#Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley

[ryuzakemo128]

Goodnight

Chapter One: Family Ties

Pairing: Poly 141 x female reader (Boomer)

Words: 1733

Masterlist - Prequel

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Content Warnings: Boomer is both a callsign and nickname for the female reader, Violence and Aggression, Mature Themes, Family Dysfunction, Mental Health, plus many others I might not have covered here.

Summary:

What could he even give her in return?

What would he be able to give her?

What can he offer her that she doesn’t already possess?

Does he bring joy? Does he offer security?

What does he have to offer her?

John had to look up at her, stretching his neck to get a clear view of her face. Towering over him, much like her father would tower over many others around him.

Her mother, Meredith, warned him about her daughter’s height and intimidating presence beforehand. He assumed it was some kind of joke. An oddly specific joke.

Seeing her in person now? He started to swallow down the words of doubt piling up. Eat each word, each one as they clawed, crawled from the depths of his throat.

She had given him her file, and it made his skin crawl once I started looking through it. Her genetics written in the many medical forms. In greater detail than he bargained for.

Boomer hasn’t spoken to her mother since her parents divorced. She was nine years old at the time. Her opinion of her mother changed when the affair came to light. She couldn’t even look at her.

Adamant in her refusal to be around her. She wanted to stay with her father. She didn’t want to live with her mother and the affair partner.

Not only that, but she wanted nothing to do with her or her ‘uncle’.

Boomer never changed her mind on her choice. Not even once.

What took precedence over the other mission?

What did her mother hope to achieve by doing this?

Boomer, a daughter, descendant of a lineage of soldiers, political figures, legislators, and engineers. A young woman taught to be self-sufficient, independent, self-reliant, and autonomous.

What could he even give her in return?

What would he be able to give her?

What can he offer her that she doesn’t already possess?

Does he bring joy? Does he offer security?

What does he have to offer her?

Boomer, the operative with 'quirks' inside of her genetic DNA. According to the information, her mother had provided him. Heavily documented, recorded, detailed enough to make any scientist and genetics researcher wet their slacks.

The files listed them in great detail to make sure nothing was or ever will be left up in the air for assumption, postulation, conjecture or theorised.

Mental, physical, and technical prowess, all rolled into one intimidating package — that's how John Price saw the Australian operative.

All written down by numerous doctors, specialists, consultants, physicians, and practitioners.

Mental traits passed down to her from her father's side of the family genetics were:

Eidetic Memory: Also known as photographic memory and total recall. Essentially, it’s the ability to recall an image from memory with high precision for at least a brief period of time.

Hyperthymesia: This condition is known as Hyperthymestic syndrome or high superior autobiographical memory (HSAM). Leadings to people to be able to remember an abnormally large number of life experiences in vivid detail.

Indefatigability: This is a trait that allows Boomer to never get tired, even when everyone around her is begging for a break.

Physical traits passed down to her from her father's side of the family genetics were:

Hypermobility Syndrome: Also known as double-jointness. Which means the joints can move beyond the normal range of motion. Often stretching farther than the norm. Some hypermobile people can bend their thumbs backwards to their wrists and bend their knee joints backwards.

High Pain Tolerance: The ability to endure pain without succumbing to it. A trait that would come in handy in the line of work she's chosen.

Efficient Metabolism: A high metabolic rate that supports her indefatigability, keeping her energised and allowing for rapid recovery after physical exertion.

He had to take a short break to process through this new information. Boomer would be inducted into the task force sometime before the month was over.

In need to make sure this was the right choice for his squad, as well as Boomer, the woman in question. Her mother certainly didn’t.

John Price picked up the phone and dialled a familiar number, one that had been etched in his mind for years.

“Meredith,” he began, his voice ringing the bulk of his considerations, “I need to know more about your daughter's condition. What aren't you telling me?”

The silence between them stretched on painfully as a result. John had an on again, off again relationship with her for the past three years.

What would this mean for Boomer?

He imagined Boomer saying, 'Cheaters like her cheat serially without compassion' with the same conviction that she'd say, 'A bullet doesn’t care how much you believe it won't hit you'. He recognised she wasn’t one to forgive easily or ever.

Most likely, she had gridlocked her mother out of her thoughts entirely, and that was something he had to be ready for once she allied with the team.

“Look, Meredith, I need both sides, not just the father’s. Don’t put your own bias by removing your flaws from the equation. It won’t be fair for my team and ultimately you are withholding information from your own child.” John sighed disappointed Meredith didn’t put the entire genetic history forward into her medical file.

John looked up from the medical file in his hand, “It reeks of personal bias. I don’t understand why you would prevent her from learning these things.”

Meredith’s voice quivered over the line, “I wanted to protect her, John. You know what they’ll do if they find out she’s got my genes. They’ll turn her into a lab rat, not a soldier. You have to promise me, you’ll keep this between us.”

“You can’t protect her if you can’t be bothered to tell her the truth.”

Traits from her mother’s side of the family still remains a large unknown. Even to Boomer herself. She still doesn’t know what they entail for her and her health.

And considering she hadn’t spoken to her mother since her parent’s divorce at the age of ten. Even then, school took precedence, and her father fought for full custody.

Her father didn’t care what she wore growing up, as long as she wore clothes. He received backlash from it after the mothers at the school noticed how he parented Boomer.

As well-behaved as Boomer was. Her father wasn't above the ire of the housewives, the stay-at-home mothers, the ones who saw her father's nonchalance as a form of neglect. Boomer knew better, her father didn't talk much, but he fixed more teddy bears than anyone she knew.

His tools were his words, his workshop his sanctuary, and his love, unspoken but as sturdy as the furniture he crafted. She often found refuge in his workshop, the smell of sawdust and the hum of his machines, comforting. It was here she discovered her love for tinkering, for creating, and for fixing things.

“D'ya think ebony varnish would look good for the bee's aviary?” Boomer asked one afternoon.

