you what to do?

You watch as he stands up and grabs his waterproof jacket off the back of the chair, and easily slides his arms into it. He zips it up, without looking at you, and makes his way to the bar where he places a folded twenty down, before walking out of the pub and into the rain. You’ve never met anyone who behaves like this before in your life, and you try and contemplate how you feel as you sit there, one arm still crossed over your chest. You look at your half eaten fish before you, and suddenly get a cold chill down your spine. Something about it suddenly feels like a foreshadowing, but you’re not sure why.

The next morning you wake up earlier than usual. Your alarm goes off at 6am. You need time to take care of the horses, and while you fill up the empty net bags with hay, the drizzle getting into your eyes, you ask yourself why on earth you’re actually going to go on this man’s fishing boat. That night when you got home, you asked tentative questions to the owner of the land, if she knew of this fisherman who went by Ghost. But her answers were so vague, you didn’t feel them really helping you. What you were really trying to ascertain was, was this safe? Could you trust this man?

But she shrugged, telling you she only saw him during market days and that his fish was always good. You hesitate to tell her about the fact he’s asked you to come on his boat. On the one hand you feel like having someone back on land know your whereabouts would be wise. On the other, something holds you back. What that is, you have no idea. You consider yourself to be a smart girl, someone who’s got her wits about her. But something about him, his stillness, the way his brown eyes stare at you as if you were the only person in the room, ignites something new inside of you, something you’re not sure you have the words to describe. It’s not sexual or primal, you’ve experienced that before - hell you’d been on dates and had one night stands; the stranger you might indulge a dance with, the flirtatious back and forth over glasses of wine. But something about this is different. All those men had seemed superficial to you, and the truth was that after two dates you were often bored. They asked you the same questions (do you have any siblings, what did you major in, and so on) and through no fault of their own, you often never agreed to a third date.

But here was a man who offered you very little, and indeed asked you very little back, and that piqued your curiosity. Perhaps, it was ironically this pure superficiality he was showing you and the rest of the world, that signalled to you there was more underneath. You saw with that scar on his lip something else - a man deep inside of him trying to hide the surface of what he has become, what his experiences, what he has seen and done, away from the world. Maybe that’s why he was also out here, like you: seeking to answer no more questions from others, to break out of the mould of society’s expectations of him.

You wondered this as you lay awake all night. Anxiety was wracking itself through your body as you heard the winds howling outside, the heavy raindrops hitting the roof of your caravan, making it impossible to sleep even if you had been able to.

What on earth were you getting yourself into?

[simons-simp]

Ghost: we drew each others blood what are we

(Pirate au p.1)

[simons-simp]

Raspberry Girl Part One + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ mdni, sexual content, dacryphilia, daddy kink. Reader is neurodivergent.

Simon Riley is a simple man. 

Now. 

Cobwebs cleared, shattered shards of glass painstakingly swept away, lacerations stitched and glued back together. He's climbed the mountain of his mind and descended down the other side. Hurdles jumped, skeletons dragged into the light and then cut down. 

Guess that's what happens when you finally decide you want to live, instead of exist. 

At least he figured it out before he died. 

He's old now, older, signature sore back and creaky knees worse then they were ten years ago, sciatica pain when it rains, headaches whenever he's spent too long looking at paperwork (should be wearing his glasses, but can only bring himself to do it at home.) He's even soft around the middle a bit. 

Still, there are some things that never change, some things that are amplified by time. Skill, focus, dedication. Thirst. 

The thirst is what keeps everyone in line, keeps everyone's head down after a salute, eyes shifty and hands clenched. He still strikes fear. He doesn't mind. 

It's how he got here. How he ended up standing in front of a team, his team, tackling a debrief. It's only given him more of what he know nows he craves, the aspect of control that was so long missing from his life, taken from him by others, by their actions, their decisions. Now he has it in spades. He learned to indulge it, practice it, hone it, and when it reared its head in other aspects of his life, he didn't shy away. He embraced it, experimented with it, figured out what he liked, what he didn't, what he truly needed. Chewed on it, for a while. 

A casual fuck here and there, fine, but not enough, not nearly. 

He's built a house after all. 

It's all spilled over though. Run away from him and out of the base, infiltrated his home, crawled across town- 

and set it's sights on something it can sink it's teeth into. Something it won't let go of. 

Daddy's girl. 

"C-captain Riley." Your hands press to your stomach, anxiously wiping away smatterings of batter and flour, and he tries to screw his mouth into a flat line to hide his smile at the hitch in your breath. 

"Hi sweetheart." 

"What can I... what can I get for you?" He sweeps over the case, eyeing the piled high pastries and bagels, muffins and quiches still warm. 

"Just a coffee today." You nod, lip tugged between your teeth, hand practically shaking as you reach for the stack of cups. When he was a younger man, he wouldn't have patience for this, or you. Wouldn't see the bright side to this, these moments he shares with his girl at the bakery, his nervous little fawn he's finally coaxed to look him in the eye for more than ten seconds at a time. Being in your forties will do that to you, he guesses. 

Time heals more than he ever thought possible. 

"Black?" 

"That's right." He indulges himself as you turn around, tracing your curves, the swell of your ass in your leggings. You wear an apron at your waist religiously, cinching it tight, hips and thighs and everything else perfectly framed. He loves those leggings, and hates them every time he catches an overzealous prick leering at you over the counter. 

"Do you um, do you want room for cream?"  The answer is always the same, but you still ask, and he doesn't mind. 

"No, I'll just take it as is." He eyes the pan of raspberry sweet rolls sitting on the counter, cream cheese icing slowly melting across the top. They're his favorite, but he's putting on too much weight, and with the next mission around the corner, he can't afford to be too soft. You look up at him shyly, gesturing to the giant buns. 

"I made your favorite." Fuck. He can't. He shouldn't... but he can't stomach the idea of dimming your glow, killing you excitement, the eager look on your face as you wait for his approval. 

"Y'know what... the boys are always complaining I never bring them anything. I'll take the whole pan." Your eyes turn to saucers. 

"The wh-whole pan? Really?" You brighten into a sun, glowing with pride, and he rewards you with a smile. 

"Is that okay?" 

"Of course!" You blurt, half panicked, "of course I just... okay. Let me-" You go to put the coffee cup down in front of him, but the bottom nicks the edge of the counter and like everything has turned to slow motion, he watches as steaming hot liquid comes flying from the top, half splashing, half spilling all over his uniform. He catches it before it rolls off the end, but the damage has been done, and tears line your lashes. 

The woman waiting in line a few feet behind him snorts. His vision turns red and he whirls on her with a glare, satisfied when the color drains from her face and she runs off. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so s-so-sorry,” you’ve come around the corner with paper towels, trembling like a leaf as you stare at the stain on his jacket, wide eyed and frantic. 

“It’s okay, it was an accident.” 

“N-no, your uniform,” you croak horrified, “I ruined it, I’m so sorry.” You hiccup a little, trying to suck in some air while you succumb to panic, and he takes your hands in his, squeezing gently, trying to ground you. 