Her father, a six-foot ten giant of a man, broad shoulders, grey streaked beard, he didn't have the typical military buzzcut like most men inside the military.

Any blueprints he looked over for Boomer were meticulously studied, each piece of wood measured, sanded, and crafted with precision. Her curiosity grew with every project they completed together.

Sometimes, she frequently found herself lost in thought about the mysterious talents she might have inherited from her mother's lineage.

The odd questions, which slowly became rather uncomfortable, too personal and delving far too deep into personal information. If either one of them answered them, told them.

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with you. Can you please stop asking about it?”

They hated that answer.

Loathed it even.

Assumed they were anti-social losers of some kind.

They remarked that Boomer wasn’t ‘female’ enough because she wore overalls after school, got her hands dirty, played violent video games and loved horror movies.

Comments of:

‘If she was my daughter, I would have taken those violent video games from her and sent her to ballet classes’

‘If she were my wife she would not be allowed to leave the house dressed like that, she needs to learn to be a real woman’

‘Why is she so tall, she’s going to scare the men away’

‘What happened to her, is she a tomboy, why can’t she be more like a lady’

They echoed in the room like a symphony of ignorance.

Small comments to her father's disdain grew into a crescendo of whispers that followed her everywhere.

Meaning to those mothers. Boomer is the definition of the word ugly.

He didn't know mothers could get this vile or even be able to sleep at night being this level of horrid.

Part of him wanted to walk up to each one of those mothers and shake them until they saw some kind of sense between their ears. Telling them to leave his daughter alone.

He also knew he couldn’t do it and get away with it on legal terms.

What he could do? Send a passive-aggressive letter to each one of the mothers to get them to leave Boomer alone, or he would dig up so much dirt on them, they’ll regret ever speaking about his daughter in the first place.

The same moms who were poking, prodding and invading his privacy.

“You sure you want to give them those letters? They won’t or might not react all too nicely to them, dad.”

“It’s also for your safety, Boomer.”

“I know. I know. It just feels….nasty. Petty. Going down to their level.”

“Bullies often pick on those they deem to be weak or too shy to stand up for themselves. Often assuming just because the person they target is too weak to do anything about it.”

“I thought you said they also have a rough home life, too.”

“Children are bullies. Often because they have a rough home life because they have awful parents who shouldn’t have been parents.”

“And?”

“It means they never saw what they did was the wrong thing. They didn’t see it as a problem. Now, they’re still making everyone else’s life miserable.”

“These women could just double down on their stance.”

“And they could also take the hint. We won’t know until we find out.”

“Ten bucks to say they will.”

“Ten bucks and an extra week of laundry, they will take the hint.”

“Fingers crossed they don't get physical.”

“Fingers crossed they leave you alone.”

“Only one way, someone is gonna win this bet.”

“It's to let it play out.”

[vermillionwinter]

Fever Dream

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian f!reader

Summary: How many chance encounters can you have before you decide fate has intertwined your threads? With the 141 on leave pending an investigation, you appear to Simon, a lighthouse in the distance calling him to safety.

Warnings: Mutual attraction, slow-burn series (our boy's got a lot of work to do), Spicy thoughts-not explicit.

Note: I haven't had the will to write like this in years, but Simon Riley has reawakened a beast, and I need to get all the words out. So, this is a very rusty piece of work, but hope y'all find some enjoyment! Tattoos are the only physical descriptions I believe. the 2nd POV's are bringing me back to middle school Quizilla days.

Quiet. Everything in Simon’s Manchester flat was too fucking quiet, and the air stagnant when he was home. And that silence gave his thoughts the freedom to creep and dance to the murkiest valleys of his subconscious. Wrapping its tarry tendrils around the very memories Simon wanted to keep locked behind the chained door, dragging them out of him to relive every excruciating moment the darkness saw fit to unleash. 

Sitting in the single chair of his small, round table, Simon could catch wafts of soil and decay wrapping him in the tight confines of the damp wooden coffin. His lungs tightened, constricting the oxygen he needed. The fear of no escape webbed its way through the calm fog the prior glass of bourbon provided. It was as if the darkness narrowed in on him, boxing him into the point of full paralysis. The arms of his chairs he gripped tightly in his fists began to transform into the feel of the corpse that once was buried with him. 

HONK!

Simon’s eyes shot open, and he took the deepest breath he could muster as his lungs got used to the feeling of a full inhale and exhale. His eyes darted around in panic taking in every detail of his barren flat. It was sparsely furnished with essentials, one of them being a bed large enough the behemoth of a man could stretch upon comfortably. As comfortable as one could get when they're accustomed to the hard ground or the scantily padded cots.  

Simon shot back the bourbon he originally poured to savor and appreciate relishing in the slow burn it made down his esophagus. What he wouldn’t fucking do to get back out on the field. 

“As soon as we're back, gents, we are boots on the ground finding these bastards. We’ll find Shepherd and every lost Shadow.”

Ghost hadn’t been deployed since he took the last shot at Hassan in Chicago- weeks have passed. Bloody fucking investigation into Shepherd’s and Shadow Company’s off book deals called that all operators on the ops related to Graves’ and Shephard’s stolen missiles had to take mandatory leave pending investigation. Shadows were still getting wrapped up for questioning. There were few still on the run. But they’d find them. They didn’t deserve the courtesy of living their lives in fear. The face of death is all they were due. 

Betrayal. Betrayal got his family killed. Got Simon Riley killed. And now good soldiers lie dead in fields, their graves forever empty; and families lie dead in the streets of Las Almas. Innocent lives taken by those he once defended, defended the 141. 

Glass shattered against the opposite wall before Simon realized he threw the blown sand from his hand. Shoulders sagged, defeated, depleted, ready to give into the quiet of his home. The benched operator stood from his chair and made his way to the shower. He’d clean the mess later. He was alone after all. Always alone. 

Simon walked through the small crowds, prolonging the journey to his destination to walk to a path he didn’t have to squeeze through a throng of people. Wisps of the fresh air sauntered over him, releasing threads of tension into the open. Easing him from looking over his shoulder and checking his surroundings more often than they stayed in front of him. To his relief, no one was following him. Venturing out into society felt like an op in its own way. Having to blend in when you lived your life in anonymity. He wore a different mask in the calm of the world. One fewer people were familiar with than the ominous mask he donned on the field.  

And Las Almas was proof of why. Shephard was a loose-end that needed to be handled yesterday, and Simon couldn’t shake off the constant feeling he would be found. Just as Roba had found him. He couldn’t very well walk around with his most distinguishing feature on full display, a beacon where to strike next. Simon had to stay vigilant. For himself, but most importantly for them. Nothing could get to them. 

Sleep was an elusive luxury Simon would not allow himself since he was dismissed on leave, not that he had the best slumber before then. Running on cat naps, caffeine and spite. The blame and guilt eating away at him, letting those bastards go unseen. And all he wanted was five minutes alone with Shepherd. Ghost wanted the ex-general begging for his life as it left his very body. 

To…

All of Simon's plans of vengeance were halted when you stepped out onto the patio of the bakery he found a form of solace in on leave- emerald lace dress billowing around your body, combat boots peaked through with each step you took. Ethereal. A goddess among man. You were divine and entrancing as you stepped lightly, despite the clunky footwear you chose. He was in the door before he could notice where you sat, but hell he found himself praying at your altar you would be in perfect view. 

La Gouter was one of the few havens Simon had found in the area. The crowd was moderate, but constant. Tea was always fresh, and the man could not resist the warm, buttery treats. Today he sat with a chocolate croissant with his black tea- two sugars, no cream. Balance. 

A book tucked under his arm, he leaned against the mural of Paris- where he had a clear view to the left, right, patio door adjacent to his table, and the entry of the cafe itself. Which also gave him the view of his tea shop muse, and a sudden warmth rushed over him when you looked towards him, eyes honing in on his eyes. Target locked. 

Looking down quickly, he cracked open the book that accompanied him. Laying there waiting to be read, to transport the reader to another realm. A world where he didn’t have to be Simon Riley. Now he could get lost in the spice filled sands of Arrakis. Simon let his eyes settle on the pages behind the orange cover. 

Twenty pages in, half the tea gone, he felt his eyes drifting again. Black nails adorned your lithe fingers-wrapped around a pen you used to write in the notebook splayed on the table. Legs shifting, the slit of your dress exposed more tattoos scattered on your smooth leg. Wouldn't it be nice to run his fingers over the lines of each piece of art that was displayed there? To feel those hands wrapped around him instead? To lay you out in front of him the way your notebook was exposed to you. Lines of intrigue covering both flesh and paper. He wanted to know the webs of thought spinning from your head to paper. The sounds your lips would release at his touches. Were they soft and airy? Low and rough?

Fuck, he shook himself from the lasvicious thoughts (swirling in his head) throwing back the rest of his tea that he dearly wished was bourbon, and left for the gate. But as he threw his trash into the bin, he had that feeling. There was an energy when eyes bore into you. Watched your every move, like you were prey. Their target . Taking in even the smallest of twitches.

Chalked it up to being on edge after Las Almas, but fuck he needed to get back to his flat now. What if Shephard had found him? Ghost had no shortage of enemies that would crave nothing more than to spill his blood. Were the others still alive? Gaz. Price. Soap. But Simon wasn't met with a bullet when he turned around to face whoever was trailing him. No. Simon found curious eyes glistening in the sun- following his every move. Down to the smallest twitch.

Simon felt his heart stutter, a catch in his throat when you flashed a disarming smile, painted in dark red. Stomach in unfamiliar knots, he froze for a moment soaking in your warmth in the moment of vulnerability. He wanted that warmth to blanket him in its softest rays. It was terribly disarming. Blinking out of his stupor, he found tantalizing eyes paired with a shy smile greeting him. But, the brute didn’t know how to respond; his mind was still in conflict. And he left without another glance in your direction, all the while wondering how someone could glow in the dull skies of London. There was enough sunlight to bathe you in its golden rays. The shimmer upon your skin was like nothing Simon had ever seen, your beauty enraptured him. 

You watched the giant of a man turn-hands shoved in his pockets-and leave the cafe, and you couldn’t help the appreciative gaze as your eyes roamed the backside of the man who stopped dead in his tracks and stared at you for an agonizingly small amount of time. Whom you had caught staring at you minutes ago. His gaze, through red lenses, overwhelmed you, a vehement aura exuding and reaching.

He was statuesque, a gargoyle in the flesh wrapped in the darkness of his fabrics, sitting at the small metal table against the bright paints of the Paris mural. You certainly appreciated the contrast. Auburn beard covered a strong jaw, but his face was mostly obscured by the black Everton cap and red lensed shades. The hoodie did little to conceal the firm bulk of his arms, broad shoulders. When he broke eye contact to read his book, shades went to his hat, but angled his face to further obscure your view. A shiver chilled you. Why was he hiding? But you didn’t let your attention linger, though you did want to. You wanted to watch him read, and immerse himself in whatever tale he was venturing through.  

In. Out. In. Out.

The mantra on loop to keep his thoughts focused. Singular. Not focused on red lips pressed against his neck. Teeth grazing a path over a protruding vein. So he ran faster. Faster. Faster, until all he could think about was how to get enough oxygen to his lungs, Lamb of God blasting through his headphones. The opening notes of Walk with Me In Hell leading him through the end of his run. Spent. Overexerted. Exactly what he needed. He’d finally sleep, and just not fucking care what happened next.