“It’s alright baby, it’s okay,” you don’t even notice when he calls you baby, too preoccupied by your rapidly dissipating oxygen. “Hey, look at me,” he soothes, ducking into your line of sight, grabbing your attention. “Good girl, you’re alright.” 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shrinking in on yourself, curling your shoulders forward. More tears, and the sight of them sends blood rushing through his body, uncomfortable pressure starting to build in his cock. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” The shop is mostly empty, the woman behind him gone, and he takes the opportunity to usher you past the counter and into the kitchen where there’s a stool waiting just inside the door. He guides you up and holds steady. “Everything’s okay, I promise.” The paper towels come free from your tension filled grip, and instead of using them on the stain, he presses them to your wet cheeks, blotting away your tears. You lean into the touch, so trusting, so easily his, and he wonders what else you’d let him do. He’s hard against the teeth of his zipper as he thinks about hoisting you onto the table, spreading your legs to find what you’ve been keeping safe for him there. 

He doesn’t have many things to care for these days, outside the team, his ultimate responsibility. Keeping a special ops unit alive, planning and executing, cutting through political bullshit is more than enough, but it’s all rough and heavy handed. 

He needs something to nurture. 

You blink at him as he finishes and tips your chin back, ignoring the way your lips part in awe. “That’s better.” 

“Thank you.” The two of you breathe in tandem, silenced and walking a tightrope until you cough. “I should uh… I should go, get those rolls packaged?” He nods, and you manage a very small smile before dipping your gaze to the ground and running off to the front. 

“When did you know?” He rolls the cigar smoke around in his mouth and John cocks his head. 

“When did I know what?” 

“That you were ready,” he gestures to the house, where John’s wife Grace sleeps soundly, “for this? For her?” There’s a glint in his Captain’s blue eyes, a knowing smirk on his face. 

“I just did. At some point, life becomes more than the job, but the mission stays the same. Lead, decide, control. Keep them safe, complete your objective, give what’s needed, get it for yourself. It’s no different.” The idea is tar, sticking to every surface in his mind, gumming up his synapses and creating hallucinations so intoxicating they’re hard to believe. 

You, curled up in bed asleep with nothing but a pair of panties, or cradled between his knees in the bath as he works a chunk of batter free from your hair. You with your legs spread, knees pushed towards your ears, pussy ripe and waiting for him, only him, for the rest of his life. Hands and ankles tied together like a pretty little present. You, sitting on the couch with your thighs slung over his lap, nose creased with a little wrinkle as you thumb through a book. 

John chuckles. “Found one then?” 

Simon only nods. 

He slips through the door just before closing, little bell at the top announcing his arrival to an almost empty space. There’s someone at the register, counting cash, and she smiles at him with all her teeth. 

“We’re about to close but there are a few things left, or I could make you a tea?” The case is pretty barren, a few bear claws and croissants, a muffin or two. Stragglers. 

Next to it, a bouquet sits in a vase. They’re fresh, healthy, and the hair on the back of his neck stands. 

If someone is buying you flowers, he’ll kill them. Dump their corpse in a pit and piss on it. 

The girl clears her throat, and he shakes his head. “No, but thanks. ‘M here to see…” you push through the kitchen doors with two metal sheet trays in your hands, and freeze.

He knew you’d be surprised, caught off guard. It’s like catching a feral cat. Trying to earn a street dog’s trust. Like he’s crouched on the sidewalk, hand extended, food waiting in his fingertips. 

A fisherman, with bait on the line, patiently waiting to hook his prize. 

The incident last week has thoroughly spooked you, pushed you back inside your shell, eroded a lot of the groundwork he painstakingly laid, the foundation he’s been building, and the only time he’s been in since then, you ran into the kitchen as soon as he crossed the threshold. 

The clock has turned back to the time when you were so gun shy, you’d turn to stone at the first sight of him, hands clasped together so tight he knew they hurt. 

It’s no matter. He’s a patient man now, a far cry from who he used to be, and he’s willing to wait for the things worth it, willing to put in the work to fix it.

His body disagrees. A river of need runs consistently runs through him, wild and turbulent current thrashing in his blood, white water rapids trying to flood his lungs. His cock is heavy at night as he imagines you bent over the butcher’s block, leggings ripped open, gooseflesh cascading from the small of your back down, empty little hole clenching on nothing, begging for a fullness only he can give. He dreams about your tears, salty sweet drops soaking your cheeks as the crown of his cock bulges in your throat, as he takes your air and gives it back, over and over again. 

Ruin you, rearrange you, remold you until you only ever fit him. 

He’ll give you what you need, he’ll take away what you don’t. 

He’ll decide. 

The girl at the counter looks at you, then him, small smile pulling on her lips. “I’m going to get this deposit ready,” she announces to no one since you’re not paying her any attention, barely registering she’s disappeared as you stare at him. 

“Hi… u-um hi, Captain Riley.” You put the pans down onto the counter but miscalculate the distance, and they clatter with a resounding smack, one that makes you wince. Your chest expands with a long, deep breath, and you look away from him to the floor. “Can I get you something?” 

“No, I’m jus’ here to see you.” You jerk, gaze snapping from the floor to his face. 

“Is th-this about your uniform? Did you get it dry-cleaned? I can pay you back for-” You rush out, half panicked and cut off when his hand fits to the space between your shoulder blades with just enough pressure to move you forward. He leads, steering you to one of the little tables by the window, urging you down into the chair before taking his place on the other side. 

“You’re not paying my bloody dry cleaning bill. I’m here to see you, sweetheart.” You’re vibrating, practically rattling in your skin and he wants so badly to soothe you, tuck you into his chest and push the outside world away, but it would be too much, too soon. You’re not ready. 

“See me?” He nods. 

“Why did you run from me the other day?” 

“I didn’t I was just… I was busy.” He didn't expect the truth, not right away. You're always trying to hide your vulnerable spots. 

“Try again. No lying this time.” There’s about one eighth of his usual authority in his voice, the captain’s edge he’s honed over the years, and your lips part with a sharp, small intake of breath. 

“I thought maybe… I thought you might be upset or something and I didn’t want…” you trail off with a shrug, and he’s not surprised. He knows his reassurances from last week weren’t enough. His sweet girl is afraid of her own shadow, you need more than just a few words and your tears wiped. 

“I’m not upset.” He leans back against the rickety wood. There are a million things he could say, do. A million different pieces he could pick apart right here, right now, peel your layers back and put you on your knees with your cheek on his thigh, his hand patting the top of your head. 

“Daddy’s not mad, sweetheart.” 

You’re watching him, waiting, looking for him to give more, heal this wound, but he’s cautious. A gas pedal to the floor will only get him the kind of chase he doesn’t want. Not yet. “You understand me?” 

“Yes,” you whisper. You’re hesitating on something, holding back, but he doesn’t try to drag it out, choosing to wait, to give you the time you need, the space he knows the rest of the world doesn’t allow. “Did um… did they like them?” He cocks his head. 

“The team?” 

“Mhm,” your leg bounces under the table. You’re so fucking cute he could smother you. 

“Yeah baby, they loved them.” You beam, blooming into a pretty, perfect flower, vibrant and colorful, rare as they come. 

“That’s good, I’m so happy.” You wiggle a little bit in the chair, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Fucking hell. He wants you on his lap instead, wiggling around as he slowly sinks you down onto his cock, fingernails biting into his chest as he stretches your pussy, toes curling as you struggle to take him. “D-do you want to take some home?” 