Simon released a breath he had not realized he was holding until it left him. Disappointed relief. The tea shop siren was absent from his visit. It was strange. The wanton desire to be in the presence of another being. He was used to alone. It was easier to work when you didn’t have the reminder of how many lives were in your hands. It was effective, and he was damn good at it. You had his mind in a whirlwind of confusion. Not even the women he's fucked stayed with him the way you have. You've never even said a damn word to him, and he was crumbling. Under a spell you were unaware you cast. Synthesizing his dreams to your every whim.

“Fucking Christ.” A soft growl met his ears, eyes slid toward the culprit. And there you were, just as gorgeous and warm without the infrared glow of the burning star above. Even with the snarl across your painted lips, coffee spilled in front of you as you picked up the few items you dropped. The espresso color accentuated the shape of your plush lips, and he wanted to know what the supple flesh felt like between his teeth, tongue sliding in sync with yours. And fucking hell he’s heard your voice, further fueling his mind. Simon’s base instincts were bleeding through more than he would care to admit. Like some horny school boy seeing tits for the first time. He didn’t care for it, wanted it gone. Made him feel compromised. It was consuming him in a time he couldn’t afford distractions. When could he ever?

Your morning started out shit, and seemed to become progressively shittier. You had an assignment due by midnight. The internet at your place was out, and the company had been very little help with an ETA. It had been your day off, but Deana was out with some virus her kid picked up from school and you were the lucky winner to be on rotation that week for the store. All you wanted was the comfort and warmth of a white chocolate mocha, and now that was also ruined as the caffeinated beverage seeped into the porous concrete of the patio. 

You had been set and determined to complete your assignment covering the impact commercial farming has had on the environment and global economics. Then, you saw him. Shades sat atop his same hat, the once full beard had been trimmed, hugging the shapely jaw. You liked it, so much so that you stumbled on a table, coffee slipping from your hands.

You wanted to scream, cry, kick the chair, but instead you blinked back the tears and picked the empty cup from the puddle of cream, sugar and caffeine. Feeling like a bloody idiot for being that damn distracted by a bloke you’ve not actually seen yet. If he walked around without the hate and sunnies, you’d most likely not realize it was him. But hell if the mystery wasn’t all the more enticing.

 You sighed, paying no more mind to the gargantuan on your left-dizzy from the distractions- and set your workstation. Three hours. That’s all you had before your shift at the shop.

You sat with one earbud playing music as you began cycling through your notes finding topic points and sub plots for your outline. The angelic voice of Florence Welsh guiding you through the motions of the ebb and flow of your homework routine. And deep in your concentration and will to see this task complete, you did not notice a dark figure leaving its perch. 

“Excuse me?” you looked to see one of the younger baristas standing with a coffee. “Uh…some dude ordered this for you, and wanted me to bring it out to you?” 

You quirked a brow taking the drink from the nervous kid and thanked them. When they skittered back into the building you took a look around seeing Paris missing one of its Gargoyles of Notre Dame.  A jolt of excitement warmed you when the sweet velvet flow of the caffeine hit your tongue. A perfect coffee to lift your spirits from a perfect stranger.

[emmster]

Soft💀🧼

[3archangelsaints]

Simon doesn’t like touch, and no one dares touches him. His history of sexual assault also meant he’s never pursued anything healthy sexual relations, and that’s fine with him. He doesn’t care.

So when he sees you and something urges him to ask you out, he doesn’t care that you say you’re waiting for marriage. I think it makes him feel safe with you, that you wouldn’t try to initiate anything with him.

But you’re also a very affectionate person, at least not so much in the beginning but throughout the months of dating him, he notices the way you subtly press closer. Especially after a hard day and you want to be comforted. You don’t push it, you know it’d push him away.

But then the one time you’d rather just be on your own, frustrated and mad, you come home surprised he’s there. You bump into him, “Sorry.”

And you’re changing out of your work clothes and into running clothes.

“It’s dark.” He states.

“Then come with.” And he does.

———

When you get home you shower first, before he showers, and you’re already in an old men’s shirt and shorts, bare feet padding around your house.

“Why are you with me?”

“I like you.”

“Are you sure? You don’t even hug me, or, or, hold my hand, kiss my cheek?” You say softly, stuttering from the emotions.

“Do you want me to?”

“I want you, to want to. Simon, not cause I want it, because you want to do it.”

He’s silent, which isn’t unusual, but he nods, looking down at you.

“I’ve never kissed anyone.” He admits. You sit on the kitchen counter, motioning him to come closer, he does.

His eyes crinkles, as he returns the gesture.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” He leans in tilting his head and you lean in, hands in your lap, trying not to scare him off.

“You can put your hands on me.” You look surprised and smile bashfully, hands on his shoulders, he kisses you softly. When he pulls away he asks, “Can I hug you?”

“Yes.” He’s pressing himself into you, arms gingerly holding you. “Something happen?”

“Jus’ missed you.” He buries his head in your neck, his stubble tickling you.

[oceantornadoo]

your weighted blanket (simon riley x f!reader)

part of this two lieutenants series but it’s standalone

—

“you know what i want?”

“wha’?”

“a weighted blanket.”

simon turned away from his bedroom desk to stare at you, his dark eyes squinting incredulously.

“what?! i think it’d help me sleep.”

“wha’ the fuck is a weighted blanket.”

you huffed a sigh. “it’s literally a weighted blanket simon. having weight pressing down on you helps you sleep, it’s scientifically proven.” you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms as you laid back on his bed.

turning off his desk lamp, he made his way to his bed. he joined you on top of the covers, giving you plenty of space. keeping it platonic. not that he wanted to, but that was another thing.

“can’t jus’ have some sop lay on you?” the words hurt coming out, but it was the only thing he could say. desperately looking for a sign that you were talking to someone as you were so tightlipped about your escapades until after they ended.

“i’m on a man break. they all suck.” no one measured up to the unending care simon gave you, even if he was just a friend. just a friend who lets you come into his room every night, talking yourself to sleep. just a friend who never forgets your favorite body wash or candle scent on supply runs.

“they don’t know how to treat a woman like you.” his words echoed in the dark, ideas of what they meant bouncing around in your brain. “a woman like me?” silence. “don’t be mean, si.”

fuck he was so stupid. needed to watch his tone better, like gaz was always telling him. “dove, jus’ meant a smart independent woman like yourself. yer lookin’ for a partner and they’re look for a mother or a fuck. or both.” your jaw dropped. “oh. thanks.” his words thickened the air. no one had ever talked about you like that, like you were something to be treasured, not kept. like he respected you.

“if you really need a weighted blanket i-“ “yeah?” you sounded too eager, but you didn’t care. you turned towards him, catching his eye in the gleam of the base lights outside his window. “could be yers. if you want. strictly platonic.” he scratched his head, looking away. embarrassed. “yeah, platonic. course, yeah. that’s fine. good, i mean.” you needed to get your act together and stop sounding like a teenager, but he just offered to be your blanket. surely that was more than platonic.

“now?”

“sure.”

you sat on his bed like a dead fish, arms at your sides. you were not about to initiate what surely would be the most awkward non-cuddle session in your life. simon pressed one large paw into the mattress, hauling his huge body up on one arm. he moved down farther on the bed, his head parallel to your ribs. then, with the uttermost care, he shifted on top of you, hovering. waiting. “you can lay on me si, it’s okay.” he released his hands slowly, the full force of his body laying on you. 250+ pounds of pure machine, a body honed from years in the military. a soldier, a sniper, a lieutenant, now at your mercy, body covering yours completely.

“not too weighted for you?” you giggled. an actual giggle from his fellow lieutenant. “no, si. not too weighted.” your hand instinctively went to his hair before you could stop yourself. “is this comfortable? you’re on my ribs.” he grunted. it actually hurt like a bitch, your bone pressing into him through layers of fat, but he was laying on you and therefore could not complain. “you can move up, i won’t mind.” well, if you were letting him. he wanted to make the most of this blanket situation, this type of intimacy so foreign to him.

simon scooted up your body and laid his head on your tits. built-in pillows, one might call them. you hand went to his hair again, slowly scratching his scalp. “this ok?” you never touched like this, had never touched him like something precious. he grunted, a yes in “ghost” as you liked to call it. you continued running your hand through his hair, surprised at the softness of his locks. his face was against your breast, and usually you’d be embarrassed, but lines had been crossed and all bets were off. his body was heavy, sure, but the weight of it was comforting. all you could think of was him, not the annoying recruit from this morning, not the bad dinner you had at the mess hall. only the smell of the base shampoo and his natural musk, something uniquely him but not gross.

all simon could hear was your heartbeat. it had quickened when he first laid down, but now it was slowing to a comforting beat. you were here, you were breathing. the gunfire and the smell of bombs in his head meant nothing as long as he had you like this, in his arms where no one could hurt you. he could feel your body relaxing, muscles losing the day’s tension and giving themselves over to sleep. as your breathing slowed and you moved to a lower, more comfortable position on his pillow, he knew time could stop and all that would matter was you, right here, with him.

--

[cheesit-notes]

"s'fucking small"

lieutenant ghost who has a major size kink.

tags: MDNI!, size kink obvi, manhandling teehee, fem reader, fingering, you're put in a mating press, lowkey praise?

a/n: sorry for the late post, i went to hoyofest '23 and then tumblr went down for a bit but teehee take ghost and size kink (i want him to manhandle me)

ghost likes to hold things after you hold them just to see how big his hands look on it compared to yours. does the thing where he makes you hold his phone and later compares it to his cock. (when hard, he is most definitely over 7 inches and at least 5 inches in girth, you can't tell me he can act like this if his cock was any less)

loves manhandling you 'cause god, look at you! so small next to him. he absolutely adores your hand in his, just shows him how big he is compared to you.

when he has you pinned to the bed, legs spread out showing off your pretty little cunt to him, just him. god, and you're so wet, letting him slip in a finger in so easily. one hand holding yours down, your knees pressing against your chest as he pushes himself onto you. revels in the fact he can just engulf your entire body with his larger one.

slips a few fingers in and out, seeing you squirm around trying to rub on him trying to get any form of friction. teases you by rubbing your clit, just a little. then when he's had enough, he'll stand up and let you watch as he slowly takes off his belt and let his cock spring free.

an arm to support him, your knees now next to your head because of the position, and his cock lined up with your cunt. he'll ram it in with no time for you to adjust (he's so mean). gets him all riled up seeing a bulge in your stomach. he'll grunt out your name and little comments about how you're "s'fucking small" and how you're taking him in sooo good. he'll put you in a mating press. eventually, he's just panting and moaning your name as you squeeze around him with a death grip on your hips and thighs.

god you look so cute as he fucks your brains out.

[bluegiragi]

holding back (part 2)

early access + nsfw on patreon

[yumethefrostypanda]

Lieutenant Riley

[elysianightsss]

Simon sees you and that’s it. You’re all he thinks about, night and day. You’re what he dreams of. He doesn’t even know your name, just the grocery store you shop at a little ways away from his apartment. He thinks it’s fate. He knows it is when he sees you at the local bar he frequents getting shouted at by some asshole you’d refused to leave with. His bruising grip on your wrist is ripped away before Simon beats him half to death (would’ve happily killed him too but he wasn’t about to commit murder in front of his lady) holding out his blood covered hand, he’s suprised you take it but incredible grateful. He has so many plans for you, one of them being; to drive you out to his cabin in the mountains, keep you pliant and exhaust you by burying his face in your pretty cunt until you pass out. Then and only then will he ‘sneak’ outside and puncture a pipe inside his car engine as well as two of his tyres so when you start getting antsy and ready to go home, he’s got himself a damn good excuse as to why you should get your cute ass back into his bed and stay there forever.