“You have some left over?” You shrug sheepishly. 

“I’ve uh, been making them every day. I thought if you were mad at me, maybe they would… make it better.” Oh baby.

“No. You never have to appease me like that. You never have to appease anyone like that, sweetheart.” 

“Right. Okay.” You look relieved, a little bit of heaviness lifted from your shoulders, and then you give him a small smile. “But do you want to maybe have one… now? W-with me?” His sweet little fawn, navigating the world on new trembling legs, taking chances when she feels brave. 

He pulls your hand into his and strokes his thumb back and forth across your knuckles, setting up a slow, soothing rhythm. “Of course.” 

[simons-simp]

All in

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Warnings/Summary:

The boys play a few rounds of Texas hold'em whilst laying low. Leading to soap questioning how the fuck he found himself in this situation and a clean up on aisle 5.

Smut - Minors DNI. Fingering, squirting, voyeurism. If you squint - a bit of ghost x reader x Soap.

A/N:

This has been heavily inspired by my thirst for all of @charnelhouse's Ghost works, Subtle is especially responsible for putting this dirty little idea inside my head.

"Fuck, Ghost."

Soap barely nudges the door open before he hears your whispered moans. Curiosity immediately strikes, he forget the piss that he'd originally gotten up to take and instead puts his eye to the crack between the door and the frame.

He can see the kitchen from his room, just down the hall and illuminated under one shitty and lampless dangling bulb. Both Ghost's huge frame and your smaller one are facing him, the LT's blackened eyes are fixed downward as you rile in his lap. Your head is thrown back over his shoulder, chest heaving against your white tank top and hips bucking back and forth desperately whilst gripping onto his forearm for purchase. Ghosts right hand is firmly anchored in your shorts, his left holds you back against him around the middle.

Your head snaps forward and you let out an audible whimper.

"Shhh." Ghosts voice rumbles deep and lusty in your ear "Quiet, Princess. You want them to hear you?"

Soap can tell by the audible squelch that comes next that if Ghost hadn't had his fingers inside you already, then he definitely did now. He can hear the wetness being forced out onto Ghost grip as his forearm moves under the table.

"Fuck, your hands are huge." You can barely rack out of your chest as Ghost shows no sign of letting up on his assault.

"Hmm." He hums "Not the only part of me that's huge, sweetheart. Think you can take another one?"

Without allowing you a moment to answer, Ghost enters a second digit and the stretch is divine. His movements are slow and calculated, reacting to each and every whisper of your body and the way you contract around him.

The urge to piss has now completely left Soap. Replaced by, he's embarrassed to say, an uncontrollable reaction to such a scene set before him. He absentmindedly adjusts himself. These are his team, his friends, yet the curiosity of these two going at it had him not able to tear his eyes away, or diffuse his boner.

How the fuck did he get here?

“I’m all in.”

“You are shit at this, Gaz.”

“Fuck off Ghost, not all of us can cheat a pokerface.”

“Excuses, excuses. You know he’s stone cold under there anyway, the mask makes no difference.” you interjected your leg bouncing impatiently under the table.

Ghost silently reveals his hand to an overconfident Sergeant Garrick. He reveals a pair of aces, one of spades, the other of hearts.

“Ooh-” Soap comments “Pocket rockets for the LT. What you got Gaz?”

Gaz turns over his cards with a defeated flourish, revealing nothing but a pair of sevens and a king high.

“I swear, I thought you were just bluffin’ this time.” He tries to defend himself “How many lucky cards are you hiding up your arse?”

"Luck ain't got nothing to do with it, mate. You're just shit at keeping your cool. Can read you like a book." Ghost responds, raking in Kyle's pool of chips across the table and beginning to organise them into his own neat piles.

Soap catches your eye with a raised brow, impish excitement evident on his smirk. Of all the boys, John was by far the most open. Easy to talk to, joke with, to read. It allowed an unspoken level of comfort between the two of you that made these safe house slogs easier to stick out. The rest of them varied on the scale of approachability. Price teetered at the very edge due to his position over them, the rest of the boys falling somewhere in-between, and Ghost? Well, Ghost was ghost.

The man was a tough nut to crack. He was direct and efficient, a damn good soldier, and he knew how to have a laugh when the setting was appropriate. Yet he always kept himself closely guarded even during moments of down time.

Even with you.

"I think I'm done, kids." Price announces standing to his feet and downing the dregs of the beer in his hand "Have fun losing, Garrick."

The table all sniggers as Gaz shrugs in defeat. Price pats Soap on the shoulder absentmindedly as he walks past and heads to his room.

"Night, Cap." Soap acknowledges, followed by various good nights from the rest of the team.

"You dealing Gaz, or have have you had enough?" Ghost asks him.

"Can't we play something else? Something I'm actually good at."

"Not sure that's how games are supposed to work mate."

"We could switch to strip poker, Soap can finally get a peek of Ghosts tits like he's always wanted." You quip, earning a 'oh ha ha' from McTavish.

"Or more likely, Garrick'll have his balls out on the table in less than 4 deals." Ghost responds, shuffling the cards he'd collected from the table and placing them back into their cardboard box.

"Good point." You wince "I've got Uno?"

"Fuckin' Uno?"

"You got any other ideas?"

"What about truth or dare?" Gaz interjects

"What are we, a bunch of twelve year olds?" Ghosts asks.

"Some of us are." You answer, casting an accusing glance at soap.

Ghost lets out a light chuckle at your comment as he strides to the fridge, he bends to grab a handful of bottles from the bottom shelf.

"You 'avin another Gaz?"

"Nah, I better not. I might join Price and head off actually."

"Remember to use protection Gazza." Soap jokes at his choice of words and earns an unimpressed sigh from Garrick.

As Gaz retreats to his room, Ghost places a bottle in front of you and Soap before manoeuvring his mass back onto one of the tiny dining chairs. You prop your boots up on the table where Gaz' space now lays empty, using the edge of the table to pop the bottle cap off and take a swig.

"So, Soap-" you start "-Lochness monster, is she real?"

Soap is silent for a moment as he takes a drink.

"Course she is. Dated her back in school."

"Oh really, she a good lay?"

"Amazing, yeah." He takes another sip "Those flippers, incredible man."

"You two don't half talk some utter bollocks." Ghost interrupts, a hidden indication of amusement in his tone.

"Sorry boss, would you rather us talk about our tragic childhoods and workplace trauma?" You ask.

Ghost stares at you blankly for a moment,

"Negative. Continue." He turns back to Soap before adding to the conversation "What size flippers are we talkin'?"

You and McTavish both chuckle at the lieutenant's change of heart.

"Fucking huge, man."

"Hot." You comment.

"Even bigger than those fucking tennis rackets you got on the end of your wrists LT." Soap continues "Goddamn workplace hazard those things."

"What the fuck you talkin' about?" Ghost asks, inflection seeming somewhat offended.

Soap turns to address you instead, continuing as if Ghost is no longer there.

"You stand behind this fucker's shoulder in the field waiting for your orders, and he starts signing to Alejandro, nearly pokes my fucking eye out."

"Then you shouldn't have been standing so close." Ghost grumbles

"Then there was that time he almost slapped me."

"Again, standing too close." Ghost defends himself

"I am not standing too close. You've just arms like Mr fucking Tickle."

"Piss off McTavish." Ghost scolds him "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

Soap has to try not to snigger at the irony of the memory, having compared ghosts long features to one of his childhood books, and now having watched him use said features to bring you to a whimpering mess in front of his very eyes.

"Gh-Simon, please, I-fuck" you stutter as Ghost quickens the pace of his fingers inside you.

Soap can hear the wet sound of your walls succumbing to the lieutenant's whim as he curls his fingers and finds that spot inside you.

You can't help the loud moan that escapes you as he begins to fuck you on his fingers without mercy. Ghost's left hand comes to clasp over your mouth, deliciously firm but still oddly tender.

"Shh… That's it." He murmurs sweetly in your ear as you begin to soak your shorts in response to the purposeful angle of his fingers "Atta' girl. Give it to me."

Soap hasn't seen a girl cum like that before, not outside of a porno anyway.

He needs to teach me how to do that.

"Fuck-"

You cry out against Ghosts fingers as they muffle your moans, but there was little he could do about the sound of your squirt gushing from you and soaking through the fabric of your shorts, small bursts now beginning to trickle onto the kitchen floor.

The way you then collapse against Ghost's body so willingly, your head falling into the crook of his neck having been released from his grip, gives Soap an inkling that this might not be the first time you two had done this. There was a strange intimacy in the way that you were crumpled against him in post orgasm bliss, Ghosts large body almost drowning your stature as his arms hold you securely against him, a hand occasionally brushing your hairline or your cheek as he gazes down at you patiently.

"Fuck, Simon." You finally manage to breathe out a coherent sentence "I fucking need you so bad."

Your pussy is still spasming, lost at the feeling of emptiness and now anticipating the main course that usually followed.

"I know, sweetheart." Ghost coos "And I'd bend you over this fuckin table right here, right now - but I think McTavish has had enough of a free show for one night."

Just a second note because I'm not sure how universal the Mr Men books are. But for anyone who isn't familiar the Mr Men are a book series for kids, there's different characters like Mr bump who falls over all the time, Mr tickle has long arms etc... So for anyone who didn't get the reference, this is the cursed fucker I was talking about lmao

Soap freezes, eyes wide and shoulders squaring. Ghost's head lifts to meet his, making direct eye contact with him through the darkness of the corridor. The black that fills the sockets of Ghosts masked face, exposing the whites and deep colour of his eyes in greater clarity, has never been so fucking terrifying.

[simons-simp]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ mdni, Reader POV.

His name is Simon.  

He’s still stuck in your mind as Captain Riley, like it’s dug in there, claws unwilling to let go, and he says you don’t have to call him Simon if you don’t want to. Which is comforting, in its own strange way. 

Comforting just like his presence, the one that’s been at the bakery almost every day. You’ve been trying to keep to yourself, agonizing over the moment when it all comes crashing down, when he figures out how weird you are, but it’s not that easy.

He doesn’t let you hide. 

“What do you do when you’re not at work?” You resist the urge to wring your hands together, keeping your focus on the sidewalk, concentrating on the cracks, the leaves. 

You’re on a walk. With him. He asked you earlier when he came by as you were closing up, before you moved on to the rest of your work. 

“Take a break. Walk with me.” 

You couldn’t say no, though it took longer than it should have to get your “yes” out. 

He didn’t rush you. He never does. 

“Um,” You’re not much of a doer. You bake, you go home, you read, you watch the occasional tv show or movie, you work on recipes. You learned to embroider last year, and sometimes you add little flowers or such here and there to your work aprons but there’s nothing outside those things, no extracurriculars or exercise, no circle of friends to get a drink with on the weekends. Sometimes you hang out with Mara, who works the front at the bakery, but it’s rare. You’re not good with friendships usually. You keep to yourself, and that’s fine. Everything is easier that way. 

You guess Captain Riley could be considered a hobby. All the minutes you’ve spent holding your breath and watching the front door, waiting for him to walk through and make his way to the counter, all the times you’ve caught yourself staring at his hands, thick wrists and palms the size of dinner plates. He could probably crush a skull between them, crush you. It’s unhealthy, the way you think of him. The way you daydream about a man who’s probably old enough to be your father. The way you close your eyes in the middle of the day when it’s busy and you’re overwhelmed and the sound of the dishwasher is grating on you, just to picture his face, hear him calling you baby, feel his-

He says your name. Oh right. 

You shrug, trying to feign indifference, trying to brush it off. “I’m usually at home. Work takes it out of me.” That’s true. Work can be exhausting. Bending, scraping, kneading, lifting giant mixing bowls, pulling dough until you’re tired. Wrists, elbows, neck, all of them, ache. Price you pay for passion, you suppose. “I’m pretty boring.” 

“No you’re not. Just a bit nervous, yeah?” Your stomach twists. 

“I like to stick to the things I know, I guess.” 

“Less scary?” The truth is full of shame and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to raise a shield that doesn’t exist. A smoke and mirror act that wouldn’t fool anyone. 

“Yeah, less scary.” He’s silent for a beat, and then turns to face you on the sidewalk, a finger under your chin, tipping your head back until your eyes are locked on his. 

“It’s okay, y’know?” Embarrassment floods, fire burning in your cheeks, and he tsks, wiping one of the tears trying to trickle down your skin. “None o’ that.” You smile, but it’s hollow. 

“Sorry.” 

“None of that either,” he bites out, and your spine straightens like a string has been pulled from your tailbone up through your neck. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it.” With what? With you? He’s joking. You almost snort, but the seriousness in his gaze stops you short. Steals your breath. 

You’ve made it around the block already, standing in the parking lot of the bakery, twilight purple and orange shining in the reflection of the big front window. Disappointment settles in your stomach like lead. He’s going to leave now, go back to wherever it is he goes, and you’ll be alone, elbows deep in cream and sugar, trying not to think about him for the hundredth, thousandth time. 

Might as well rip the band-aid off. “Well, um. Thanks f-for, uh…” if you say thanks for the walk, will you sound dumb? Does that make it sound like you’re a dog or something he took for a stroll? “The walk.” Yep. Dumb. 

“Goin’ back to work?” 

“Mhm. I’ve got this catering order for early pick up tomorrow.” 

“What’re you making?” 

“Meringue. Lemon. Pies.” You cringe, but he places a hand on your shoulder. It’s warm, warm like a blanket, a soft fuzzy thing you can curl up with in front of a fire. “Meringue is really the thing about the pies. The rest of it doesn’t really matter, that’s why I- ah… why I put it first.” The two of you drift towards the back door, more so you in his wake, and when he closes it behind the two of you, it’s natural, you don’t even question it. Him. 