[cherryredstars]

Construction worker!Ghost x Teacher!Reader? They're married and every time Ghost comes home he's instantly pussy drunk at the sight of the reader and hurries up finish eating so he can get to 'dessert' and makes sure his lovely wife gets absolutely cock drunk to remember forever like he always does?

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley" x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Oral Sex

Unedited

His back aches.

A common occurrence after lugging around bags of concrete and bricks. There is an uncomfortable knot that always flares between his shoulder blades, and Simon sniffs in discomfort as he shifts his hard hat between his arm and side. He's long decided that if a warm shower doesn't help his muscles let up, he'll ask you for a massage. Maybe he'll even ask for you to use the really expensive, nice smelling lotion you bought as a treat to yourself.

His keys knock together as he opens the front door, the scent of you and homemade food instantly flooding his senses. The house is pleasantly cool, drying the sweat that still clings to his skin from the long day in the summer sun. He can hear whatever you're watching from the entrance as he hangs up his work vest and hat, turning to find you sitting in front of the coffee table. Colorful paper in different shapes is spread out in front of you, no doubt something for your students. You turn at the sound of him entering and you give him that breath-taking smile that still makes his stomach dip.

You get up from your spot, letting him get a clear view of the outfit you wore to work today. It's a pretty little summer dress with splashes of color and a skirt flowing just below your knees. Simon can feel saliva pooling on his tongue as you approach, his fingers twitching. You have to balance on the tips of your toes to reach his face, your hands grabbing his cheeks as your soft lips press against his chapped ones. You smell like glue and the summery perfume you wear to match the season. You pull away far too quickly for his liking, and his hands grab at your waist so you don't go too far.

"I've been waiting for you," You declare, hands planted flat on his paint-stained shirt. "Dinner is on the table."

Simon hums, his thumbs rubbing at your sides through the fabric. He lets you lead him to the table when your hands slide down to capture one of his, tugging him along behind you. He can't help the way his eyes follow the curve of your spine, dipping down to the soft swell of your ass. He licks his lips as he sits down at the table, hungry for something more than a home-cooked meal.

You just look so tempting as you sit across from him, giving him that cute smile before you begin eating. You don't even act surprised when Simon starts devouring his plate, already used to his unending appetite. You're barely halfway done with your food when Simon cleans his plate.

"Do you want seconds?" You ask him, looking up at him.

Your stomach drops when you meet his heated eyes. Something in you stirs, and you have to look away for a moment to avoid being sucked into his hypnotic stare.

"In the mood for dessert," Simon grumbles, leaning back in his chair. You gulp, the meaning of his words hitting you straight in your chest. Still, you decide to play coy.

"We have some cookie dough I can pop into the oven real quick?" You offer, pushing yourself away from the table. "Or I can get us some ice cream if you want something cold."

Simon says nothing as you begin to gather the plates, but he pushes away from the table and follows you inside the kitchen. You can feel the heat of his body searing your back as you place the dishes in the sink, hesitantly turning your head to face him. He towers over you effortlessly, and you gasp when his large hands grab at your hips and turn your body to face him.

He lifts you onto the counter top without a single sign of struggle, the back of your dress becoming wet from small spots of water. Even now you have to turn your head up to look him in the eye, and your mouth slightly gapes as he leans in.

"Craving something else." He finally responds, hands grabbing at your skirt and yanking it up to your waist. You gasp, watching as Simon bends down to inspect his next course.

Your panties already have a darkened patch of arousal, and you make a noise of embarrassment when he presses his nose to it and inhales the sweetly tangy scent of your slick. He pushes further, letting his tongue lap at the spot and groaning as if he could taste the full extent of your drooling cunt. Your hands fly to his hair, the short strands filling your palms as you moan out.

You can feel the bastard smiling against you, his warm breath driving you crazy. One of his hands slips away from your skirt, the fabric draping over your thigh and bunching on the counter as he uses it to move your panties aside. The cool air against your core makes you gasp, but it's quickly replaced with the hot suction of his mouth. His mouth is scolding as he suckles at the tiny bud between your folds, wasting no time in taking his desired fill of you.

He alternates between long sucks and rapid licks, toying with the bundle of nerves before moving to your dripping slit. The tip of his tongue prods at it, not quite penetrating the leaking hole. Simon groans softly against you when you throw your feet over his shoulders, your heel digging into a sore spot in his back. But the pain just heightens his senses, pushing him to finally tongue fuck you.

A string of moans and whines escape your lips, hands tugging at Simon's hair as waves of pleasure fill your stomach. You try to call out his name, attempting to tell him how amazing it feels- how quickly your high is approaching- but it gets lost in the mind numbing pleasure that fogs your brain. You're left shaking when the build up explodes, your body slumping and your hands trying to push Simon's face away. He grunts, fighting you as he laps up the last of your release, savoring the taste as it coats his mouth. He pulls away with one last, harsh suck to your clit, chuckling when you whimper from the sensitivity.

He lets you catch your breath as he stands up, fixing your panties and skirt. Your body is lax and sluggish, and you don't protest when Simon begins to carry you out of the kitchen and to the bathroom. He whispers soft praises into your ear, telling you how well you took his feasting and how pretty you looked while doing it. You smile happily to yourself, tightening your arms around him as best as you can in your sedated state. As Simon carries you, he realizes that the annoying knot in his back has disappeared.

Maybe all he needed was a good taste of his wife's pussy to heal him.

[hooty-duty]

Simpler Times

Someone yelled "the floor is lava" two hours ago, and Soap refuses to touch the ground until he's declared the winner.

I've had this in my 'almost finished but not quite happy with it yet' group of drawings for far too long

[emmster]

Mermaid AU anyone?

[octopiys]

Thinking about King!Soap who can defend himself if he wants to, but he's lowkey getting tired of consistently arguing with his council and members of other kingdoms.

So he goes out and finds the worst court jester he possibly can.