“It’s science.” You place the bowl in front of where he’s sitting on a stool, and try not to look at the bulk of his thighs. He’s in some sort of uniform, but it’s more casual, less stiff. The fabric breathes and stretches across his body, his chest, his middle… the heaviness of his legs. The room is suddenly very hot, and you try to shake the distraction off. “All of baking is a science, actually. Cooking, you can salvage anything. Cooking is easy. Baking? Baking is chemistry.” You pull the cradle of eggs over, and roll one in your hand before cracking it, separating yolk from white. “Meringue is a perfect example. It only has four ingredients. How hard can it be?” You feel a little thrill roll through you, the kind of excitement you get when you’re just about to start turning a handful of ingredients into something, and the pressure builds up in your chest, muscles in your arms and neck going tight as you fight against an overzealous outburst. You tense so hard you shake for a second before you get a hold of yourself. “If the eggs aren’t the right temperature, if the bowl isn’t clean enough, if you add the sugar too fast, it all falls apart. The protein in the egg whites mix with the sugar and make the meringue stable, it's literally chemistry. That's the cool thing about it.” You look between him and the hand mixer, and everything dries up. You’re suddenly very aware you’ve been prattling on about how to make meringue like he cares, and you have to hold onto the edge of the butcher’s block to practically keep yourself up. The mortification is enormous and threatens to drown you in its viciousness, vile things playing on a loop inside your head as you grapple with what’s just happened. Stupid. 

He’s standing before you can blink. “What’s wrong?” 

“N-nothing, I- I just uh… I’m sorry.” Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. 

“For what?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let it go, just comes around to the side and covers your hand with his. Warm again. Safe. “Tell me what’s wrong sweetheart.” The gentle coax in his voice turns stern, and you find yourself obeying before you can stop it. 

“Meringue, it’s so… w-why would you care about meringue?” 

“I don’t know anything about meringue,” he rubs two knuckles against the apple of your cheek, “you were teaching me.” 

“Oh.” 

“Y’know you go somewhere else when you talk about baking?” 

“What? I do?” He nods. 

“You’re free from the scary bits. You’re excited and… weightless. It’s precious,” he cups your face, touch slow and careful, “like you, precious little girl.” The air in the room has vanished, and your knees go weak, struggling to support you as your pulse races, butterflies swarming in the pit of your stomach. 

“C-captain Riley- I-” He steps back, your heart free falls to the floor. He’s studying you like there’s a riddle to be solved, analytical and hungry, something razor sharp and rolling with darkness lurking behind it all. It’s so intense, too intense, but fleeting, and vanishes within a second. A light’s been snuffed out, leaving you in the cold and clueless. 

“Will you teach me the rest?” 

“Um, yes?” It doesn’t sound like the human language. More like a mouse’s squeak, and you glance around, trying to get your bearings as he leans against the table with his arms crossed. 

It takes you a minute, or ten, to get back in the rhythm. You have to start over, which is fine, but you’re shivering a bit too much to handle the yolk separation, a different kind of anxiety rattling in your bones. It’s not until he palms the small of your back and tells you to take your time, that you settle and succeed. 

By the time it’s over, you’ve made ten pies for your order and one extra. 

“Do you want to try?” You hand him a fork. 

“Course.” You’re on the edge of your seat as he takes his first bite, watching his jaw move, his throat bobbing with each swallow. Then he takes another, and another, and another until half the pie is almost gone. You try to smother your giggle, but the effort is paltry, and he smiles at you in return. “Somethin’ funny?” Your teeth press into your bottom lip so hard it stings. 

“Nope, uh… do you like it?” 

“It’s delicious sweetheart. You’re really good at this.” Tingles of pride flush through you from fingers to toes, and you bounce on the balls of your feet a little bit. 

“I’ll send the rest home with you.” You slide the pie tin into a box and he shakes his head.

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“I want to!” You blurt, and then bite your tongue, looking down at peaks of meringue. “I w-want to, it’s my-” you snap ‘love language’ back before it manages to escape, horrified at yourself. “I like it, feeding you, um, feeding people.” You’re sweating. You can feel it starting to bead along your spine, the back of your neck, and you wonder if you’ll get hot enough to melt into the floor and disappear. 

“If you’re sure,” he murmurs as he forks another piece of the pie free. “You didn’t have any though.” 

“Oh,” it’s your factory setting response at this point. Oh. Can’t you think of anything else? “Th-that’s okay, I don’t always eat my own… stuff.” 

“Why’s that?” You’ve turned fully towards him now, and he’s still so close, close enough to see the ribbons of caramel in his irises. 

“It’s not for me, usually. I mean, I eat of course, and taste test, but I don’t do it for me. I do it as a job and for other people.” 

“Hmm. That’s a shame,” the bite is still sitting there, waiting, and you’re just about to ask him if he’s going to eat it when he lifts it to your lips. “Open.” 

It’s not a request. It’s an order, a directive, and your thighs squeeze into one another, riptide of confusing want, desire, dragging you out to sea. 

Your lips part- 

and then Captain Riley is feeding you. It’s a small bite, tart-sweet on your tongue. Lemon and sugar crusted clouds linger as you swallow, but nothing matters except for the man in front of you, pulling a fork from your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours- 

“Good girl.” Heaven. Hell. Words disappear like you never learned a single vowel. Your body becomes a never ending live wire. You’re out of your element, you don’t even have an element, not truly. Your element is here, in kitchen of the bakery, alone with flour and sugar and piping bags. Your element isn’t… it’s not this. Not this man, this older man, this brutally handsome man who towers over you, this man with his perfectly imperfect nose and scar on his cheek, with big hands and a voice you could drown in. Not this man standing in front of you, telling you you’re a good girl, staring like he wants to consume you. “How’s that?” 

“U-uh, um. It’s… it’s good.” You don’t recognize your voice. It’s high pitched and trembling, the waver it in matching the shaking of your limbs, your entire body. 

“Do you want another?” Yes. No. You don’t know. 

“I…” you’re flailing, but he instead of pushing you, instead of trying to fit a circle into a square, he merely thumbs your cheek, drags the calloused pad down to ghost across your bottom lip.  

“It’s okay baby, take your time. Do you want another bite?” There’s a hummingbird in your chest, trilling a million miles a minute, and you nod automatically. 

“Please.” You whisper, and he obliges. You don’t care to have another bite of pie, but you do want more of this. So much more of something you’re not sure you can have, something you definitely don’t understand. Some sort of dream that doesn’t happen for people like you. 

Your phone vibrates. It lights up on the other side of the table and your stomach pitches, first out of panic, and then out of dread. 

Spell broken. Fairytale over. 

“That’s my bedtime. My bedtime reminder, I mean.” You just told him you have a bedtime like you’re five. Nice. “I’m usually in bed… by now. I get up really early on some days for prep and other stuff, and I’m a ten hours of sleep a night kind of girl, so, uh, I try to stay consistent with my routines and stuff, but I’m pretty bad at it. That’s why I have the alarm…” Stop talking. 

“I’m sorry I kept you.” 

“No!” You reach for him and then think better of it, fisting your hand at your side instead. “N-no, I’m glad you’re here. I just have this early pick up tomorrow, but it’s no big deal, I’ll-” 

“go home and go to bed. Do you have anything else you need to do?” Stern again, like he's serious about enforcing your bedtime, like he cares about you getting enough sleep. 

“Not really, I just leave the dishes in the sink for tomorrow.” He tucks the pie box into his arm and motions to the back door. 

“I’ll wait for you to lock up.” 

He gives you his number and makes you promise to text him when you get home, which you do, dutifully, laying in bed, curled up beneath your blankets, typing out a hazy message with one eye open. 

>Home. In bed. Thanks for hanging out. 

The text back comes only a few minutes later. 

>Goodnight sweetheart. 

>Goodnight Captain Riley. 

[simons-simp]

Do you have any advice on writing Soap? I really like how you portray him.

Thank you! The best way I can explain how I write him is—

A people person without a lot of active charisma, but a passive kind of draw to him. Being handsome does some of the work for him, but it’s more that he’s very expressive with his feelings, and that leads people to believe he’s always being honest. He isn’t—he can fool someone into thinking he likes them when he doesn’t. He really only does that though when he wants something from someone, otherwise he doesn’t waste the energy, which lends to that honest veneer.

He’s audacious. He’ll say the things people prefer not to. He’ll look at the elephant in the room and ask how the hell the thing got in there in the first place. He’s often a hammer in situations that could use a scalpel, but that’s by choice, not ignorance. He can be a scalpel, if he needs to, but he prefers to startle people with his impertinence.

Plus, being impertinent sets people’s expectations, and that means when they discover he has been a scalpel this whole time, it’s all the more entertaining.

He’s voracious. He likes good food, good sex, and a good time. He will chase each one down shamelessly. He is not shy about mentioning his wants for any of them. He’s also shockingly competent at most things he tries, so he has a lot of random, hidden skills. I like to write about him as a cook because it gels well (I feel) with his chemistry background as a demolitions expert, but again, he absolutely does not give off that impression.

I also imagine he has ADHD. He’s always moving. Always shifting his body. He needs something to do with his hands. He can’t sit down for long unless he’s doing something so engrossing that it occupies all of his mind.

Tl;dr On the surface he’s a meathead sex pest, and that is an image he cultivates. What it hides is a very shrewd personality with a penchant for fucking with people. When he decides he wants something, he’s not above playing dirty to get it, and he usually does get it, surprising everyone around him.

[simons-simp]

Hook, Line & Sinker | Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Fisherman!Ghost, slowburn, afab reader

Part 3 | Previous

The smell of damp earth and petrichor filled your lungs, as the pine needles crunched under your wellies. The birds had come back after the heavy rain and sang loudly on the tops of the trees around you. Your eyes were darting to your legs regularly, paranoid for any mosquitos. When you had arrived there had been swarms of them following you, something you didn't know was common for the area, but maybe it was because there was a lagoon so close by.

In the distance you can always hear the ocean. Its presence is like a backdrop, never ending. You're not used to it - it's as if you were near some large waterfall or there was always strong wind over a hill nearby - that low constant rumble. You could feel the mosquito bites on your foot itching, inaccessible. You tried to focus your mind on the forest around you, the occasional stir of the trees above you, as your mind thought about this new situation of yours. Away from friends and family, it's what you had wanted, no? To get away from it all? The responsibilities of being a loved one? Have you been able to completely switch your phone off? Not really. Even though there were mostly low cellular bars on most of the land, you still desperately clung to it, tethered to the familiarity it brought you.

You climbed over your first hill. The trees here looked like they had been bent over from a storm, although you weren't sure - tire tracks marked the sandy earth and you could suppose this had been man made as well. But ahead of you lay a fallen branch from a tree, it's yellow flowers now laying on the soil. It was quite large but you felt like if you were any stronger you could have moved it out of the way. You stepped around it, noting that up the second hill lay another one of these. Looks like the wind and storm yesterday did more damage than you would have thought.

When you reached the beach, you gasped. Today it was a turbulent green, and close, much closer than last time to the dunes. This time, you were alone on the beach. You looked down the long stretch, on your left where you couldn't even see the end of it, and on your right, the coastal town. As if like some magic, you suddenly felt the sun on your back. The clouds had parted and you could see the blue sky, something that when you had been on the land, you hadn't yet seen that morning. You did feel freer here - the dunes outstretching for miles, parallel to a wild Atlantic ocean. The wind strong, but not so strong as to destabilise you, just enough to give you gasps of fresh air. And no mosquitos.

You relished that you were alone. No large lumbering fisherman you had to keep your eye on. Just you, the wild ocean, and the sun, bringing out her gorgeous hues of greens. You loved how she was always a different colour, always unpredictable. And always wild. Watching the waves crash, one after the other, never stopping on the sand, it felt like she was giving you permission to also be loud, unstoppable, and strong. Not caring if it disturbed anyone, or was too much. The ocean was the ocean, that's just how it was. You held onto your hat tightly, not wanting it to fly off your head unexpectedly. This time, there was no fisherman to grab it before it got lost into the waves.

You noticed the waves were getting closer. Your eyes couldn't help but fall down to the shells and stones again that littered at your feet. You crouched over, your eyes scanning for any interesting one. Once you started to find one or two that piqued your interest, it was hard to stop. You pocketed them into your hand and picked a fragment of a shell. It was orange and striped, but the stripes looked like they belonged to Jupiter or the rings of Saturn. There was something unearthly about it, and in a way, it was. You thought about how the ocean was less explored than space, even though it was right there, just a few feet from you. The wind was really picking up but you kept your head down, looking for more treasures, your hand moving past the first layers of shells and digging a little deeper into the sand. Maybe there were more layers here to uncover.

You were startled when a shadow covered the shells in front of you. You stumbled backwards, and landed on your ass, suddenly very aware of how cold and wet this beach was. You quickly looked up, although you had to crane your neck to actually fully see the behemoth standing above you. It was him.

"You betta watch out b’for' the waves take ye." He said. His voice easily cut over the sound of the crashing waves, a mere few metres away. You didn't know how to respond. You focused on standing back up, your shells now strewn back into the sand and mixed up with the others. You unsteadily came back to your feet, and roughly rubbed your sandy hands against your trousers roughly.

"I was being careful." Is the only thing that finally comes into your mind to answer him. After all, who is he to tell you what to do on the beach? You curse the gods above you for ruining your privacy, and almost as a response, the sunshine that had warmed you so nicely between the strong gusts of wind, was covered behind a large grey cloud. Well, that wasn't coming out any time soon. And where on earth had he come from?

He didn't answer you, just stood staring at you, hands deep into his black waterproof coat, black mask covering his face. Was he sick?

"Not fishing today?" You say, noticing his lack of gear.

"S'my off day." He replies shortly. Another silence. What is he waiting for, what does he want?

You shift your weight onto your other foot and you feel a chill run up your spine. It suddenly hits you that you two are completely alone on this beach. The layer of security that you always feel wrapped around you suddenly feels like it's been violently ripped away.

You try to cling onto the normal, the casual, and give him a small smile, the kind you give to a stranger you acknowledge across the street.

"Ok well, I'm gonna-"

"Let me buy ye a drink" he interrupts. It's like he knew you were trying to slither away. The request surprises you, both because it's still before midday, and because you find it hard to imagine a man like him asking to buy anyone a drink.

"Um... Right now? I still haven't had lunch yet and..." you don't know why but your words fail you. While you started speaking you had made eye contact, deep brown eyes and blond wisps of eyelashes, and his stare was so intense, so smouldering, that you didn't know exactly what you were trying to say to him. You didn't want to go for a drink right? Or did you? Suddenly you weren't so sure of yourself.