Jester!Ghost who's only a court jester because he's seeing how close he can toe the line before he's executed. He's okay at being funny, but he just ends up insulting everyone he encounters.

King!Soap who nabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him to the palace like a wet cat he found on the street.

Ghost is just like "okay, I can deal with this" until MacTavish brings him into a council meeting, knowing that he's not gonna keep his mouth shut, and when another king from a much smaller kingdom says something to put the king down like:

"You know.... I could've easily taken the kingdom when you were all dangly legged and know-nothing.... but yet I still work with you. You've succeeded because l-"

"So you're a pussy is what you're saying." Ghost says at the other end of the table, and a tense hush falls over the room. All eyes look between the jester and the other king, and the other king opens his mouth to have the jester executed, when King MacTavish breaks the silence with a heavy, true laugh.

Like shoulders shaking, chest heaving, gasping laughs erupt from the king, and he knew then and there that he was keeping this jester. Jesus christ, he hasn't laughed in so long.

So whenever MacTavish has some bullshit meeting, the Jester is brought in to put the council back in his place. Now, of course, as much as MacTavish wants to say it all himself, he thoroughly enjoys the looks on their faces when they figure out they can't make the King do their bidding to get what they want, for fear of being socially ruined by his court jester.

[oceantornadoo]

two lieutenants.

(simon riley x f!reader, all fluff)

two lieutenants🌪️masterlist

not supposed to happen, not really. but the higher ups are finding their morality (where was it all these years ago?) and want to pat themselves on the back for adding a woman to the team.

simon is prepared to hate you, someone taking his spot. this one thing he's done in his life well, the one family he can protect. it itches him in a place he can't shake, the thought of change, of a new person. someone who will stare at his skeleton ways and his gruff voice, someone who will judge but not understand.

but then he meets you, tinkling laugh with doe eyes. calculating in your military knowledge, respectful of the 141's history. never overstepping, never trying to take his place, simply wanting to learn. he tries to hate you, tries to dump sugar in your tea and hide your eye black, but you just laugh and make a face at the sweetness, drawing an extra makeup stick out of your cargoes.

he needs to hate you, but you wash his extra masks without asking on the days he can't touch them for the blood that's laced into the seams. you include his cigarettes on base grocery runs and pour over tactical maps with him until the wee hours, understanding his fundamental need to know everything, more than what's in the briefing papers.

you are prepared to be intimidated by the ghost, the killing machine without a name. you know you're the only woman on an all-male team, but even you can't work friendship miracles. then you meet him and he cocks his head and sizes you up, seeing you as a threat instead of a piece of meat. someone worth considering, not a sideshow, not eye candy.

you try to be scared of him, but how could you when he always leaves an extra tea bag in the almost-empty box? when he keeps hair ties in his front pocket because yours always seem to break in between missions. he listens to your stories and nods thoughtfully, not needing to preen and puff his status like men you've met before.

you need to stay away, but he takes off his gloves in front of you that first time and suddenly you can't. he tells you to call him simon and that he likes the way you say his name, your dissimilar accent coming through. he brushes stray hair from the nape of your neck during a desert mission, tucking it back into your bandana, and you can't remember why you ever intimidated by this man who makes you earn his comfort and care, but who gives it endlessly once you've got it. he's your simon and you're his partner in crime, and suddenly you two could never imagine a team without two lieutenants.

--

im not always into power/rank play i want to be RESPECTED

(don't get me wrong it still eats sometimes)

[shotmrmiller]

forcing your presence onto simon late at night because insomnia and a cup of tea always helps, or so they say, but you were taught better than to not offer others some but now the steaming cup is just sitting on the table to cool while you carefully sip on yours.

he doesn't look at it, you, nothing. keeps his eyes fixed on whatever he's doing, maybe cleaning his gun or something. fine. what matters is that you did your part.

and it eventually becomes routine. every night, like clockwork, he's darkening a corner in the coffee room and you've got a kettle warming. and every night, he ignores everything in his peripheral.

until he doesn't. it starts slow. you're already headed for the door, hand covering your yawn when he picks up the mug and takes a sniff. then, it's the tiniest sip, as if it's got teeth. come morning, the mug you used and his are clean, drying on a dish mat.

the following night, he waits for you to put it on the table before grabbing it. "you've a shit hand," he mutters. "left to steep too long. more bitter than the cigars price smokes."

okay. bastard. the next pot is too bland. calls it dog water. but he drinks all of it just the same. little to no sugar, splash of milk. the stare he leveled your way when he added milk could've destroyed the block.

"secrets safe with me, lieutenant. swear it."

unless he's tearing your ego into tatters with his scathing tea critique, he says nothing else. listens well enough, though. maybe. his eyes look blank most of the time. but he lets you ramble without interruption about nonsensical stuff; your day, your job, soap being the usual nuisance.

it's nice.

and then you fall ill. nothing water and cocooning yourself with your bedsheets for a day or three can't fix.

but then there's a very violent knocking on your door, hard enough to rattle it in its hinges, flaring the already painful throbbing that sits behind your eyes. no matter how hard you try to tell them to piss off, they don't.

"open the door."

now you've got a 6'2+ man barreling into your bedroom, turning his unnerving gaze your way. his eyes flick to your runny nose, chapped lips and wrinkled sleeping clothes.

"you're sick." brilliant observation. truly a man worth his sniper position.

"yes. i'm quite-" your words come to settle behind your clenched teeth as you watch him dig into his front pockets and pull out crinkled tea bags. and open your cabinets because now you're the visitor and he the (g)host.

you'd rather drink battery acid than another one of his brews. it made your eyes prick with tears, burned as it went down, warmed your chest. it was lukewarm when you drank it.

(he clears up a space on your foot table, and by clear up i mean use an arm to shove everything off the edge so he can continue to clean his weapons. has your couch always been that small?)