"Come on, I know a nice pub where they make a good fish n chips." He says, and he suddenly begins to move past you, hands still on his pockets, as he starts to walk down to the coastal town in the distance. You stand there for a few seconds, watching him walk away…

No one is forcing you to go, and you had to admit there was something about him that creeped you out - maybe the way it seemed he didn't know how to make normal conversation, or his unnaturally large size. But your legs began to walk towards him, following, a few paces behind, before your mind could actually make a decision.

You didn't bother to try and keep up with his strides, content to be a little behind, watching the back of his neck where his short blonde hair started, and you could make out the edge of a black tattoo, whenever the collar of his rainproof jacket moved down with his steps.

You had to admit, there was something a bit off putting about him, like the smell coming from his stall. What should have been a smell you usually enjoy - fresh salty ocean - was mixed in with death and guts: smells that should have stayed contained. The glassy eyes of the fish staring at you, as if to blame you for their predicament, their cold cadavers now laying on ice chips. Perhaps the smell of the dead fish served to cover his own smell of death that came off him.

Part 4

[simons-simp]

Hook, Line & Sinker | Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Fisherman!Ghost, slowburn, afab reader

Part 2 | Previous

The rain had come and gone all night long. It would start out of nowhere, heavy showers hitting the top of your caravan. You were volunteering on a beautiful plot of land, looking after horses, in exchange for staying in a little caravan. The owner of the land and the horses had herself lived in this van before finding this place, nestled between civilization and the ocean. You enjoyed the rhythm and routine of it, waking up early in the mornings to feed the horses and give them hay. You appreciated their presence and energy, when they sometimes galloped in the field or the paddock. You also appreciated the daily routine and work, losing yourself in the morning and evening duties. But with all this rain, and the owner gone for the weekend, you were left with a lot of time on your hands. Your caravan was cozy - a little bubble of protection from the elements outside, and you enjoyed snuggling up to the cats in the little cabin that held the kitchen, while you waited for the water on the stove to heat up for your tea. You had been for a few walks on the fields or forests around the land, but you had yet to go into the small coastal town. After waking up early on a cold Saturday morning, and assessing that the grey clouds above you looked too bright to breach with rain, you decided to take a walk into town. It wasn’t too far; a twenty minute walk along some agricultural fields and suburbs.

The ground was still wet from the night before and you were careful to avoid stepping on any snails. You had heard from the owner that there was a market early on during the day on Saturdays and Sundays, where local farmers came to sell their produce, and you were keen to stock up on fresh fruits and vegetables. Once you arrived into the small village you were already in love with it. All the walls or the small houses were washed white, and you felt like this place hadn't moved in the last fifty years. You couldn't spot many of the chains you were used to, instead, you saw a small grocers, tailors, and pharmacy. It felt like stepping back in time.

You quickly found the town centre, following the buzzing noise of both stall holders and the crowd. It was a lot bigger than you expected, rows on stalls snaking around trees in the square, and you even see stalls serving hot food and drinks.

You eagerly made your way to one of them, wanting to get yours hands on a warm tea. The food smelled good but you decided to maybe buy some once you had finished your groceries. You were instantly lured to a stall overflowing with vegetables of every colour - bright purple aubergines, dark green spinach, orange carrots, fluffy light green broccoli. Dumbfound, you asked the stall keeper if these were locals and she laughed.

“Of course dear. We've got the best of the area here. We don't have the money to import anythin’!”

You smiled and she helped you pick different vegetables. You were already buzzing with dinner ideas you could whip up in your small caravan.

You kept walking around, indulging in local honey and jams, a lady giving out baked good samples. You would have to try and come to this market every weekend.

You were reaching the end of the stalls when your nose turned up and a strong and fishy smell. That's when you saw the wet ground around it and your eyes went up to see rows of dead fish as well as other seafood you couldn't identify, coldy laying on ice. Your eyes kept going up and you instantly recognised those broad shoulders. It was him.

He was serving customers silently, grabbing fish with white gloves and turning them over to show off the size and weight to the customer, before they nodded and he stepped back, placing the fish onto the counter and wrapping it up in plastic and paper.

You never liked the smell of fish stalls, and you remember as a kid, always trying to hold your breath whenever you got near one. But now, you couldn't hold you breath. All you could do was look at him.

“Ye gonna stand there all day starin’ or you gonna buy smthin’?” He asks, snapping you out of your daze. You feel the tip of your ears get warm as you step a little closer.

“Wasn't staring…” you say with a small voice looking down, even though you knew he had definitely seen you staring. When you looked up at him, his face clad with a black face mask, you could see a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Well only the fish is for sale over ‘ere love.”

Your moth dropped open a little bit and you felt yourself get even more hot. What an idiot.

“Don't call me love.” Is all you can find to say back to him. The amusement is still there in his eyes and he crosses his arms over his black apron, wet and glimmering with cold water. You can hear a low chuckle.

“Alright, pet.” He throws back at you. That motherfucker.

At that you decided to roll your eyes, clearly showing him your displeasure, and you turn around, deciding to make your way back to the top of the market. Besides, you still hate the sickly ocean smell and your bag full of groceries is getting heavy on your shoulders.

You're sure he's looking straight into the back of your head as you walk away but you don't care. You'd just avoid this section of the market next time.

Part 3

[simons-simp]

Hook, Line & Sinker | Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Fisherman!Ghost, slowburn, afab reader

Part 1 | Next

You had come here to cleanse your mind. The salty air wafted over you as you climbed over the sandy dune, your feet sliding down in the sand. It took you double the effort to climb up the small sandy hill, but when you finally made it, you had to stop in awe. In front of you, the expanse of the ocean: white and blue. It was a deep shade of blue, deeper than usual, and right at the horizon, you could make a thin line of something more azure than blue.

The beach was deserted, spanning on for kilometres, more than your eye could see. A few fishermen here and there, walked with their poles, trying to get lucky. Your eyes counted how many there were, two to your right, and one down the distance, one on your left. You wondered what kind of fish they usually caught around here.

Carefully, you began to make your way down to the beach, trying not to fall. It was high tide and the ocean was already close to the dunes, leaving only maybe a few metres between you and it.

You knew the water would be cold, but you decided to roll your jeans up anyways, and slide your shoes off, wanting to at least feel the water. You approached the ocean cautiously, watching as different sized waves came crashing onto the sand, leaving trails of foam in its wake. Before you knew it, a large wave crashed right next to you and you found yourself squealing as you felt the cold water rush over your calves and almost up to your knees, a lot higher than you had been expecting. You quickly retreated back to the dry sand, dry sand sticking to them. You trudged back up the dunes, looking down at the numerous seashells and stones that kaleidoscoped the beach beneath you. Maybe you could sit here for a while, just watching the ocean. You slowly scrambled your way up, the sand sliding softly under your feet.

You found a comfortable looking spot, amidst the long grass bending over from the cold wind, and looked out at the ocean, satisfied. Your eye was caught by one of the fishermen, not too far away. It was bright, and you couldn't make out many details, but you could tell he was of a considerable size, broad shoulders under a tight fitting black fleece. You watched as he pulled his rod back, and with a strong motion, cast it back into the ocean. The line disappeared over the white waves and your attention stayed on him. You didn't know why, but you couldn't take your eyes off him. You felt a bit weird staring, but the safety of the dunes, height and distance wise, emboldened you as you kept looking. Besides, he was facing the other way.

You watched as he kept moving down the beach, coming closer to you, always focused on casting and recasting his fishing line out. You weren’t sure if he had noticed you or not, but as he was almost directly in front of you, just lower down and a few metres away. His face was turned towards the long expanse of the beach. Blushing, you looked away. You were sure you were in his peripheral now. You didn’t know if he was looking at you or not, but you decided to play it safe by focusing on the waves in the distance to your right. Then, before you knew what happened, a violent gust of wind blew your hat right off your head. A squeal left your mouth as your hands went to your hair but it was too late. Your hat was flying down the dune, and was being whipped around wildly. In one swift movement, you saw him catch it, and a mix of relief and nerves suddenly filled your stomach. He held the hat in his hand, examining it, before looking up at you, up in the dunes. You stared back blankly, a little stupefied, before coming to your senses and standing up from your spot in the damp sand. Carefully, you made your way down the dune, anxiety rolling around inside of you like the turbulent water in the waves. What if he mistook the staring as you being interested in him? You approached him, trying to keep your pace casual and even. He held the hat, unmoving, his eyes trained on you. The bottom half of his face was covered from the wind with a neck gaiter, tucked into the black fleece, which only made his stare more intense.

“Erm, thank you…” you said as you reached out to grab the hat from his gloved hands. He said nothing in response.

“S’alright” he finally said after what felt like too long of a pause. You thought you could hear a British accent. You raked your brain for something to say. Maybe he wanted for you to just leave now, and that could explain the uncomfortable silence.

“Catch anything good?” you asked, looking at the bag on his hip, where you assumed he kept the fish he was catching. He continued to stare at you. In the bright light reflecting on the ocean and sand, you could see his eyes were a deep shade of golden browns.

“Not yet.” You barely heard over the crashing of a wave right behind him. “But I feel like I’m’bout to.” He added at the end, his eyes never leaving your face. You laughed, unsure as to whether he was making a joke or simply talking from fisherman’s instinct. Another gust of wind threatened to steal the hat in your hands and you gripped onto it more tightly. Right then…

With a small nod towards him you took a step backwards and started to turn back. You made your way back to the break in the dunes where a small forest path lay a little further along, to take you back home.

Once you breached the dune you looked back, a weird feeling creeping up your neck. What if he watched where you crossed over and followed you down the little trail home? You nervously watched the top of the dune, half expecting to see a large figure rising up from behind it. But why would he follow you home? And how long would you stand there, waiting for nothing to happen? So you shook your head and turned back to the path, trying to get him out of your mind.

Part 2

[simons-simp]

sometimes I wonder how y'all are obsessed with specific characters and I'm like "why them" but then I remember that sometimes its literally not your choice you just look at them wrong and all of a sudden they're taking up your every thought forever

[simons-simp]

[simons-simp]

don't know what this says about me but i desperately need someone to write a price/reader daddy kink heavy fic where he cups your jaw and brushes your teeth for you while staring at you through the bathroom mirror.

thought about Price growling "Spit" and lost consciousness for a split second

[simons-simp]

Went to the beach and writing more for my fisherman!Simon idea... 😈

[simons-simp]

I know there’s a lot of hype around Butcher!Simon and god knows I’m obssessed with that concept, but what do we all think about fisherman!Simon? Spends his time on a small trawler, or on the wild beaches, expertly throwing fishing lines out. Slicing open silvery fish and gutting them without even looking, his eyes trained on you, the cute little sweet girl who’s new to this coastal town and checks out the Saturday market. Unlike the other sellers, he makes zero effort in attracting anyone to his stall, and yet by the end of the day, he’s always been cleaned out, his fish always fresher and bigger than any others at the market.

But he doesn’t care about any of that when his eyes fall on you. Now he’s only got one thing he wants to catch on his hook.

[simons-simp]

My mind has been buzzing with the idea of an Off Grid!Ghost, a rugged lonely man, who after his discharge from the military found the most remote place in the mountains that he could, built himself a cabin, and spends his time developing and maintaining completely self-sufficient systems. That is, until he found you far from the trail, a lost little rabbit. What kind of man would he be if he didn’t offer you food and shelter, and protect you from all those predators out there?

Here’s a little drabble. I want to finish this but wanted to post what I have so far…

Untitled Drabble

You look at him as he hovers over the stove, his mass covering it from your view entirely. He has to crane his body down to stir the sauce in the old pan with a black bottom, and even you have to admit, it smells good.

You look around the rest of the cabin, taking opportunity that he is distracted to have a better look. It’s small, is the first assessment you make, especially considering his size. The walls inside are the same as the outside - rough logs with the bark still there in some places. There’s a little stove in the corner, crackling quietly and warming up the room well. Next to the stove, a little counter and sink, and you notice a bucket underneath the sink, catching the water that comes down the drain. It's rustic but warm.

You bring your feet closer to you, tucking them under you as watch the back of his head, his blond hair buzzed down. You can see a gnarly scar running up his neck, just under his hair.

“Whatcha starin’ for pet?” He asks, his gravelly voice taking you out of the slumber you didn’t even notice you were starting to slip into. You avert your eyes. How did he even know? The pet name is unexpected and you want to show some sign of being indignant to it but you can’t help but squeeze your legs together, feeling heat spreading down to your core, which you ignore.

“I’m not a pet…” you say, your voice coming out a bit weak, and you clear your throat. “And I wasn’t staring.” You tack on, hoping that adds some bite.

”Ok. Whatever you say, pet.” He chuckles, and you feel the tip of your ears warm up.

”What’s that scar on your neck?” You suddenly blurt out and as soon as the words have left your mouth you’re already regretting them. Why are you asking him about scars now? He stays quiet as he continues to mix the food on the stove.

”Long time ago. I was in the forces.” He says. You sit there, feeling uncomfortable, and you’re not sure if its because you were prying, or because this new piece of information only makes the difference between you feel even more vast. He’s not just twice your height and three times your mass; he’s trained in how to use his body, and you don't doubt that, if he wanted to, it wouldn’t take him very long to pin you to the ground in a few seconds. Do they do martial arts in the army?

It’s been quiet for a few minutes now and you can feel the uncomfortableness creep in again.

”How long were you in the army for?” You squeak out, realising that if you dont want silence, you have no choice but to pry.

”Don’t know.” He almost grumbles out. His answer surprises you. How much of his life has he given away? His short answers only make you want to pry more, digging your slender fingers into the nape of his neck and prying it open to look into his brain.

”Why’d you leave?” You try again. It feels like a natural follow up question. Silence again.

”My knees were fucked.” he says, matter of factly. You can’t tell if he’s pissed at you or not, and you’re unsure if you should keep going, but before you can get another question out of your mouth, he picks up the large pot of boiling water on the corner of the stove, and starts to dump it down the drain into an old plastic colander, the hot water quickly rushing down the drain and into the bucket underneath the sink. You watch as the steam rises up, and you can already see the windows getting foggy from the heat. Deftly, he flips over the colander into the pan he was staring, and your feel your stomach grumbling. When was the last time that you ate?