[skauni]

They Had The Wrong Traitor….

!!WARNINGS!!: Torture, Explicit Descriptions, Gained Trauma, No Happy Ending.

They didn’t know.

How were they SUPPOSED to know..?

Two months ago, Task Force 1-4-1 realized they had a traitor amongst themselves. Someone giving information about them to Shadow Company. They didn’t know who, until all signs started to point to you. Since then has been hell.

They tied you to a cold metal chair with ropes so tight they rubbed your ankles and wrists raw. You still remembered the day it started. Waking up with a splitting headache in the cold, dim lighted, concrete room. A table in front of you. On it you saw a hammer, pliers, a metal bat, sets of knives—even a damn corkscrew.

That first day was hell. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that you were innocent as your main tormentor, Ghost, broke your fingers slowly. Knuckle. By. Knuckle. When you still didn't confess he took the pliers and slowly ripped your nails from your broken and mangled fingers. Making you scream louder in agony.

The rest of the days blurred. Hardly any food or water; just barely enough to keep you alive. Every time a wound scarred they re-opened it. Soap held your jaw open today as Ghost slowly ripped out your teeth. Your voice long gone from hours of shrieking before this. No fight left in you when their radio's crackled to life. "Soap, Ghost, hall. Now." Price spoke. His voice sounded uneasy.

When they left you tilted your head forward. Letting the blood from your removed teeth drip slowly from your lips. It was painful to breathe. Bruised, cracked, and maybe even broken ribs and a broken nose they kept targeting so it never healed. A broken hand and forearm from three harsh strikes of the hammer. Several deep gashes from some of the knives Ghost used on you. A dislocated kneecap from being bashed in by the metal bat.

You couldn’t hear what they talked about out in the hall. But you knew it was something shocking based on the dead silence that came after Price’s muffled voice. In all honesty, over these two months, you started thinking it was your fault this happened to you. Thinking it was your fault you were framed; you just made yourself too easy a target to frame as the traitor.

You heard rushing feet and the sound of vomiting in the trash can down the hall. You guessed Gaz since you heard Soap ask Price something, you heard Price’s gruff grunt and Ghost’s Manchester accent as he swore under his breath. Your eyes fluttered in exhaustion but snapped open on instinct as you heard the door open again. They’d caught the real traitor, a newer recruit who had everyone wrapped around her finger.

Price had entered the room.

“I didn’t do it…” You whispered hoarsely. Your captain nodded. “I know, Y/N… I know…” he whispered softly. You flinched as he unsheathed his knife from its holster, he moved slowly as he cut your hands and legs free. He tried to pick you up but you cried out. He carefully set you back down and radioed for a few medics. They arrived a short while later as Price kept you awake to be sure you couldn’t slip away before everyone could apologize at the very least.

The medics came soon enough and moved you carefully onto a gurney so as to avoid shattering any bones further. They moved you to the med bay as fast as possible to get your wounds tended to and disinfected. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price all sat outside of the med bay as they listened to your agonized shrieks and whales of pain from the medics setting your already healing knuckles back in place.

It took a few hours after your corrective knee surgery for the boys to be allowed to finally see you. The medics said you’d be out for a few days so your body could regain a small bit of strength. None of the team wanted to leave your side. They all had set themselves up so they could sleep by the cot the medics placed you on. In and out, they would individually go on missions or go in pairs so two of them could still keep their eyes on you incase you woke up.

A few days turned into a few weeks. And you finally woke up. But not as easily as the team would have wished. A cold sweat soaking your forehead as you groaned in agony in your sleep until you woke up shrieking and tried to curl into yourself for comfort, only causing yourself more pain. The boys had to pin you down so the medic could inject the pain killer.

Through the times you were awake, you refused to let any of them remotely try to touch you. They could see it. The distance you put between yourself and them. The distrust in your eyes. The anger and hurt in your furrowed brow. You had trusted them with your life. And now you were beginning to think you should have never let your guard down. Not for one damn second. But a small part of you thought it was somehow your own fault…

Gaz spent the most time with you. No touching, just trying to get you to talk. Even if in anger. He was slowly piecing your trust in him back together bit by bit. When physical therapy came around you asked him to help you because your knee hurt too much to do it alone and the medic seemed busy with another soldier. The rest of the team saw this, beginning to hope they had a chance at forgiveness as well. They weren’t aware that you never forgave Gaz. You just trusted him enough to count him as a person you will let help you. Not a friend. And not a teammate. Not anymore.

Soap was the second to earn the right to help you, then Price not too long after that. Ghost… was a different story. All he did was glare at you, as if he still thought you were the traitor. To which you returned the hostility. He hadn’t let it show, but he was devastated. He wished he’d have never believed that false evidence. He couldn’t even look at you because all he saw was his work etched into your body. That was why he glared. It wasn’t meant for you, it was directed at his work that scarred your body.

When you could walk on your own without crutches, you went to Price in the break room where everyone was. Expression cold and dead serious as you handed him resignation papers. He froze. “You can’t… we need you on this team Y/N—“ he started but you cut him off. “Need? Or want me here because you loathe yourselves so much you need me to reassure you that you’re forgiven with my presence?” He staggered back. “I never forgave any of you.” You added.

“There isn’t a day we’ve woken up without regretting—“ he tried again. “You don’t get to play that card! Do you know how many times I woke up crying in agony from wounds that are already healed because of you four!? Oh, or how about the fact I can’t stand to be touched by ANYONE anymore!” You snapped back. “Y/N…” Price started to beg. “No. I hate you. All of you. For what you did to me. Don’t even contact me. If you have something to tell me, keep it to yourselves.”

The team was silent. You walked to your barracks and packed. Booked a flight back to your hometown. And walked out the doors of the base. Giving none of them the time of day to apologize or try to fix things between you and them. You hadn’t even told them you neglected to sleep most nights out of fear someone would come out of the shadows and beat you half to death again…